The Bastards' Paradise

by Kathe Koja

  “You lied to him. And you stole his play. He meant only to do good with that play, try to put the world to rights a bit—”

  “I agree! I fully agree! He’ll be an important author one day—”

  “—and then you set that ape-faced drudge out there to beat on him, and drive him off like a cur. But he got his own back, an’t he? And did you think I wouldn’t come for you? Fucking paper man.”

  “No! Stop!”

  —as outside that door, Rupert schools John Abram in proper deference to superior force, John Abram who believed that, because Rupert’s beard is grey and he is coughing, Rupert must be weak, John Abram who tried to break away and rouse the other servants, but whose recently broken nose is now joined by several broken ribs and a collarbone that will never heal correctly, as “Heathens!” his bubbling groan, face mashed sideways into the hallway floor, the gleaming dark wood smirched by snow and fresh blots of his own blood. “But I won’t betray my master! I’d be killed first—”

  “No one cares enough to kill you. And a good servant leaves a bad master,” as Rupert raises his boot for one more kick, another pair of ribs: old dog as he is, it is satisfying to know he can still crack bones when he needs to, though his chest aches with every breath he draws, that quick-time march across the city and up these stairs took a greater toll than he had expected. Inside the study, Mundy seems to have matters in hand, if marked by considerable guttery, judging from all the cries; at least he waited on his vengeance, he did all that anyone could ask—

  —as now that door swings wide and “We’re for off,” Haden stepping over the collapsed John Abram, Rupert glancing past his shoulder to note Krystof draped over the desk—“Did you kill him?” and “Worse,” says Haden with a certain pride, and then they are hurrying down the stairs, passing the maid Consolata concealed behind the pantry doors, into the street where Rupert flags a ’cab, to Haden’s startlement—“Backways would be safer,” but “It’s unexpected,” Rupert says, and nearly smiles, for it is something Istvan would say, and approve, not so much for the stealth as to save the walk, save all he has for all that will be needed. For what a play there is in store, for them and for the city—

  Why use a pistol, when a cannon’s to hand? We’ll make a fine confetti of these fucking things—see, this one’s addressed to Morris Robb, remember him? And this one’s to the mayor’s father, looks like. Hoopla!

  He kept them, all those years. And then he gave them to you.

  But first to Ag. Like a valse oubliée, a softly beat waltz-time with the tip of the griffin-headed cane, as if in salute to some laughing shadow, twinned shadows, two brothers in remote celestial applause. He’s one who would enjoy this play, he always fancied himself a manner of puppeteer: pull a string here, one jumps there, and nothing to be immortal save Art…. A few we’ll send on to Pinky, with a sideways glance for Rupert that Rupert did not answer, was he thinking of Benjamin, or Isobel? Or of Arrowsmith himself, the man’s nautilus mind, foe then friend to them so many times. And one or two to wrap the young lady’s ring, we’ve gelt enough without keeping hers. The rest shall be fodder. Oh, and one for the Marquis to play on—may be we ought call him the Minister of Justice, now. Or the Bishop—

  Why mount this play at all, messire? Throw the fucking things in the river, let the swans have them.

  Why, it’s another leaf to the book, Mouse. Our book, with a look so sweet he had then to look away, he alone to grasp the whole of it, what Istvan means, what he wishes and intends: their show, this show to show whose hands hold the strings, who drives the play that in the end drives the tale the world tells to itself. Castor and Pollux, yeah? They played amongst the gods and heroes, so shall we. And it will remind the kit and his dompteur how a play is made…. And make them feared a bit, may be, to make things safer.

  You’re kind to them.

  Our issue, with a shrug. It amuses me…. What a lark! And as villains, the one rôle we haven’t tried! You’re so bonny in black, with a kiss, and You’re the bishop, with the kiss returned. In your popey hat.

  Now the shadow of the statue of Minerva falls upon the cab, dim-cast by a dimming sun peering past the clouds like a nervous householder through the drapes; the wind has quickened. As they disembark into crusted snow and sucking mud, Haden straightens his coat, tips his derby forward, and “Wait outside, right,” to Rupert. “But not too far. They know me in there.”

  “I could wish they didn’t. Here if you need me,” positioning himself just past the foot of that statue, truncheon concealed in the folds of his greatcoat, old campaigner’s silver medal at the chest, his humbler slouch hat shielding him from both the weather and casual view, blending as best he may in the crowd of weary businessmen with leathers folders tight beneath their arms, who cross and recross and climb the stairs, who as they pass eye him with the instinctive disquiet felt by a carriage dog for the wolf past the stable doors. Gazing at that great façade, Rupert recalls that, last he saw this building, it was a jail for Istvan; and now it is a jail for Frédéric. Fresh gut for old strings…. He lights a Raven, its smoke drifting up into the snow, then coughs, and coughs, and pinches it out—

  —as Haden passes through the heavy doors, recalling his own plans once upon a time, to make hay of the knowledge once gained here, which thought now—shadowed by marble and iron, newsprint and stamped documents, underlaid by blood—seems as foolish as throwing stones at a statue, pissing on an iron fence, foolish and hopeless but “I’m here to see Commissioner Eig,” he announces to the factotum at the desk, a young man, younger than he. “Say it’s Haden St.-Mary,” with a force so entirely ferocious that it is entirely calm, waiting to see if that name will open a door, two doors to the stairs to an office with a giant’s desk and brown drapes draping the statue’s arsehole view: Haden remembers that view and that desk, though Costello is long gone, and Bernd the secretary has been replaced by two secretaries with high collars and similar small mustaches, neither of whom can say when the Commissioner might return to his office, both of whom then consider Haden as one might a centipede wriggling up through the midnight drain, but “Give him my regards. Go on, I’ll wait,” Haden turning again to the window, turning his back like an actor poised for a cue, a swift and heartening glimpse of Rupert stationed below —

  —until a quiet hand reaches for his elbow to aim him toward another door, another, much smaller, windowless office in which sits, behind a plain oaken table complete with telephone and files, Commissioner Martin Eig: the same neat beard and dull suit, though with vastly better barbering and tailoring, Eig who gives him a mild nod, who does not offer him a chair or any tea from the pot, an even more ornate silver pot, a single cup of Chinese porcelain, fluted and rimmed with gold and “Many thanks for your kind regards,” says Eig, his voice become even more even, as if he need never raise it again. He takes a sip of the steaming tea, examining Haden as if against some private measuring stick, feeling, though Haden cannot know it, a distant near-nostalgia for his own past, as a man might when looking through a school trunk, so much learned since those days! beside the nearer pleasure of the displeasure brought to the Richters, St.-Mary a manner of weapon still, whether he knows it or not. So “It’s been quite some time, hasn’t it, Mr. St.-Mary? You look tired,” though in fact he looks far worse than tired, the yellow stare half wretched, a gutter distress he never would have had to bear if he had stayed in the Commissioner’s employ; well. “Did you want something from me?”

  “Just what the law allows.”

  “The law?” That makes Eig smile; the same smile. “That’s a surprise. And I had thought to meet you next in those rooms downstairs, so you’ve surprised me twice. That doesn’t happen often, these days.” On one hand is a broad gold band, unmarked, undecorated, a wedding band; he wears no other jewelry, no ornament beyond his own red pin, he is all business, Eig, even more so than before, and giving off cold like a trench dug deep in winter dirt, a pauper’s grave on a lonely road; and still smiling. “But didn’t I w
arn you that, when next we met, I would not know you?”

  “You know me in here,” warily, feeling that cold, the black thought in mind like a swimming whisper: How many men have stood where he stands now, before this table, worse than any of those rooms downstairs, and how many are still in the city? Or upon the earth? “And all’s I want is my friend let free. I’ve got his pin—”

  “Actors are troublesome. I told you so before.”

  “Acting’s illegal.”

  “As are many acts. Did you think yourself forgotten, Mr. St.-Mary? The Protectorate keeps very accurate records. On you—it was criminal trespass and battery, I believe—and your ‘friend,’ all your friends, the ones who lived and the one who died. Now,” pausing for another sip of tea, “tell me why I should intervene to help a man caught without his pin, for the law on such is very clear. And there’s a matter of forgery as well, it seems, involving Herr Felix Krystof?”

  Haden keeps his face calm, his voice pitched low; it is the greatest feat of acting he will ever accomplish, before an audience that neither cares for nor respects such artistry; if Istvan had seen it, he would have reddened his palms with applause. “It’s not for me to say a word about Krystof, who’s been passing false paper since before I came to this city, I’ve bought from him myself—once or twice for you, sir—like many do. Just like many make charges just as false, about people they’ve wronged themselves. But if you should ask him again, it’s my thought he’d recant those charges, since—”

  “Have you read—as I recall, you’re a student of the classics—have you ever read of Autolycus? He made ‘black of white, and white of black,’ and no one could best him in trickery. His grandson was Odysseus…. It’s surprising, what one can learn from the Greeks. But you’re the fellow who knows all about that.”

  “I know about some things,” with another step toward the trench; he can feel his muscles locking, smell his own sour sweat. “Things not many else know. Some things may be only you and I know.”

  “What things.”

  “You’d remember all that better than I. I’ve got the tendency to forget,” as the telephone on the table rings like doomsday’s bell, Eig making no move to answer it, until in mid-ring it stops, as if someone had choked it off. Haden stands in that cold regard and thinks of Frédéric, of his eyes when he wakes, his laugh, the warm clasp of his arms; his own arms are trembling. What Eig thinks cannot be known from his gaze.

  Finally, an eternity, Eig sets down the tea and “I’ve very little time for the classics nowadays. Or for amusement. Your fellow must keep himself in better order from now on,” reaching one-handed for some papers on the table, Frédéric’s papers: he looks at every page, every stamp, can he tell they are more than half counterfeit? Can he possibly care? Taking up his pen to make a checkmark on one corner: “Show this to the official downstairs. If I hear from Krystof you’ll be informed. And Mr. St.-Mary,” as Haden takes those papers, backstepping toward the door, in animal instinct to keep Eig before his eyes, “be aware that you’ve now—what’s the phrase, turned in your chits?—with me. That’s a term you recognize, isn’t it?”

  “I know—”

  “Nothing you know can help you any longer. Don’t find yourself here again.—Go on,” dismissing him forever as the telephone begins again to ring, rattling trill like a metal scream as “Thank you, sir. Congratulations on your marriage, sir,” Haden’s bow to rouse a flicker in those expressionless eyes, like the membrane in the eyes of a gore crow—

  —and then he is out and down the stairs like a boy fleeing carnage, like a fleet-footed god, Mercury himself could have sped no faster to the official’s grate, rattling that cage with a well-aimed fist—“See this!”—and in brief order, though still to Haden it feels unending, Frédéric is released: wounded and hatless, cravat gone so the Christopher medal shines pale in the bureaucratic light. He is handed his gypsy bag, he and Haden depart: saying nothing as they leave the hallway, the building, the outer stairs—

  —where Rupert, seeing that exit, nearly smiles, takes hands from pockets in a salute of approbation and relief, then exits down the walkway between the mercantile exchange and the Drapers’ Guild, each building draped with fir boughs in a solemn nod to the holiday, each guarded by constables less curious for the business-bound pedestrians than the pageant parade beginning to make its noisy, gilded way into the square. Meanwhile Haden and Frédéric step quickly but not too quickly for the corner, around another corner—

  —where Haden halts to seize Frédéric by the shoulders, tow him past an unlatched gate topped with iron ivy, the narrowed alley dividing an abandoned tea shop from a junk dealer’s, and half fall to the wall with the weight of his kiss, Frédéric gripping Haden as tightly, head back against the bricks, their rough and necessary strength—until Haden pulls back to examine the purpled eye and swollen fingers, Frédéric wincing through his smile and “Here, now,” pinning the red pin prominently to Frédéric’s coat, as if decorating a hero of the wars. “Safe, now.”

  “You saved me.”

  “Luck of the turn, I couldn’t do it twice. When they pinched you, how’d you winkle not having a weapon?”

  “I have a weapon,” hand to the bag to bring forth the knife so rusted that it escaped confiscation, so useless that Haden has to smile, a smile he conceals by saying “You’ve got a sharper one, an’t you—your play,” but “Your play,” Frédéric corrects. “The script—Did Ridley—”

  “He put it into my hands—and it’s good as bally Shakespeare, it’s the best I’ve ever read,” with such passion that Frédéric’s blush blooms like a winter rose, his smile as radiant, a kiss that lasts so long that they are panting when they part; and Frédéric is trembling, snow capping his bare head so Haden puts upon him his own derby, as if it were a laurel wreath and “Come on,” back to the street, to a solemn bright confusion of Latin chants and black-suited choristers, hyssop and burning frankincense, though Frédéric still can smell upon himself the Jerry-stench, that air of cheated graves so “Have you,” he asks Haden, “any horehound lozenges at all?”

  They join that procession as far as the cathedral, where, inside, the third curate lights the last of an enormous line of tapers as the penitential bell begins to ring, and the crowd, sweating with devotion, rises to its feet as the black doors open to admit Monsignor Alfred Elfred, a phalanx of priests, and the first of the streetside processors beneath the jagged scaffolding that mimics Hell, the choir loft its distant, blue-silked Heaven, some of the lilies thereof already sadly begun to brown. On the street, Frédéric presses Haden’s arm to pause and watch them enter, perhaps recalling Istvan’s once-expressed opinion that Rome’s spectacle is unsurpassed, we ourselves might take a leaf from that gaudy book of stagecraft, the gold and smoke and tolling bells, the congregation the best audience possible in its determined willingness to believe. And yet the miracle—for surely there is one, at such times the world seems nothing but; feel its blessing hand upon himself freed again, Haden’s arm linked firmly through his own—is surely that belief itself, the presence of all these in the sight of what they cannot see, their longing and awe—

  —but “My feet are freezing,” says Haden. “Come on,” that strong arm to tug him away, neither seeing one man amongst the many on the steps: one foot on St. Uriel, one on Josephus, Mr. Blum come outside a moment to take in some fresh air, Mrs. Blum has had him at the church since dawn! with her insistence that this pageant at last commenced will answer her prayers, that Frédéric shall be found—and all at once there he is, Frédéric! though he looks astonishingly shabby, like some filthy poet from the penny papers, and the bare-headed man who has his arm plainly a streetside brigand, is Frédéric in the very act of being robbed? Mr. Blum shouts, but his voice is swamped by the singing, Mr. Blum waves his arm, but the waving garlands obscure him; by the time he fights his way down the stairs he has lost all sight of his son—

  —but the miracle continues, as miracles will, for there, across the square,
is Frédéric again! Mr. Blum is able to jog within hailing distance, but keeps silent, watching and trying to understand, for now see Frédéric speak to the brigand-fellow, see the two of them laugh together, laugh! as Frédéric takes off his hat to pop it atop the brigand’s head, Frédéric a willing victim or—can it be? accomplice in some thuggery? See them now—as Mr. Blum hurries to follow, puffing as he goes—crossing swift into a district far more menacing than the streets around the Cathedral or hotel, and too neglected not to be completely criminal: some sort of city-within-the-city of abandoned kiosks and bricked-in windows, silent dancehalls and theatres, one is called the Garden of Eden though surely no angels ever graced those doors. Yet see, not all are closed, for Frédéric and the brigand now are knocking, and entering, at a door itself so thick with old, snow-wet, curling bills stuck one upon another as to appear a trash-pile or a tomb, beneath the faded sigil—“Cockrill’s Palace”—still scrawled above.

  It takes grim Mr. Blum some time to reach the church again, and push his way back inside, back to Mrs. Blum, who notes his return first with distracted irritation and then real alarm, taking in the sweat on his face and the set of his jaw but “No need to worry,” as he leads her from the pew to the nave where, in whispers, he acquaints her with the situation, as she goes white then red with joy, mouth open to yowl a thanksgiving but “Quiet,” harshly whispers Mr. Blum. “It is no happiness to learn our son is involved in criminality, he looks a thorough criminal himself! We came in the nick of time—we must go and take him home, by force if needed.”

  “Force? What do you mean?” Already the waterfall has begun, her eyes brimming but “I mean a constable,” says Mr. Blum. “If he is not amenable to leaving we shall involve a constable. Several if needed! Now we must ready ourselves directly, have the trunks packed to depart—”

  “But the pageant—”