The Stockholm Octavo (12 page)

 

Away we trot, soon ev'ryone

From this our noisy bacchanal,

When death calls out: ‘Good neighbor, come,

Thine hour-glass, friend, is full!'

Old fellow, let thy crutches be,

Thou youngster, too, my law obey,

The sweetest nymph who smiles on thee

Shall take thine arm today.

 

“Have you knowledge in the country of Bellman's music?” he asked. Johanna shook her head and he halted their progress. “No? Oh, young lady, if you want to learn the Town, he is the true Master!” With that he cracked the whip and the horse jerked forward to the sound of another verse. They rode through the crowded central city, past church towers and lanes thronged with people and livestock, over a bridge to King's Island and down a well-traveled road along Lake Mälaren. Green forest and field rolled out to one side, from new grass to deepest pine. On the other, the glistening blue surface of the lake dotted with whitecaps and birds. The air smelled of fir trees and sea, and Johanna felt a sharp pleasure from this perfume, the wind making gooseflesh on her arms.

“So then, Miss Bloom, what exactly propelled you from Gefle?” Master Fredrik broke the silence.

Johanna looked down at her hands then raised her head and met Master Fredrik's gaze. “I have come for a future, sir, and would prefer that my past remain where I left it.”

Master Fredrik pulled the carriage to a stop. “We are driving this minute to your future, and mine, as well, if you are the prize I believe you to be: a modest but accomplished girl who can read and write, compound medicines . . . if you could play the cittern and sing I would keep you for Mrs. Lind and myself.” Johanna blushed at this compliment, being unaccustomed to praise of any sort. “Just remember that discretion is an admirable trait, Miss Bloom. Let me relate your story and smooth your way into the lady's heart.” Master Fredrik snapped the reins, and the vehicle jerked forward. Over a final rise, two precise rows of black willow trees topped with shimmering green leaves formed an allée on a lane to the left, flanked by fields of rape. Gullenborg revealed itself at the end of this road. “Behold the splendid house that beckons,” Master Fredrik said. Johanna sat taller in her seat and leaned forward to get a better look. “The welcoming golden hue, the trim a steely gray. And the gravel: pink. Pink gravel! Not the mud colors you see in the tundra, eh, Miss Bloom?” Master Fredrik turned down a narrow lane before they reached the main house and headed toward a white stucco stable. “We will call upon Madame in good time, but first we must be about my business,” he said, jerking the horse to a stop with an extra slap.

“I understood you were the Town's preeminent calligrapher, sir,” Johanna said.

“Indeed. But Madame has asked for my assistance on another matter. She has ordered a new fan, and it seems the Parisian fan maker Monsieur Nordén finds the materials available in the Town to be inferior. I will demonstrate that this is not the case.” Master Fredrik stepped from the carriage and held his hand up to Johanna. “The lady insists on chicken skin. It is a sublime surface for paint: light, strong, translucent. A slightly nubbled texture, but so smooth that pen and brush move across it as if directed by God himself. And few besides God can afford it,” he added, nodding toward the house. “Have you ever owned a fan?”

“No, sir, I have not had the money for it,” Johanna said.

“You may soon enough.” Master Fredrik pulled his cloak back over his shoulders, and took a silver snuffbox from a pocket, inhaled a generous dose, and walked on. Johanna did not move. “Come, Miss Bloom, this is not a fan shop, but where the fan begins. Are you not curious?”

Johanna climbed down and asked if they would roast the chicken after they had taken the skin; she had not eaten well for a very long time. Master Fredrik laughed gleefully and opened the door to the stable with an exaggerated bow. A stable hand and a young boy greeted Master Fredrik, while casting furtive glances at Johanna. “I have brought Madame a clever girl today,” Master Fredrik said.

“Oh, Madame will like the looks of you, miss. Plain as a plank, so as not to cause trouble,” said Father Berg. “Young Per is to be moving into the big house one day soon; you might be a match. You're going to be groomed, boy, instead of doing the groomin'.” He slapped Per on the side of his head and cackled. Johanna turned her head, as if to look out the window.

Master Fredrik rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “So, Father Berg, so Young Per! Where is sweet Clover?” The older man opened a stall gate and went inside. “Come, Miss Bloom.” Johanna leaned on the wooden half wall to see. Father Berg knelt beside a soft brown cow, heavy with calf. She munched on hay and gazed blankly at a nearby bale. Young Per placed a muzzle around the cow's head and tied it to a ring in the floor. He bound her legs with leather straps and patted her twice. She made a lowing sound, then there came a flash of silver at the cow's swollen belly, and a river of blood stained the yellow straw beneath her. Johanna felt her knees buckle. She grasped the top of the stall so swiftly it drove splinters into her palms. Master Fredrik took another pinch of snuff from the tiny silver box

“Well, Master Fredrik, you have the luck of the devil,” crowed Father Berg. “It looks to be twins!” He pulled two calves from the still pulsing womb and laid them side by side on a thick layer of straw. “Not to fret, young miss, the calves have an elegant future, eh, Master Fredrik? I'll clean them off before you go, so's you and the young miss can take a look at the hides.” He winked at Johanna, who still held the wall to keep from falling.

Master Fredrik looked at the pale and shaking girl. “You knew, of course, that chicken skin was but a manner of speech?” Johanna shook her head no. “A tradesman's term, my dear. A chicken wouldn't make a fan big enough for a baby. It could have been kid leather, but The Uzanne doesn't keep goats; she doesn't like the smell.” He turned to Father Berg. “A tipple before you skin them, sir? And is Young Per old enough to take a swallow?” They both answered with a cheer. He pulled a silver flask from his jacket pocket and handed it to the older man. “Come, Miss Bloom, we will inquire about your employment.” Master Fredrik retrieved his flask and guided her out the door toward the back of the house.

The maid greeted Master Fredrik at the tradesman's entry and took his hat and cloak. “Have you no song for me today, Master Fredrik,” she said.

“No, Louisa, my throat is raw from serenading Miss Bloom,” he said, nodding toward Johanna.

Louisa looked at Johanna with disdain. “An unusual bouquet,” she said with a sniff.

“Fresh picked from Upland,” he answered. “Inform Madame that I have brought her a rare specimen indeed.”

The maid disappeared down the long gray hallway, and Master Fredrik sat with a grunt on an upholstered stool. Johanna stood, arms stiff at her sides, noting the polished parquet floor and the abundance of glass. “Be sure not to bite your lip,” Master Fredrik said to Johanna. “Madame once had a house girl who could not stop and was forced to cure her by removing several of her teeth.”

Louisa returned and led them to a sitting room. A mural graced three walls, an elaborate scene of chinoiserie in emerald and gold, punctuated with strange birds and flowers. Madame sat in the center at an ebony secretary, pouring over a massive leather book. She might as well have been the empress of a mythical kingdom, with her jewel green dress, the perfection of her hair, the posture and grace with which she turned toward the doorway. “Master Fredrik, what have you brought me?”

He hurried to take her outstretched hand, but The Uzanne's gaze was on Johanna. “A fine young lady to act as your companion, just as you requested. She came to me seeking employment, but I thought first of you.” Master Fredrik bowed. “May I present Miss Bloom.”

Johanna hesitated for just an instant then approached the desk and curtsied as if she did so every day. The Uzanne rose and circled Johanna like a buyer at a livestock sale, taking a slow inventory: the texture and color of the hair, the breadth of the shoulders, the breasts, the torso, hips, legs, feet, hands. She took hold of Johanna's upper arm and squeezed it gently then looked Johanna full in the face. “Your skin is perfect, but you have been otherwise neglected, Miss Bloom. I wonder who would choose to starve a thoroughbred?”

“Oh, she comes from fine stock, Madame, a learned and noble father, a devout mother. Her thin frame is caused by denial of the flesh, part of the mother's religious beliefs, as it were.”

“Where are you from, Miss Bloom?”

Master Fredrik answered hastily. “The north, Madame, a town with only . . .”

The Uzanne held up her hand. “I should like to hear the young lady speak.”

“I am indeed from Upland, Madame,” she answered, changing the inflections to move her voice farther north. “My parents had a reversal of fortune, as many noble families in these times. I have little besides my name, and that means less and less.”

“I know exactly what you speak of, Miss Bloom,” The Uzanne said, opening her fan slowly and moving the air about the girl.

“Father and mother often worry desperately for my future. Their hope was that I might succeed through service.”

“Can you read and write?” The Uzanne came near to Johanna, the scent of her perfume mixing with the faint smell of stable that lingered on Johanna's shoes.

“Indeed, Madame,” Johanna said. “Both Swedish and French. And my Latin is superior to any boy my age.”

“Good.” The Uzanne nodded, a comb set with citrines flashing in her hair. “Have you studied the use of the fan?”

Johanna answered truthfully for it was not a skill she could pretend. “No, Madame. We hadn't the opportunity for such refinements.”

“The girl is too modest, Madame.” Master Fredrik came around to Johanna's side. “She is a skilled
apothicaire
. I myself am one of her patients.”

“So you are trained in the making of medicines and cures?” The Uzanne asked, now smiling warmly, placing her hand beneath Johanna's chin and looking in her pale blue eyes.

“Yes, Madame. I was taught by my father, who is a learned man in all manner of botanicals and compounds. I have a traveling case at my disposal.”

“That could be useful,” she said softly, raising her hand to Johanna's cheek and holding it there for a moment. “I should like you to tell me more.”

Johanna felt the stiffness of her arms, the tenseness in her neck. “I know all common remedies made from plants, but I have knowledge of more potent compounds as well—digitalis, arnica, Florentine belladonna, Persian laudanum, ground powders of valerian and hops that bring the deepest of sleeps. I am trained at cooking, too,” Johanna added, although she doubted that Madame would want to eat the things that she knew how to prepare—bark bread, salted reindeer, bland yellow pea soup.

“No, my dear; Cook guards over my kitchen like a troll. I have other plans for you,” The Uzanne said softly. “You will be well rewarded, I promise.” She turned to a beaming Master Fredrik. “As will you.”

Johanna looked closely at the dress her mistress wore, a gown of emerald silk damask with stitched furrows full of tiny pearls from the neck to the high waist, and embroidered vines, curling down the side seams of the simple skirt and spreading around the hem. At the end of each vine was a fantastical flower waiting to open. It was as if the dress held the seeds of Johanna's future, and she curtsied again to The Uzanne, this time with even more feeling and grace.

“Look at that,” Master Fredrik murmured. “Perhaps I
should
have kept her for myself!”

Chapter Fifteen
The Capacious Strata

Sources: E. L., M. F. L.

OF COURSE, I HAD HEARD
the name Master Fredrik Lind for years but never had cause to seek him out in business or for company. I made his acquaintance at the Masonic Lodge. In an unexpected display of humanity, the Superior took pity on me over the sudden loss of Carlotta. He suggested his lodge would be a place to make connections with fathers eager to wed their daughters to a man with common beliefs. This gave me a reprieve until well into fall.

The Masons met on Blasie Island at the Bååtska Palace, a formidable house of strict lines and white columns with a simple clock high on the copper roof above the entry, reminding me that I was late for my very first meeting. Master Fredrik, a fellow Mason with some years of seniority, was in the same predicament. We hurried into the proceedings together where he took me under his wing.

One afternoon in early autumn, Master Fredrik and I strolled toward the Town after a lodge conclave. We were discussing the customs duties on the small items that bring one pleasure, and we were both of a mind that these should be left to enter our country freely. He stopped and peered at his reflection in the window glass of a bakery. In the right light, and from the right distance, Master Fredrik looked dashing still. “The denizens of the northern countries are of a melancholy humor, and in sore need of cheer,” said Master Fredrik. He studied the state of his hair, which had suffered some from the brisk wind. “Succor comes on the gentle breeze of small luxuries.”

I mentioned the recent capture and burning of several crates of Chinese fans, and Master Fredrik was quick to expound on his close acquaintance with The Uzanne. He took my arm, turning me down Harbor Street toward the King's Garden. “Madame has an encyclopedic knowledge of fans to rival Diderot and an assemblage nonpareil, Mr. Larsson,” said Master Fredrik, adjusting the collar of his coat to block the wind. We reached the top of the park, with its alleys of trees framing the royal palace across the water. “Madame is a person of exquisite refinement. Her gowns, her furnishings, her hospitality! The arbiter elegantarium. You would find Madame a kindred spirit, being a man of such refinement yourself.”

“I am in no way refined, Master Fredrik. You have a terrible habit of flattery.”

“I know fine stuff when I see it,” he insisted. Master Fredrik lowered his voice. “Madame and I have become confidants. She calls upon me to fulfill her deepest desires.”

I had to laugh, so ardent was his delivery. “Are you declaring yourself, Master Fredrik?”

“Declaring myself? Dear God no. Are you a witness to slander, Mr. Larsson, aspersions relating to myself and Madame?”

“Nothing whatsoever, Master Fredrik, not that anyone would doubt your appeal,” I added.

“Madame means to offer her hand in friendship and assistance. When the time is right, she will advance my cause at court. I will be granted a title.”

“A title? Is that all she will grant you?”

He laughed this time and launched into a variation of a Bellman song, tooting out the clarinet parts:

 

“toot toot toot to—Uzanne she

toot toot toot to—Smiles at me,

Her hat in her hand

Enlaced with rosy band;

At her breast a bouquet;

Frilly skirts well a day!

toot toot toot to—Uzanne come!

toot toot toot to—Known to some,

. . . she skips ashore with buxom bum!

 

I feigned a look of shock, then harmonized on the chorus. “You know this music well,” he said with genuine admiration.

“I would address Bellman as
Master,
too,” I told him earnestly.

Master Fredrik clapped me on the back. “We are becoming friends, Mr. Larsson.”

We walked in silence down the gravel pathway toward the harbor, the low evening sun giving the trunks of the dwarf willows a golden hue. The royal palace spread across the northeast corner of the Town, a dark mass against the darker sky behind. I felt the sting of rain in the wind.

“It seems we have a number of connecting points, Mr. Larsson. May I treat you to some refreshment? An early
supé,
perhaps?”

I was due at the docks in less than an hour, so dinner was out of the question. But I usually took coffee sweet and strong before I began my nighttime rounds, so I suggested we stop at the Perambulator, a second-floor café on Little Water Street. We followed the scent of roasting beans up the narrow stairs and found a table near a window where the fresh air streamed in. It was ablaze with light and crowded with gentlemen either sobering up or on their way to do mischief, giving it a festive air. We ordered and Master Fredrik returned to what was clearly his favorite topic. “Madame Uzanne has rare talents, and is not to be underestimated in any way. It is something one can feel, if you are one who is willing to accept the existence of such personal magnetism. I, for one, have never accepted that the rational alone rules us; on the contrary it seems laid on us like a garment that we put on and take off, depending on the hour.”

“You are quite the eloquent philosopher,” I said, stirring in three lumps of sugar.

He waved away my comment. “Now who is the flatterer? No, Mr. Larsson, Madame is the enlightened philosophe and you
must
meet her. She would no doubt relish the acquaintance of one who travels the paths by which her beauties enter the Town.” Now I understood the purpose of his generosity. I avoided this sort of entanglement and said as much, but Master Fredrik was persistent. “The Town's most eligible young ladies gather in her salon. Perhaps you might trade access to one sort of beauty for another,” he suggested.

The Uzanne's name had been rising like the moon for me, sometimes full and prominent and sometimes just a sliver, hidden in the clouds of conversation. Perhaps, as Mrs. Sparrow believed, The Uzanne was my Companion—a useful connection in the quest for my eight. I might learn more of Carlotta's plight, too, or plead her case myself.

“Madame is hosting a new season of classes, and has expanded her roster of pupils to include the cream of the lower Estates.” He looked me in the eye. “Wealth, Mr. Larsson. It is a balm to the commoner.” He took a long sip of his coffee. “I am beginning work on the announcements now: creamy deckled paper from Prague sprinkled with lilac petals, the edge dipped in gold leaf, exquisite green ink. I will make sure you receive one. Gratis, of course.” He looked to me for comment. “Making extra invitations is de rigueur for any job—a hostess often finds she has neglected an important personage, or wishes to curry favor. I am left with the surplus, and they are much in demand.”

“I think it a very clever sideline,” I admitted.

Master Fredrik shrugged his shoulders. “You would be astonished at the inquiries I receive. The practice began as well-placed gifts and favors, and I found that gratitude was usually expressed in cash. Mrs. Lind is delighted with the arrangement—she requires her finery. And the boys, too. Their uniforms cost a month's wages each. I limit the practice carefully, and pair the guest and the event with much consideration.”

“I am honored to be considered at all,” I said.

“There is a painless way you might return the favor.” I waited while Master Fredrik sipped at his coffee. “Have I heard you mention Gray Friars Alley?” I moved my head in both a yes and no. “There was a midsummer party in gaming rooms there, run by a Mrs.—Raven? Blackbird?”

“I have heard of these rooms,” I said. “Very exclusive.”

Master Fredrik leaned over the table. “The party was hosted by Duke Karl. He is a seeker, Mr. Larsson, and an intimate of Madame.” He winked, as if he had been there himself.

“Imagine being invited to such an event,” I said.

“My purpose in telling you is not to encourage envy, but rather to fling wide the portals of opportunity. Madame believes that she was cheated out of a folding fan at this unique event in a heated card game, and she is keen to have this treasure returned. There is a case for you to solve.”

“I am a Customs officer, not a policeman.”

“If I were to offer you a chance to meet Madame, to serve her, you would be inspired to regain her fan by whatever means necessary. And it would be to our mutual advantage.”

Before he could say more, a quarrel broke out at the other end of the room, and porcelain shattered on the planks. “I am more accustomed to a lower crowd, Master Fredrik. I doubt I would fit in such company.”

“There are capacious strata above each of us. We need only propel ourselves upward,” he said, tugging on his chestnut kid leather gloves. “But cooperation is essential. To use the common vernacular, if you give me a push, I will give you a pull. This is how fortunes are made.” He held out his hand, and I shook it. “I have much to teach you in this subject, for I have climbed higher than anyone would have dreamed.”

“I would benefit from your instruction, no doubt,” I said, the image of the eight of Books suddenly appearing in my mind—a man and a woman studying music together, perhaps he and The Uzanne, looking over Bellman's
Epistles
. And Books were the suit of striving; Master Fredrik was clearly a champion of clattering up the social ladder. He could also chatter like the parrot settled in the branches above the man and woman. I was certain I had found the Teacher in my Octavo.