“Thank you. Merci, Thomas.” Gallatin actually shakes Thomas’s hand. “Hélène did not go into such details. It’s good to hear.”
It comes to Thomas, looking into Gallatin’s delighted eyes, that he could have a bit of fun with the fellow. He comes to a halt. They are not twenty paces from the doorway to the Friend at Hand. “Écoutez. There is one thing. One thing about Hélène you may not know.” His tone is deep and worried.
“What is that?” Jean Gallatin’s eyes narrow. His jaw appears readied for the worst.
“She is a believer. Did you know that? She still follows the teachings of the Catholic faith and its pope.”
“Oh that.” Gallatin’s relief shows itself as a noisy laugh. “Come on, let’s go in.”
“But you have always said religion is—”
“I know, I know. But she and I have spoken of this many times in the shop.”
“Et alors?”
“We agree to meet halfway.”
Thomas blinks. “What is halfway between a Catholic and an atheist?”
“The Quakers. At least that’s what we’ve agreed.”
“The Quakers.” Thomas mulls whether the self-described Friends, with their deliberately drab clothing and long serious faces, might fall halfway between a lavish Roman religion and a denial that there is any god at all. Why yes, they just might.
“We’re going to attend a meeting of the Friends in the weeks ahead. We’ll see if it will be enough for her and at the same time acceptable to me. The Quakers do much good, I admit.” All at once Gallatin claps Thomas on the shoulder. “After all, religions are just stories we tell ourselves so we won’t worry about our deaths. Their Quaker story likely won’t do any more harm than having no story at all.”
“I cannot disagree. In fact, I’m impressed.”
“In any case, no more hard feelings? About Johnson coming back and you giving up your room?”
“All behind me now.” Thomas reasons that if he keeps telling himself that he does not care about losing Hélène, eventually he will not. “Here we are.” Thomas points at the wooden sign above their heads, its painted image of a large white dog with liquid brown eyes.
“You ever have a dog, Thomas?” asks Gallatin.
“No, but it’s an enticing idea, is it not? Something being unquestionably faithful, no matter what.”
Gallatin’s eyes pinch. But then he looks up and over Thomas’s shoulder. “Aha, here comes the man you want.”
Thomas swings round. So it is. Edward Cave. When he recognizes Thomas, a great grin comes to his face. Thomas sees that he has what looks like a sheaf of paper tucked underneath his arm.
“Looks like good news, Thomas. Congratulations. Listen, I’ll leave you two alone. I’m going downstairs.” Gallatin tenders a wave. “See you in a bit.”
“Hello, Edward.” Thomas holds out a cautious hand. He thinks Cave’s smile of recognition a good sign, though he wishes it were not quite so fixed, so apparently immovable on the man’s face. “It’s been a while, I guess.”
Cave takes the hand, but the contact is weak. “It has, Tyrell, and I apologize for that. You see, I’ve been swamped. Everyone is writing something, it seems. And yes, I’m well.”
“Should we get a table where we can talk?” Thomas nods at the manuscript under Cave’s arm. “Where we can go over it?” He is surprised, embarrassed maybe, by how fast his heart is starting to race. He knows better than to get his hopes raised, but his heart does not.
The smile that was frozen on Cave’s face melts away. “A table? Oh you mean inside. No. No, I don’t think.” The publisher holds out the pages for Thomas to take.
Thomas feels trickles of warmth starting in his armpits. “But you— you had a chance to read through the book? The manuscript I mean.” He accepts the proffered package, but he finds he cannot hold Cave’s gaze. Instead, he finds himself staring at the sheaf of pages like they might speak or come to life.
“It’s an intriguing read, Tyrell, it really is.”
Thomas looks up. Cave’s expression is that of someone who has just heard grave news. More than that, the publisher is inching away from him. When Cave sees that Thomas is watching his feet, he comes to a halt.
“It’s fascinating, quite fascinating in places, Tyrell. You have definite powers of observation, you do.”
Thomas’s heart slows to a crawl. He tilts his head to try and grasp what Cave is telling him. He’s sorry if he’s nearly squinting at the man, but it’s the only way he can hear what he’s saying.
“But the thing is—”
Thomas looks away.
“The thing is, I’m afraid, well, it’s not for us. The Gentleman’s Magazine.”
Thomas comes back to look Cave in the eyes. “No? It’s not?” He hears his voice as if it’s coming from someone else.
“No, but it’s good, very good. Please consider us again. Something a little lighter and more entertaining. That’s what our readers want, you understand. Stories, words that leap off the page.”
Thomas nods but he can no longer look Cave in the face. The man raised his hopes then dashed them like that. Thomas will give him no pleasantries at all. No word of thanks, no good riddance. No parting handshake between two gentlemen and no gesture for Cave to go fuck himself.
Thomas sees Cave’s feet take a few steps. The man wheels and heads back to wherever in hell he came from.
Thomas looks up at the dog on the painted sign. The one and only thing he can do is exhale. He tries to blow out his lost hope and his swelling disappointment with one long, foul breath. His fondest hope is gone. Disappointment remains.
He looks down at what’s in his hands. A worthless bundle of pages covered with his handwriting in ink. So much time and effort, and all for what? Thomas shakes his head. Should he throw it away? No, he could use it to light a fire in a grate.
“Good Lord, man, whatever it is, it can’t be that bad.”
Thomas turns round. It’s John Cleland striding up. He comes to a stop an arm’s length away. “Looks like you’ve lost your best friend.”
Thomas snorts a laugh. “If you only knew, Cleland, if you only knew. It’s not been a good few days.”
“I saw Cave beating it away from here a moment ago. Does your mood have something to do with him? Ah, you’re clutching a manuscript. Let me guess. He just gave it back.”
Thomas nods.
“Great wind out Edward Cave’s arse, Tyrell, this can’t be the first time you’ve been turned down.”
Thomas shrugs.
“Hang on to the blessed thing. You’ll find a way to insert bits and pieces of it into something else. Trust me, that’s what we do, writers like us. Not much goes to waste.”
“Keep it up and you’ll make me smile, Cleland.”
“That’s the spirit. Come on, let’s go in and see what disappointments the others have had. We all get our share.”
Thomas shakes his head. “Not me. I’ll not trumpet my failings before them. I don’t want any phony commiseration.”
“All right then, my French friend, how about I take you somewhere?”
“Where’s that?”
“Just a place to give you a lift.” Cleland winks. “It’ll further your education, as I think I once promised you I would.”
“Lead on then. Allons-y, Alonzo.”
“Alonzo? What’s that?” asks Cleland as he turns and begins to walk away from the inn, Thomas following at his side.
“Nothing. It’s an amusement in French.”
“Really, you French. By the way, I’ve thought of a third.”
Thomas looks at him quizzically. “A third? A third what?”
“A third thing the French have contributed to the world. My mother Lucy sports a French name, so I’m partial to your race. I’m still waiting for the Spaniards to contribute someth
ing.”
Thomas hoots, and feels his mood shift. “If memory serves, it was only lace and whores. Is that right?”
“True enough. Until I came up with the third.
Thomas shakes his head in amused disbelief. He’s finding it hard not to beam at his friend. “Let me guess: our French writers, painters, musicians, perchance?”
“Good God, no. Not worth a scrap. Give up?”
“I do.”
“Cundums is what.”
“Cundums? Oh, condoms. French safes, as you English say.”
“Le gant anglais, n’est-ce pas?” John Cleland inclines his head and makes a sly grin, then he picks up the pace, which Thomas matches.
“You seem to know a lot of French, Cleland. Why don’t you speak it with me?”
“Ah, I choose not to be mediocre is why. So my French is only pour faire l’amour with the best French tarts.” Cleland gives Thomas a wink.
“All right. But how about you at least tell me where we’re going?”
John Cleland slows the marching pace for a moment. He turns to his friend. “Is that not why you’re coming along? Precisely because you know not where we’re headed?”
Thomas is taken aback. Cleland is right. That is exactly why he’s drawn to accompanying this slightly mad Englishman wherever he leads. For as long as they’re moving, future unknown, the adventure holds the promise of something better than what Thomas has now. Which is nothing.
—
“There he is. Knew he’d be around.” John Cleland is using his outstretched hand to direct Thomas’s gaze.
Thomas sees a thin, almost gaunt-looking man coming down a set of stairs into the large central room on the ground floor. They are in what the sign outside says is the Shakespeare’s Head.
In one hand this man Cleland has identified has a rolled-up funnel of folio sheets. With his other hand he’s making caressing contact with the backs or shoulders of nearly every person he walks past. He appears to have a quiet word for all. All spoken to and tapped respond with smiles and winks. If this were a court, Thomas thinks, this little man would be king.
“Only the head waiter,” whispers Cleland, “yet our Billy Bing runs the place.”
“Is that right?” Thomas does notice that those working in the inn, at the counter where the drinks are dispensed or the ones carrying trays to or from the tables, straighten up and move a little faster after Mr. Bing comes down the stairs. The head waiter’s eyes never rest. Everything in the room is under his shifting gaze.
“Just wait,” Cleland says. “Wait until you see what he has on those rolled-up sheets.”
“Is that why we’re here?” Thomas holds up the manuscript pages that Edward Cave returned. “Because we’re not short of paper.”
John Cleland’s eyebrows lift. “Billy’s list is literature of a different sort. Wait here.”
Cleland glides over to Bing and touches his elbow. At once the man leans Cleland’s way. Thomas watches as the two lean close and trade words. Cleland points at Thomas and says something else. The head waiter gives Thomas several knowing nods, which makes Thomas tilt sharply back. He does not wish to be so singled out. His back brushes against the wooden rack of pewter measures, sending one into the air. He catches it and puts it back. When he turns back to the room, Cleland and the head waiter are less than an arm’s length away.
“Billy Bing,” the waiter introduces himself. He’s holding out his right hand.
“So I hear,” Thomas says. He gives the man’s hand a quick shake. “My friend here,” Thomas gestures at Cleland, “sings your praises.”
Billy Bing shrugs. “Well, friend here has known me for a while. I do what I can. In the service of nature and mankind.”
Thomas tries not to look startled at such a claim. “I see.” He looks the man up and down. He is not a physician nor a judge nor an apothecary. “How as a head waiter can you—”
“Billy,” Cleland interjects, “please call him Billy, will you Tyrell. Why he’s a purveyor. A purveyor of untold pleasures of—”
Billy Bing reaches out and taps Cleland on the forearm. “Best if we go somewhere to sit. Away from too many ears.”
Cleland blinks his agreement. Billy surveys the noisy, smoke-filled room. It seems to Thomas that he winces at one particular table. Four foppishly dressed aristocrats are taking turns singing at the top of their lungs. It’s a stupid ditty that amuses no one but their drunken selves. With a decisive nod to Cleland and Thomas, Billy tells them to stay where they are. He walks over to a table in a far corner of the room where two bleary-eyed men are nursing mugs of something much stronger than coffee. The two men stare stupidly at Billy for an instant before jumping to their feet. They shuffle off, though not without looking back with sour faces at the man who has made them move.
“Here we go,” Billy calls out, his voice loud. He beckons Thomas and Cleland. “This table just came up.”
Evidently pleased by what he has just seen, Cleland mouths to Thomas on the way: “That’s Billy Bing.”
Thomas does not think he smiles in return. He’s been in lots of noisy places crowded with late-night men over the years. He has learned that such places are not really for him. It would be better if he were back at Gallatin’s making sure he has packed up all his books and manuscripts. And deciding what to do with the pages Cave has rejected. The relocation to Falconbridge Court comes in two days. Nonetheless, Thomas has come this far. He supposes Billy Bing deserves a chance to show what it is he does that Cleland so admires.
All three men take a seat. Thomas decides to place his rejected book under his ass rather than on the table. An instant later one of the servants with a tray deposits two steaming mugs in front of them. Billy Bing waves the servant away.
“For you, my friends, warming coffees,” he says. “Our Shakespeare’s Head is here to help our customers relax.”
Thomas forces an appreciative smile. He reaches out to the mug. Yet instead of bringing it closer he edges it a fraction of an inch farther away. He doesn’t like to be told what and when to drink. Cleland, however, is taking a savouring sip. He nods at Thomas as if the coffee is exactly what he needs.
—
Thomas glances round, beginning with the framed engravings on the walls. They are bedroom scenes with women in various states of undress. So that must be it. This Billy across the table is a purveyor of flesh. Not much of a surprise there. Thomas wonders how long he’ll have to sit in this place. Once again there’s a lesson in this outing. Don’t be seduced by any alluring talk of mystery. The sad truth is that having just passed his thirty-third birthday, there are no more mysteries in this sorry world. Paris, London; cities everywhere seem to be the same. What’s left? Maybe cross the ocean and see how things are in the New World? Can it really be so new?
“So, sir....” Billy turns exclusively to Thomas.
Thomas purses his lips. He shoots a look at Cleland. His new friend’s expression says that he is more than a little enamoured with Mr. Bing. When Thomas comes back to the head waiter, he finds Billy is studying him like he’s a pressed plant in a book.
“Friend here tells me you have tastes especial. From France you are. And you found that the posture molls at The Rose were....” Billy hesitates. “Not to your taste. Prefer the touch to the look, is that it?”
Thomas does not reply. He sets his countenance so as to not betray any feeling or thought. He half expects such talk from Cleland, but he does not like the way Billy Bing is sizing him up.
“Come on, Tyrell,” Cleland says. “Give the man a hint. It’s all he needs. He has a list.”
Billy Bing leans back, as if to take Thomas in from a different angle. Then he comes forward in his chair. He places his forearms on the table and cradles the rolled-up funnel of paper in his right hand just inches away from Thomas’s mug. With the funnel he pushes the mug back toward Thomas just
a bit. “Yes, friend, I do,” Billy says. “And quite a list it is, if I do say so.”
Billy unfurls the funnel of paper. Thomas follows the man’s eyes as they scan whatever is written on the top sheet. Then Billy lifts that sheet and has a quick look at the sheet underneath. Then comes a cursory peek at one below that. It looks to Thomas as if there may be a dozen sheets or more. A list, yes, but a list of what?
“Your bible, is it?” Thomas asks. He knows there’s mockery in his eyes.
Billy Bing looks his way. His eyes don’t respond to Thomas’s challenge at all. Instead, he sighs. “Something like that, yes. Friend here says you’re in the mood, yet your face says you are not. Which is it? It’s a busy night. I have other customers if you’ve only come to scoff.”
Thomas blinks. He feels himself lean back against the chair. Before he can come up with a response, Cleland speaks on his behalf. “Of course Tyrell is in the mood. It’s why we’re here. Don’t be coy, Billy. Give him a bit of what’s on the list. Tyrell, you pay close attention to this.”
And so begins Thomas’s education about the world of availability within the Shakespeare’s Head. Depending on Thomas’s choice, he could have any number of pleasures at his command. A few are upstairs, but most, many pages’ worth, are on Billy’s extensive and detailed list. They cover willing ladies throughout the city and on both sides of the Thames. Any more than a block or two away will have to be arranged. There’s Cherry, for instance, who boasts red cheeks, red lips and according to the notes on the list – and Billy Bing arches his eyebrows at this – a red something else.
“Oh my.” Cleland winces at the thought. “I’ve seen a drawing of a monkey like that.” He shakes his head.
Billy continues as if Cleland had not said a thing. There’s Miss Love, who is finely furred below. She’s a mulatto of dark complexion, a damned fine hairy piece if Billy does say so. Cleland chimes in that he can vouch for her. There’s Miss Lorraine, a Jewess it’s true. Genteel in appearance and has a fine and pretty face. Bing’s list notes that she swears very little for someone in her line of work. Or if Thomas wants a bargain, Miss Robinson will go for less than a pound. But it’s a bit of a hike to her place. She does it in a cabinet in her suite of rooms, not far from the Seven Dials.
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