by Kathe Koja
No indeed.
—but there’s a bally bit of difference between the ones who clap and the ones who listen—half these bastards are in someone’s pocket, looks to me.
More than half. But what of it? Should the mecs worry for those broken-cheeked choirboys? leaning forward to let the kit light his cigar, a voluptuously fine cigar, a Kristos, he had not had such pleasure in a smoke for a very long time. And other pleasures, too, to follow, kissing those soft scarred lips is still like kissing a god’s…. Boys he has had, though never so many, now, not the taste declined so much as the interest; well, he is an old fox after all. But to lie on those gloriously tousled hotel sheets, watching Haden button up, and pull on his braces, smooth himself back into the gentleman he has become—there will be no pleasure as potent as that again, and that is fitting; one ought always go out on top.
Yet there was a general’s worry still, Haden questioning his travels, trying to insist on a last sortie: Let me see what I can do, I have a friend or two left at the Prefecture—
Like Eig?
That thick-backed beetle in his drain? C’est drôle, with a grim little smile, dissuaded with some difficulty from the plan; though he did deploy the ivory cane in a protective fashion on a pair of doorside roughnecks, popping one across the jaw with such efficient brutality that the fellow felled his own accomplice, that one summarily dispatched with another poke and I believe, his own judicious examination, this apache robbed me just last week, outside the Pigeon’s Coop. Yes, see, here’s my billfold—
You let them pinch you?
I don’t live for coin, continuing to rifle briskly through the robber’s own pockets, I don’t mean to die for it. Though when the second’s pocket yielded other booty, a cheap British revolver, he only shook his head: Not my weapon, kit, you know that.
Times are stark. A man needs all the weapons he can carry.
Not this time, with a smile and shrug, meaning to indicate without the tedium of discussion what might, indeed, be worth dying for, though death itself—that creaky fellow ever in the corner, that mournful fraud—is only just a ticket-taker, he and Time both lowly acolytes to the greatest player of all, Love, who smiles at both with such terrifying sweetness, who calls the play and always has…. Haden spoke no more of dangers, then, of municipal strings to pull (though in a different season, how he would have savored that show! the kit as puppeteer, watched through the lashes); only accompanying him a ways, then a ways more, so far then from his own fine hotel that Istvan finally stopped to turn and point him back: You’ll soil your suit, milord, if you travel much farther—it gets sticky, this side of the fence. And I have a show to play tonight.
What’s it now, “Stepan the Miraculous”? We’ve still a stage, you know, with a smile of such steep and sudden melancholy that Istvan must smile in return, love’s own faceted smile and There are many stages, yeah? And experience teaches one to hope for reunion. Now you’d best be on your way, you’re a busy gent, stepping back himself to speed that departure, bowing as Haden bowed to him, Haden passing a hand across that wounded mouth—and then gone, never looking back, Istvan watching for long moments in case he did so; then the sky-blue suit was swallowed in the twilight, and his own steps turned, more slowly, toward the Mole.
It is the Mole he will play once more this evening, that smoky little tumulus; though it is not an upright place by any standard, its denizens are surprisingly receptive, and occasionally even astute. Such as that bourgeois professor of whatever-it-was, some manner of mentalist, buying him a post-performance mug not to talk but to declaim: “The philosopher knows the stage is the audience,” and you, sir, are clearly a philosopher—as his lady-friend pestered to see the puppets, I like those two, they are brothers, non? And that dark creature, he gives one such a thrill! Oh a thrill indeed, to fling himself and Mr. Loup at the darkness itself, this fierce comedic business of the Jackal and the fool, what had he styled it once to the Marquis? a “moral reveille,” yes. For one must always play what the room requires. And who can say what that reveille might wake?
And if he is watched, if he is followed, if the truths he plays are construed as lies to some subterranean purpose—when the time for feints is clearly over, has been for some while!—well, let them do as they please about it all. He has little enough to hazard: the puppets they shall not have, his life is his own, so they might take this cane, here, with its grinning silver griffin, he had seen its twin once, recall? That lily-handed gentleman in the cabriolet, urging him to Come away with me, you can teach me more sleight-of-hand, with the walking stick wedged against the carriage door as if to fasten him more securely inside. My brother’s a wealthy man, much wealthier than that silly Ste.-Gilles, he could finance shows by the baker’s dozen—that brother to whom he owes that cane and the case he now carries, itself a marvel of concealment, they will have a pretty time forcing it to give up its secrets, when the best secret, and joke, is that there are none inside at all! But they will make of that very emptiness a prize, to justify the manner of its finding: they must, they always do…. To do good, or cause it somehow to be done, is a fine kind of game after all, and one that, in the end, Mouse surely must approve: I’ve told you before, leave those preachers be, had he not dreamed that scene to life again, just a few nights past? But this time the frown was a smile, Mouse there upon some sort of chair, or throne, book upon his knee, beckoning Istvan to come and see —
—and he will see, he and his fellow in the leathern bag, though by then the others will be on their way, the cards all gathered to hand; like the kit’s deal, Sudden Death, the seeming loss that seeds the victory. If it was not here, why, it must soon be elsewhere, and here is as good as anyplace, that grimy pocket stage become every stage he has ever played, the stage to mirror le monde, ape the world, spin that world, gone as far as risk and glory can take a player —
—and in doing so share that glory with his partner: not some memory of Rupert but Rupert himself, as alive as if turning on the pillow, turning in his arms, Rupert present in the play every time one of the Misters leaves the case, Mouse whom he feels so close at times it is as if he scents the very cigar or cheroot, feels the passing weight of a hand upon his shoulder, a whispered breath against his cheek; at night it is the worst, and the best. It is not pain, the pain has long been used up by the tramping; it is instead an eagerness for reunion so singular and driven, it might be held more fierce than any hurt. Resfeber, the Swiss call it, or is it the Swedes—travel-fever, the consuming longing to be gone, twin to Rupert’s own longing, Why even you, fox, come to want a den? Or a road that never ends, for his dreams have begun strongly to suggest that these are not the only boards, that may be a truer, larger stage lies still before him; them…. Rook’s progress, then. A short walk into the dark.
Now the rain has fully turned to sleet, the gutters to ice, no cabs to be had and the trolleys crammed to their foggy windows, so nothing to do but tuck away the spectacles and walk, hat soaked, scarf like lead at his neck, his gait as brisk as a man’s much younger, smiling inwardly to think of his pursuers, may they catch la grippe at least! Turning at last down a dead-end lane, past some street boys huddled in a locked doorway, to whom he tosses the last of Pinky’s money, glancing through their ranks as he does so—is the fiddler there with them, that chubby boy who can play anything, gladly if not well? No, and what a pity, it would have been a tonic to hear a certain song once more.
On the steepish stairs with their smell of sulfur paste and mildew his step is still jaunty, as if in rhythm to that unheard tune, up one flight and then another, past the landlord on the landing, fat Florion in hacking coat and carpet slippers—“What weather, eh? A man could catch his death”—then at Paola’s door where he can barely turn the key, now, his arm gone fully useless from the cold.
The mademoiselle herself is thankfully nowhere about, so he may strip and dry himself at leisure before the stovepipes without her moon-calf stare: what the chit can see in him, that way, one cannot fathom
, he is old enough to be her uncle, and a flagrant nancy besides. Though it is true that some women do prefer such—recall that maidservant friend to Puss, or the lean marquesa, catching at his coat sleeve, begging for exploration: You are like an unknown land, to me, Señor! And me to you!
Yet whatever would one do, without the ladies? their devotions and ferocities, their far-seeing benevolence, how they have embroidered his life! Paola, now, wherever she may have got to, has left strong coffee hot in the pot, and starched his one fine shirt, hung neatly on the rack beside her seamstress’ seat, that bench where she bundles herself to sleep, having given over to him the room’s hard-stuffed settee. She does all she can to make a home of this cramped little bedsit: the cabbage rose curtains sewed in between her dressmaker’s toil, the braided rag rugs and finely mended table linen, if one squints a bit one cannot see the hotel laundry mark. Another redoubtable chambermaid, like Portia whom he sent upon the road—but this one without any dreams of the gentry, with few dreams at all, it seems, for she does not see the utility of them—
Dreams are meant for sleeping. Nights are for sleeping, not for sitting up at the window—
What, and miss the show? Look there, Paola, they call that the Gemini, its stars are Castor and Pollux. See them twinkle?
No.
—nor of his own shows, though he has played a few for her, or tried to—Watch and see, mistress minx—as the shadows writhed and scampered on the wall above the washstand, an elongated gentleman made from a fork, a slippery teaspoon courtesan—though she did blush in the watching, he saw it, an unattractive rashy splash; she is not generally attractive, Paola, but perhaps with some hair ribbons and a tight-drawn corset, and a smile— She was not smiling the night she tried to creep into his arms, her face as blank and stark as any dreamer’s, his own brusque refusal never referred to by either; again, what can the poor chit want from him, that way? Some second-best tenderness, the unknown land of a man who might care for her?
With his good arm, he sets the case before the stove, wipes and buffs until the scratched wood shines, then sorts through its contents: the shirt he tosses to the rag bag, the books he divides: one to be for Paola herself, the poetry book as gratitude’s souvenir, Come live with me and be my Love. The other two, Remedia Amoris and Mouse’s precious volume—how often has he thumbed that book!—are wrapped carefully and marked for Herr Blum; they will accompany the Misters, as a manner of passport. A few days before, he had procured the sturdy crate in which they will travel, paid its freight, indicated to Paola its destination—
You’ll see that this is sent on safely, mademoiselle.
You’re sending off your puppets? You— When?
I’ll tell you when.
—past her gaze then averted, she asked no other questions, so pointedly so that You’ll send it, he had said, when I say, yeah? to bring an unexpected flare of resistance: she does not see that he journeys, only that he leaves so If I don’t? but You will, with a look neither sharp nor punitive, just a look, but she had blushed that fever-blush again, and said nothing more; they both knew she would do as he bid her.
Now he takes up those Misters, his constructed comrades so affable and profane, to dandle them, be their handler one more time: tender, expert, comical, are there tears in his eyes? or do they glisten only from the dry heat of the room? warm enough now to soften the pain of his arm, make his motions easy, almost, as long ago, playing for the lads in the streets and the ladies in the boudoirs, the kings and bishops in their castles of commerce, playing for Mouse always and for himself: and for the mecs, too, all of them—why if he cocks an ear just so, he may hear the tinkle of Marco’s bell…. “Stepan the Miraculous,” yes, but they are the miracle and always have been, the way as well as the fellow-travelers: wood and gut and buttons, horsehair curls and painted nutshell eyes, how they ran riot, offered glee when glee was scarce, kept him from loneliness, thumbed a nose at certain loss…. His last regret is that he cannot carry them all, but he shall have Mr. Loup beside him, one eye, one arm, and unafraid—and is it not the players’ duty, and their charm, to always leave an audience wanting more?
A straightening tweak of a sleeve, quick adjustment of a wire; and into the depths of Mr. Castor, where the soul belongs, he places, with a kiss, the lightly creased carte-de-visite of Rupert Bok and Istvan Marek. Cloaking their faces in silk, mulberry blue for one, black for the other, he closes the crate for its journey, one hand hovering—a maestro’s moment, a benediction—before reaching to drive the fastening nails that will send the Misters home.
And then he must prepare himself, must wash and use the razor, sprinkle the quinine tonic, slip into that clean starched shirt, adding a new bat’s-wing tie of gold and purple paisley, garish enough to have pleased even the kit in his heyday. The wool scarf he will leave behind, still moistly steaming beside the stove, as into that stove he stuffs a few last papers, a traveling document, a false passport, lighting the end of the Spanish cigar from its slow smolder. To his coffee cup he adds a sizable tot of whiskey—Paola keeps a bottle for Rémy, hidden in the cupboard behind the oatmeal jar—for there will likely be little chance to drink, tonight, before whatever is to happen happens: All week there’s been talk, they’ll surely be waiting for you. Ah, but he is ready for them, too, will hold that stage as long as he may, his stage, and be fucked to them who think to commandeer it! If nothing is immortal save art, why, when love makes art, those ripples must surely reach the stars. And tonight is the night to make one last jolly splash.
So “What say you, my mec?” he asks of Mr. Loup. “Shall we pop some eyes?” crushing out the cigar as the key turns in the lock, Paola returning with, yes, Rémy, apparently fresh from the haberdasher’s: see what a fine topper the fellow wears, a brand-new trilby! so “I’ll have that,” he says, and takes it—somewhat too small, but more than wearable—and to the boiled flush that fills the young man’s face “She bought it for you, I’ll be bound, she won’t gainsay your generosity. Now, none of that,” as Rémy raises a threatening hand, a hand that Istvan seizes to bend and work as briskly as if it were carved from wood, there will be no lasting damage but the pain sets the young man whimpering, Paola beside in coat and rain-bonnet to watch without protest, only nibbling her lip as Rémy cries out, and when Istvan says “Be kinder to your sister, junior, or I’ll pop back and twist off your nuts,” he finally sees Paola smile.
Then Rémy takes himself away, left hand nursing the rapidly-swelling right, hatless and with a curse past the door slammed so hard it does not catch, swings back open till Istvan shuts it with a little push, then unlocks and leans halfway out the window, past the precipitous ivy pots, to call to those loitering boys “First one finds me a cab gets a tip!” and send them scattering avidly up the avenue.
Using a clean-bottomed pot for a mirror, he makes a careful line of kohl above and beneath each eyelid, then pulls on a dinner coat, the once-fine jacket that Paola has mended to fresh respectability, though it will never be in fashion again, as “You’re going out,” she says.
“Yes.”
“For a performance.”
“Yes…. And you’ll send my box,” nodding its way, nodding until she nods, too, and finally, tonelessly, “I will,” she says. “Tomorrow.”
“You will tonight. —Oh now, cheer up, mademoiselle,” his own smile suddenly bright enough to light the room, that showman’s smile leavened with a special sparkle just for her, the same smile that brought him here, that opened the door, the smile she will remember all her life as she keeps the book he left her, in pride of place on the false marble mantel. “We’ve work to do, so give us a kiss,” offering first the dark planed face of Mr. Loup and then his own, to her pale lips warm and faintly chapped; he can feel her tremble, the fear in the hand she places for just a moment upon his arm. “For good luck, yeah?”
“Good luck,” her echo as he takes up the case and bag, settles the trilby more firmly on his head, kissing his fist as he turns for the door—to pause for h
alf a moment on its threshold, struck in that moment by a last glance at the room entire: the pink cabbage roses, the faint vagrant smoke of his cigar, the pained way Paola tilts her chin, every detail etched so perfectly it might have been cast in the cast glow of Eden: all of life held there in miniature, his own and the world’s, all the plays and their devisements, the notion makes him catch his breath —
—as he turns, completing the step into the hallway and its fitful economy of light, to glimpse in those friendly shadows a man there waiting for him, a man he knows, knows well, a man his heart leaps like a skyrocket in the seeing: a tall and handsome man in a greatcoat, hands in pockets, dark young Mouse smiling as he approaches, shadow into shadow, to lead from that turning world into eternity. The girl he calls Paola hears him laugh, the breathless sound of joy itself, then the clatter of his boot heels down the stairway, whistling gaily as he goes a tune she does not know, “We are two/We need none other—”
—as outside the snow descends like a scrim, and a hack cab rolls to a stop at the avenue’s corner, where its passenger hops inside as nimbly as a lad, street thief’s fare in hand, to make his way to that final performance: to the Mole and the crowd and the men already seeded within, a burly redhead and a tall Arab trading glances as he steps inside; to the gleeful and ferocious, raucous show, Mr. Loup in especially good form—“Thumb your nose! Thumb your nose/At those who do you wrong!/Thumb your nose and sing to them this larky little song!”—bringing much ardent if truncated applause, heads turning, mutters rising as the performer is hustled off, case and cane left where they fall at the stage-side table; to the alley, its emptied, studied stillness and wet consumptive cold, the men’s hands rough upon him—“Still smiling, you fucking traitor? We’ll wipe your face for you”—many hands and insistent, to fling the puppet to the trash and conduct him forcibly onward, to the brief harrow and plunge of the black sea —
—to emerge far outside the province of time, upon a road unguessed but profoundly familiar: in great and radiant reunion with that dark boy in the viaduct, in the stars like Castor and Pollux, in the green hills where it is always fair for a trickster and a knight, and only the legend left behind to make its play. Thus the passionate journey continues for Istvan and for Rupert, those players and lovers and heroes—