by Kathe Koja
“We have a church at home! We are going home!” Mr. Blum so loud now that one of the beadle-ushers approaches to frowningly warn the gentleman of the noise, and what sort of gentleman is it, who shouts in a church during services, and abuses his wife so she cries? as like a constable himself, Mr. Blum hauls Mrs. Blum by the elbow out of the nave, past the black doors into the cold and wet, never has he seen such a damnable city, the only weather here is rain or snow!
If Mr. Blum had lingered longer in that dirty theatrical district, he might have seen another criminal knock at that same door and enter, a tall man in a slouch hat to join the general jubilation—Lucy applying arnica and a stiff wrap to Frédéric’s throbbing fingers, Tilde to pour tea laced with Istvan’s yellow brandy, Istvan to give entering Rupert a smile, “Hail the conquering hero!”—as the lost sheep returns to the fold and all the industry it shelters, for “What’s this play?” Frédéric happily bewildered, he has not been gone a week yet all has changed! like a set switched out between scenes, a wag from Van and busy Mick at the center of the lads, Mrs. Gawdy and Miss Lucinda in freshened finery, Ridley’s exuberant wave from beside the balanced bowl, Ru and Cockrill his assistants since “We’ve much to do and little time, the pageant’s already started—M le Cardinal, I give you your congregation. And another time,” Istvan’s arm brief about his shoulder, “you’ll detail for us your Protectorate engagement? I’ve been in those rooms, there’s very little frolic to be had there.”
With a wry smile, “I had to tuck in my—courage. As you suggested.”
“All you need do now is write our marching orders,” a task easier at times on paper than in the world, where not all the actors know that they are acting, and the villains are heroes and the heroes lads who can barely read, and puppets whose use must be exact as a thread through a needle, to join the fabric of artifice and make the unreal real: as real as the assembly’s awed laughter when Istvan explains the true freight of the play, for “We shall tug the world a bit, by its short hairs,” and “By its strings,” seconds Cockrill, as Rupert drinks down a new remedy offered him wordlessly by Tilde, something she and Lucy have concocted: the raw gin kills most of the taste and the brew nearly all of the pain, enabling him to take up the concertina and school them in the jolly chorus of “Thumb-Your-Nose,” as Frédéric composes new lyrics on the spot. It is not easy to hold a pen with broken fingers, nor climb to the top of the Festus Clock without being caught, nor lead the way through streets seen only once and in confusion, but all these things shall be accomplished: by Frédéric and Pipper and Mr. Blum, all guided by good angels, like Israfel and Faustus who watch now beside their lady friends, all of whom will look to Van to lead the dance. The Misters shall not take part, their part having been assigned to Mr. Loup, and the changeling Mr. Jinks—
—whose use is explained to no one but Rupert, in a quiet backstage nook so cold their breath can be seen, though “I’ll resurrect as best I may,” says Rupert with a frown; his breath smells oddly, faintly of flowers, his dark eyes behind the spectacles are darker still from the drug. “But one hand on you and I start in cutting—”
“Softly, now. Just the sight of you will twist some knickers—”
“—for I’ll have nothing harm you, messire. I’m not long for this play, and one of us must survive,” tugging off the silver glove, to clasp Istvan’s hand then kiss his palm, the faint little, fading little scar, and Istvan’s reply less whisper than exhalation, as if it were possible to share his breath as well: “’Like goodly brothers’…. Pass me that fucking bottle,” to take a swallow of the remedy, its bitter poppy taste —
—as “Come on,” Haden’s murmur, impatient and loving to Frédéric at the foolscap, “let it wait a tick, come have a go,” in another nook piled with curtains and friendly mess, the bare floor cushioned in a moment by their shed jackets and trousers: Haden gentle with all the bruising, Frédéric one-armed and ardent, giving all the pleasure he takes and more, then still more, Haden half gasping and “Never,” when they lie pressed and cupped together, when he has breath enough to speak, “never farther apart than this…. I thought you fell off the fucking roof! I thought you fell off the face of the earth, I was ready to jump myself.”
“I’m not a proper man of the streets, I know. But I tried—”
“You did as you did and you are as you are, and if I ever loved anyone it’s you.” Silence then, a sharp contented sigh, then Frédéric in near-whisper, “‘Better than Shakespeare’?”
“That Opera part, about ‘saints of the boards’—that’s choice,” with a decided nod, as Frédéric glows, giving those lines: “’Saints of the boards and ne’er-do-wells, we make our stand together/Regardless of the enemies in the reeds’—remember those reeds? ‘Cleopatra’s Rapsodia,’ your very first opera—”
“First of many things,” Haden’s smile recalling the taste of wine and helpless passion, Frédéric’s smile luminous in return: all so different, all, than anything he could have guessed or wished for! another miracle, that that longing and despair should turn to this, the two of them together, naked on the floor in the cold; as his own rapt reveries of pulpits and puppets are turning now, like a wheel, yes, into something whose shape he cannot yet see, though he can hear it already in motion past the flimsy door, in the brisk sounds of a hammer, the declamation of lines, Istvan’s voice to call the tune for all of them, while beside him Rupert works the concertina, its wheeze a hero’s taunt against the dark.
“Wait here,” says Mr. Blum to the hulking young constable; he has paid that constable (who fully refused to do his job without it! Yet another reason to flee this city) to accompany them into this hazardous district, though in the milder light of early morning it looks less threatening, if no less essentially foul. The cab thick with luggage waits at the end of the avenue, another ruinous expense, to carry them to the train station—another expense, they surely shall be beggars when they arrive! But at last they shall be home, with Frédéric ready to resume his duties at the warehouse, and with the child, for whom Mrs. Blum now carries, in place of the wished-for traveling suit (for no suitable tailor could be found), a dauphin’s straw hat with a sky-blue ribbon, perfect for a bourgeois boy.
“What do you think he is named?” asks Mrs. Blum; too nervous even to weep, all she can do is chatter. “Whatever it is, we shall change it at once to ‘Frédéric.’ Or perhaps ‘Alphonse Frédéric,’ after my own dear father—”
“Be quiet! —Wait here,” again to the constable, Mr. Blum still grim but brisk in his determination, his traveler’s coat fastened tight as armor, billfold safely deep inside his vest. “If I should need assistance, I’ll stand on the threshold and wave for you, like this,” jerking his arm back and forth as if he is churning butter, but the constable keeps his nod respectful, for this is a well-paid errand, an easy one too as long as no one tries to pinch the cab. And he has had a very busy night, what with that pageant stirring the populace into trancers and shouters, men gabbling of angels and dead household saints, and the women even worse, a pack of Widows screeching like crows outside the Protectorate building, one fat granddame even tore off her skirts to hop bare-legged into the Diana fountain, as if it were a baptizer’s bowl. And today is to be a greater festival still, his sergeant says, with even more singing and such in the streets, and Heaven and Hell staged up in the church…. Though according to several of his comrades, the singers who play the demons are just as sinful in real life—most temptingly the one called Jilly, whose sister used to flash her basket at one of these houses of fun, may be this Palace one right here. It is a raging shame that there are no more of them open, even the peep-houses are all shut down. The whole city might as well be a church —
—while past those doors, Ru, dressed in modest motley to match Lucy’s and the lads’, is now coaxed by Lucy to “Drink it all down, now, my little man. It’s a long day before we have a taste of food again,” offering him mlíko, milk mixed with a grainy porridge, a taste he detests but he sp
oons it for Hay, who gives him the nod to do so, Haden in mummer’s black and a breezy mood, as “You hare-brain,” he remarks to Tilde, adjusting her travelers’ scarves and lady’s wig, old yellow curls made from gilded wool. “You cut it all off, then plop it back on.”
“I think she looks capital.”
“We all know what you think. Got your trousers belted, there, missy?” flipping playfully at Tilde’s skirt; on another day she might have swatted back, but now she only shrugs; she is in a grateful state this morning, Tilde, for she and Madame Lucy had a talk last night, Tilde sitting sleepless, hunched close to the inadequate stove for warmth, Lucy approaching to say nothing, only share a nip of gin and sit beside until Tilde began haltingly to speak—first of Sir, then of Ru, then of Ru’s begetting, a story she has told no one but Sir: Harm made him, Tilde’s near-whisper, harm, and hurt. But from the first, he’s been my happiness. My little Baba.
Who wouldn’t want such a lad for a son! that strong hand with the pearl taking her smaller, colder, clenched one. And as for how he got here, well, we’ve none of us chosen all the men who’ve had us, have we.
He has Sir’s name.
It’s a fine one. Best you could have chosen, and they wept together then, but not solely from sorrow; and Tilde slept, her head on Lucy’s breast, deeply as a cherished child sleeps, as she never had with own mother.
Now “Be corked,” Tilde says half companionably to Haden as Mick adjusts Van’s suspenders and then his own, making Van’s bow a grand one to Ru, who eyes them both, a thin rim of porridge still warm around his mouth; he is coming to a new view of this Mick-man, for though Hay does not like him, Mamma clearly does—sometimes when she looks his way, she almost smiles. And Mick likes Mamma, too…. Mick is in charge of the puppets, for Istvan has gone already, Cockrill shuffling off in his wake escorting the freighted Mrs. Gawdy. Rupert, wrapped in several scarves, still consults with Samuel Ridley, whose camera was imported here through the icy midnight streets, a humble procession of two men and a tumbled wood-barrow; no constable stopped or even marked them amidst the general spirited melee.
Frédéric has had the busiest night of all, but he has been borne by joyful energy, drinking cup after cup of terrible tea, sucking horehounds to make his voicebox supple; he has not sung in months, of course he shall he terribly rusty in oration, no competition for those high-nosed Meistersingers…. That memory makes him smile a bit, his pen scratching as he substitutes three words for six, then two for three, less need in this tale for weight than dexterity—and what a tale, what enormous theatrical audacity! Only M Istvan would have conjured such, to infiltrate the city and spin it like a top, while exposing the cruelties and hypocrisies of its so-called fathers, with their very own words, written in their own hands! And Delivered like the post, yeah? Istvan’s genial wink, Istvan’s inspiration to use the pageant list to choose the names and places where the letters must be left, by the lads themselves delivered throughout those streets by Lucy, for Such hit-and-dash makes it harder to stop, and harder to gather—harder to refute, even, for who’s to know who’s next? Or who set the top spinning in the first place…. They’ll dig each other’s bellies out like alley cats.
It’s nothing less than genius.
I’ve played this sort of show before. And your own rôle’s a stiff one, isn’t it.
I’ve been preparing my whole life to play so, to stand and declaim on the very steps of the Cathedral, to tell the story of salvation, Pan’s salvation, but without the unnecessary blood. It is clear to him now why he could not play it before, that violent puppet-sermon, why every version he wrote seemed to tangle up upon itself: it was awaiting its proper setting and cast, Israfel and the Faustus missing their elders, gone off like prodigal sons. Which led then to the last question, and its worry: But what of Herr Rupert? He’s believed to have died, so when the authorities see— Or that Lord de Metz! What if he should learn of it?
What might he do, do you suppose? Sob into his silken pillows?
But there are penalties for such deceptions—
Penalties? Istvan’s look then neither a frown nor a smile, but something so immeasurably distant, so entirely private that Frédéric bit his lip. And dying, is it just to squeeze the soul from the skin, like pips from a rotten grape? Be fucked to such metaphysics! As if the gates of Paradise swung only one way.
Yes, from Frédéric slowly, for he begins to see that there is more to this play than what swirls about its eye: it is in some way that eye itself for which the play is being made, a vision shared between those two men alone, as he and Haden may, one day, that mode of sharing worth a lifetime’s work, a lifetime’s play, so Yes, again and more strongly. Herr Rupert, he’ll show them he’s alive, and stay so.
Indeed, with a brief smile in return, that gaze kept to Frédéric’s, the fresh lines of kohl drawn black about the unfathomable eyes. And they’ll remember, won’t they, who blessed them with such knowledge…. As for me, why, I’ll hope one day to leave a fine skull for some lucky digger. No doubt in some old ruin, all seeded up with traps and deadfalls, his smile changing from the man’s to the player’s, then back again as To you, Marquis, I’ll leave his book—you’ll read it, it will speak to you.
Then again the changing scene, the freshened mask, as he took from his vest pocket a thumb pot of coral salve to dab onto his lips, a pouting dab, lighted a cigarette and I’d try one of those, Frédéric asked, and they smoked together awhile, Frédéric savoring the murky taste of the Turkish tobacco, and coughing less than most amateurs might. Then M Istvan took himself away, hand-in-hand with the frightful Mr. Jinks, as Frédéric poured out the last of the tea, put the kettle back to boil, and kept writing—
—and now the script is done, all is in readiness, they are costumed to begin: all but Haden, Haden whose black cravat is not properly fixed, so “Hold up—just a cat’s lick,” Frédéric reaching to right it, and thus his hands are on his hero when the banging starts on the door.
It is Ridley, closest, who hurries to open it, to stop the dangerous noise— “Frédéric Blum, you are in there! Frédéric Blum, come out!”—and admit the Blums, Mr. Blum advancing into dimness, his stare taking in the disorder, the queer flummery and mess: crooked rows of draped chairs, the windows’ boarding painted as if to show some garden view, a lady’s blouson hung upon an ale keg, one can barely imagine what sort of rites take place here! And who are all these people, those rough-looking men, and pair of women—though the young one in the curls and flounces, he can guess what her function must be.
And at the center of it all stands his son, Frédéric, with that blond criminal still beside him, shoulders touching as if they are familiar comrades so “You,” says Mr. Blum firmly, “you’ll step away from my son at once. And you,” to Frédéric, “will explain yourself. At once!”
“You,” says Rupert, “might do the same,” already up, handkerchief in one hand, truncheon in the other, but “No,” Frédéric turning, his own hand raised to stay the martial advance. “It’s no harm, they— These are my parents.”
“Your family,” says Mrs. Blum, the dauphin hat clutched to her breast, gazing not at her prodigal son after all but at his son, her grandson, this stocky, rumpled child who looks so entirely an urchin, baggy striped trousers like some sort of mendicant’s, old tin spoon in hand so “What is your name?” she says to the child, who only stares at her, does he speak English? Or even speak at all? More slowly, and loudly, “What. Is your name.”
“Be corked,” says Ru, staring back at this strange lady, with her funny blue hat like Titus Tithewell’s, and skirt like a bushel basket, but “Don’t talk so to the lady,” Mamma shaking his shoulder in brief sharp correction and “His name is Rupert,” Tilde says, adding, “Ma’am,” for she sees that such is called for, sees too that the woman seems close to tears, or fainting, her face is red as a bladder—
—but “I’ll have no words from you,” says Mrs. Blum, disgusted even to be addressed by this little gutter Eve, so mu
ch thinner and, yes, less beautiful than she had imagined, how in the world could Frédéric have found room in his heart for such as this? Just look at that hair, even Marie Mariette made a better showing of herself! But plainly this girl is the mother, for her eyes and the child’s are the same, a deep and penetrating, almost unseemly blue; the blue hat was the right choice at least. “I leave you and your wiles to the Blessed Virgin. And you as well,” with the merest dip of the chin to include the older woman at the table, garbed in the same stripes as the boy, perhaps she is the little slattern’s mother? and those other ragged youths her children, too? “We are here only to collect Frédéric and his son—”
—which speech draws Lucy to her feet, arms folded, with a plainly affronted air: “You might think to trim your sails a bit, madame, and moderate your talk. And if you’re speaking of Ru, he’s going nowhere.”
“You,” from Mr. Blum still staring at Frédéric. “To be tracked to this—menagerie, you shall explain yourself!” as if nothing can proceed before such explanation, as if without such he will lay on punitive hands: and Haden’s hackles frankly rising, is there anyone in the fucking city who will not try to have a bash at Frédéric? but “I will explain myself,” says Frédéric, stilling Haden with a look, determined and very sweet: another and most personal declamation, to his father and mother, to the room, to the world, the lost fiancée and the angry music teacher and the Greek gods of the old book; to Haden, and to himself. “I’m not a cocoa merchant, or a salt merchant, or any sort of merchant at all—my vocation is to write for the stage. And I am sorry, very sorry to see you make such a trip, under what must have been very hard conditions, only to turn back—for I won’t travel with you, or live with you ever again. My home is here.”
For a moment there is silence: Mr. Blum seems torn between speech and action, between his own strength and the constable’s outside. But it is Mrs. Blum, understanding more fully than her husband ever will the import and final nature of this statement, who then erupts: “Your home is not here! No son of ours could ever live so, in such unwholesome conditions! Whatever sin you’ve done, you’ve done, but if you would rather live beside a—a common gutter harlot, than with your own dear mother—”