by Kathe Koja
Will it worsen, then? What should he do?
It’s blood you need to look out for, the surgeon said, blood that doesn’t stop, but would say no more without a visit from the ailing man himself, and of course more payment, though Istvan’s white knife to his ear did result in a free bottle of laudanum for The pain, gasped the surgeon, as Istvan tucked away the bottle and knife and stepped into the street, his fears roiled and unrelieved, his mind made up—
—to rendezvous at that restaurant with the marble floors and polished brass stands of ferns, to nibble the sole and down the brandy, flirt brazenly with Sir Roland Smalls and—when that man had stepped from the table, a moment’s pleasantry with some friends across the room, no doubt crowing of his conquest-to-be—as brazenly seduce Portia del Azore with a tossed-off litany of names, those names she claimed already to know, titled men he had known too well, and all their women, all of it grist to that young woman with the fixed gaze of a rat terrier down a hole, sniffing after money; so be it. Money is what he needs, a dependable, stationary source so Mouse need never pass another God damned night in some fucking filthy backroom nor barroom nor barn: he will have peace, he will have good whiskey and new boots and friends about him in the place he chose for them himself, he will go home and there be made well, no matter what war or turmoil or even tedium might bloom around them, what difference? Have they not overcome the same before, many times before? It’s blood you need to look out for, yes, and Roland Smalls’s fervent handshake, both hands tight around his own, Portia del Azore claiming the pledge of his services when they should meet again, after Istvan’s unnamed travels were concluded: travels more lavishly enabled, now, some silly box abandoned on the table in its ribbons but in his pockets money enough to buy the two best sleeping compartments on a very decent train, a bottle of Irish whiskey, a flask of quite passable chocolat, several packets of Ravens although no cigars, they seem to make the coughing worse—
—and realizing with a blink that Boilfast still is speaking, is mentioning in an offhand way, to mask the seriousness of the offer, his offer to give Istvan the second stage on a nightly basis: We can try for a month or so, see if it suits—this lot is used to flash, all that modern hurdy-gurdy, but I believe they’d relish the novelty of the puppeting, and you. Board and lodging’s included, of course, for yourself and any other. What do you say, monsieur? Will you elevate our bill of fare?
You’re too kind, with a smile acknowledging that kindness, a graceful shrug of gratitude and refusal. But you know me, I can’t walk the same street twice, no matter how enticing the view. And now I’d best be going, rising to pull on the still-wet greatcoat, to shake hands with Boilfast, who says The offer stands as long as I’m above ground, so if you ever do walk this street again…. And that new fellow of yours, that one-eyed jack—he’s a comer, monsieur, truly. You were inspired when you put knife to wood on that one.
Merci. He surely made the most of his time here. I too, with the farewell bow of a friend, a player, an arch-player, supple and brief and then gone: as if, to Boilfast’s fancy—and he not a man much given to fancy, not despite but because of his profession—this M Dieudonne, like all players but to a degree perhaps unmatched, moves through a kind of gateway life, the way a dreamer partakes of sleep and action, belonging fully to neither and to both, leaving footsteps that vanish like foam on the sea—
—as Istvan passes down the hallway, down the stairs, down the street to hail the first cab coming and ride with half-closed eyes, turning the rose gold ring about his finger, calling for Rupert as soon as he alights at the boîte and Mouse, plucking and tossing the bent cigar end out the window, to Rupert’s startlement, don’t smoke those foul fucking things, I brought you some Ravens instead. And we’re going out to have a lovely meal—no, you mustn’t frown so, it makes you look like Job. Come on, we’ve one nice shirt and one good cravat between us, you take one and I’ll have the other, and—
What’s got into you? but with half a smile, letting the newspaper fall to the floor. We can’t afford those Ravens, let alone a fine meal. But there might still be some of that champagne you toted home—
Home? taking up a mingy cloth to rub his hair, feeling his jaw to see if a shave is required before they dine: in a workmen’s club that from the outside resembles a hovel, but inside might be some fond maman’s own kitchen, the bread is so fresh and the beef pie so tender, the old fireplace still in use so wood smoke wafts about the dining room, a familiar and cozy bouquet. To the owner Istvan praises the place to the skies, jokes with the serving girl who keeps the red wine flowing, plays a cheerful impromptu with the owner’s uncle that ends in a duet of “La Marseillaise” and several songs much less patriotic, during which the serving girl laughs so hard she cries, then gasps when she sees Istvan’s lavish tip, she throws her arms about his neck and What’s got into you? Rupert asks again when they finally depart; the streets are puddled still but the rain has stopped, and a brassy moon hurries to the sky, as if she has only the barest moments to make her evening’s play. And where did you get all that lucre? as Istvan waves over a cab, as they climb inside and It’s time we were on our way, Mouse, taking Rupert’s hand in his own. I’ve had the traps sent ahead while we dined, so all we need do is take the Misters and our bag—
“Ahead” where, now?
Why, home, spinning then a story meant only for this exclusive audience, this one man who is all the world and more: a story of simple yet ravishing pleasures, pleasant theatrical ease that Rupert answers with a deeply searching look, a question—Why even you, fox, come to want a den? Is that it?—answered by Istvan with a shrug: Well, why not? There are only so many roads. And I’m an old fox enough, as Puss was rude enough to note, noting too the look in Rupert’s eyes as the idea takes hold, the memory, the Mercury, but Of all the places we might go—! uncertain still through the longing; Istvan will remember that longing. I’m meant to be dead there, recall?
Naturellement, it’s the last place they’ll ever look. Now come here, into the deeper shadows of the cab, those strong and loving arms, that murmur of pleasures yet untried as We’ll be squires, Istvan’s whisper, cocks of the walk, we’ll have the whole city for our stage and What’s got into you, no longer a question, no longer resisting, half laughing as Hold up, knocking to halt the driver before the boîte, Rupert to wait below as Istvan ascends to gather up the last of their belongings, the leathern bag, the fit-up with the puppets and the teakwood box, leaving behind only a half-scornful glance for the emptied champagne bottle, a casting gaze for the omen of the moon, and yesterday’s issue of the Herald, in which wars are forecast and demure dancing girls are pictured, themselves omens of one kind and another, but none that seem to signify just yet. He checks to make sure that Rupert’s copybook is safely stowed inside the bag—it is—and then exits nimbly down the stairs, off to the station where they board the nearly empty train as strangers, one to one compartment, the other to the next—
—though once embarked Istvan slips across the passageway, slides the door to lock behind: a stout little door, a plump sleeper-bed as Rupert hangs his coat on a silvery hook, turns in shirtsleeves to ask once more and with real gravity Tell me now, where did you get the lucre? Even you don’t win so much at dice but What matters is how you spend it, yeah? Look here, these kingly hangings, this is pure China silk, or nearly—Oh why that look! Isn’t this better than sleeping in the fucking muck? Don’t you trust me?
Or you me? Don’t play, messire, give me the truth for once—
Mouth to his mouth: This is the truth—
Stop. Tell me, a last entreaty and command but then there are no words, only a grappling, a rough half-angry coupling, Rupert’s grip as fierce as a man’s much younger, there will be bruises in its wake but Istvan’s gasp is nearly laughter, his own grasp in return as reckless and sure: and if those few passing in the passageway wonder at the noise, the stifled groans and batterings, soon all is still again, and only the sound of the train remains, like a great bea
st’s breathing in its sleep and It will be good to see a roof over your head again, Rupert’s murmur at last, the window’s moving moonlight across his half-closed eyes. Our own roof.
And you to sit atop it, with a sphinx’s smile, quiet to watch until Rupert dozes, then slip again into the passageway to stand in the sway and thrum of the wheels, the soothing, rocking, mocking music of motion: as if every road he has ever traveled, walked, played, glimpsed as promise and bright beckoning were all receding from him at once, bidding him a distant good-bye; like a hill-hunting cat caught at last behind a curtained window, a dangling puppet closed forever in a case, to play for love can mean so many things—
Beg pardon, sir, a young porter pausing at his elbow, was you requiring some assistance? In answer Istvan takes out his flask, brandy as yellow and hot as fire, offers it to the porter, who casts a quick gaze right, left, drinks then squeaks Holy Mother! in a voice somewhat higher than previous. I never tasted such like that before!
It’s a form of chartreuse, “elixir of long life.” It comes from far away, offering the flask again; the young man shakes his head. As do I. But no show lasts forever, does it.
Well no, sir, it doesn’t. Where you bound, sir?
Not so far. To the house of the god.
You’re—why, I’d not have called you for a churchman, sir, the young porter bowing in polite confusion, feeling the liquor’s hard tingle, watching the older man drink again as if it is merely water, a draught he thirsts for; then with an answering bow all elegance, he turns away—
—back to his own compartment, to play a brief and solo, very private show, punctuated by a cigarette and pulls at the flask, by the landscape at the window whose shade has been rattled to the top, Mr. Loup freed to skitter and jerk in cold sympathy and jest and The kit’ll be glad to see us, yeah? Istvan’s whisper to the eyeless side of the face, his breath a mingle of brandy and smoke as his hands do what they have always done, as they must, as they will, manipulated as they manipulate, Mr. Loup swinging that one little clublike arm, every plague its doctor until Avaunt, his master says, and hangs him neatly on the pewter gibbet meant for a gentleman’s coat, reaching then into his bag for a writing case sent by another gentleman who knew precisely how a joke should operate, Mr. Loup the only witness as he opens that letter-box and extracts the topmost document, to read it once and then again as the train rolls stolidly on.
A letter from JAVIER ARROWSMITH, Esq., to DUSAN
My dear friend Dusan:
One might expect a missive such as this one, meant to be read from beyond the grave, to be a grave affair to compose. On the contrary, I have rarely put pen to paper with more lightness of heart.
I have offered my trust in a very few instances, and in none did I find it misplaced: in you yourself, of course, more times than one; in my indomitable wife, whose passing I shall never cease to mourn; in my dear young Liserl, whose eyes I see, still, as I close my own; and in my brother (who once came to me filled with stories of a young man with whom he was much taken, a conjuror he had met by chance at a country house, and rode beside awhile; I wonder, do you remember that night at all?). Your own trust you have at times entrusted to me, to our shared benefit and the benefit of others; how fully that trust was given is a question for yourself and the angels to decide. I may meet them shortly, if anything exists beyond this arena of struggle and doubt; I do not think I shall see again your face in this world.
Hence the enclosed.
We both have been exceptionally fortunate in the women who have loved us. It is to those women that I owe both the impetus to do as I do now and the ability to accomplish it. My wife was most anxious that her brother be shielded from some of the possible consequences of their father’s decisions, for once the lion is gone, the dogs inevitably advance. My own opinion is more sanguine: if Isidore was a lion and his son is a hawk, his son will be a leech; yet all require their share of blood. Benjamin is blessed by the gods in many ways, but true discernment is a gift he lacks, for he will always see what he means to see before what is truly there: he believed he had denied me the means to communicate with you, par exemple. Well, he is a young man still.
But the world is growing old, and the time for feints is over—the cycle of war will continue, growing greater with every revolution, and I have come to understand that a man must owe only his kin and liberty his blood. The years given in service to other methods of advancement, of meeting and turning to one’s own uses the chaos of that world, as a miller uses a river to grind corn—do I regret them, now? No doubt many if not most would believe so, and that this box is meant as an instrument of revenge, especially those men whose letters are contained within, many if not most of whom believe themselves to be upright men. The lies we tell ourselves, to keep upright! Hunching here in this chair like a split sack of oats has sharpened my philosophic organs wonderfully, Dusan, it has made a prophet of me. You, as an artist, are a prophet already; how I rejoiced in, and envied you, that artistry! How I envy you still.
These letters are culled from my lifetime’s correspondence, and Isobel and I had a fine time in their selection, in some ways she even more than I—the female can be, as well as protective, very pleasurably cruel. Which is why I thought it prudent to entrust them to another protective woman, Miss Decca whose instinct to defend what was her own, even as a young lady, was formidable. I know through various means that, after your departure, Hector Georges sent a man to her, whom she rebuffed; I have no doubt whatsoever that whenever you ask her for these letters, they shall be waiting. She too has earned a portion of my trust, as has our mutual friend Mrs. Pimm.
I have included the necessary ciphers for the letters in code. Everything here is true: the figures, the dates, the activities, the names. Everything here is yours to use in any way you see fit, with one request: that you not turn that use directly upon Benjamin de Metz. Leave him standing, though you destroy all around him, for to do otherwise would be to dishonor Isobel, who was so kind to you, and so anxious for the welfare of M Bok. She loved him greatly, as I am sure you know, as you know that Benjamin, whatever his many shortcomings, does the same.
In providing you this—call it a tool box, or perhaps a properties box, such as one employs on the stage?—I repine only that, whatever uses you may devise for the matériel, I shall not be able to observe them. Seeing your mind at play through les mecs has been for me a mystery and a marvel; perhaps a puppet will be constructed to tell this epistolary tale, or perhaps you will make a puppet of me! It would make for a singular resurrection, and there is no one to whom I would more gladly entrust my immortality.
Farewell then, Dusan; health and prosperity to you and M Bok, to your sister, to your confederates and actors and friends. You are one of the very few whom I shall miss as I go—there is much in you that calls to mind my dear brother, who was also a man of wit and flexibility; as well as an accomplished duelist, though he preferred, to his final detriment, the épée to the pistol. I was not present when he died—our father was his second—but I saw the wound, and I saw his smile in the coffin, as if he had found amusement even in death itself. The lesson I took from this mortal loss was a very simple one: When life hands you a pistol, use it.
With respect and sincerity, I remain forever,
Your friend and servant,
Javier James Arrowsmith
Act Two
The Trump Hand
The snow’s arrival draws a line between the streets and the skies, as silver and cold as the ice that overnight has gripped the city, freezing the trash piles and hasty pails of wash water, coating wheels to useless spinning, slewing unwary pedestrians down to cracked elbows and knees. The sun itself shows silver through that snow, tarnished then absurdly bright; the pigeons seek it on the rooftop peaks, the cats of the Bridge disappear into the alleys, and the newspaper shouters cluster together on corners, all difference of opinions forgotten in the animal need for heat.
And each of those men wears like a shield—it is a shie
ld—the metal pin, small as a pence-coin, red as a sore, to mark him as a registered militiaman, as the roll of conscription begins. That every pocket holds a useful weapon is debatable, but the bristling intent to protect the self while professing to protect the city is more than martial enough for these toy soldiers, Kinder der Bestie if the beast may be considered not the city but the fact of safety itself: and these the lean sucklings hidden beneath its hide, with their red pins and blue money, so much money now to buy so little for sale. There has been a concomitant rise in usury and petty burglaries, and the so-called beggars’ banquets, where a houseful of goods and furniture can be had for a pittance, as more townhouses and grand apartments stand empty, their owners fled, or jobless, or both. And still there are suicides, mute departures from the stage, or wild flurries of notes before the fall; occasionally they jump in pairs, like last night’s specimens from atop the Clothiers’ and Drapers’ Assembly, lying brained on the ice like codfish for the constables to find.
The churches continue crowded, with Advent’s advent and anticipation of the pageant: Monsignor Elfred preaches on it with vigor, inviting all to take part who may, and those who may not, to watch “The great parade of our faith!” in whose power to calm the city, and save himself from the Cardinal’s censure, his own faith continues sure. Daily business at the banks and offices is brisk, not to say hysterical, though the mercantile shelves are gapped and the restaurants faltering, their lines of diners thin. The hyssop parlors have closed, and the bounce houses are now peep-houses, where singular acts may be observed from behind wooden screens, there to keep the viewer from being viewed as much as to mask the depravity enacted within: more than one of Haden’s boys have taken to these temporary theatres for the extra coin, and several of the girls who used to sport with Gawdy and his Missus, and if the acts there enacted are less titillating than the bare act of stepping up to view them, the eye applied to the wood faintly warm from its last user, the payment stays the same.