The Testament of Yves Gundron (16 page)

“That doesn't rhyme,” I said.

“Shut up and let the lady sing,” said the blond murderer of the trumpet, smoking an odd-smelling pipe. “Crikes.”

Adelaïda said, “Thank you.”

“I feel certain, wife, that he can hear you—”

“Leave her be, lad,” said the trumpet boy, and boxed me playfully
on the ear before falling into the grass beside me and offering me the long pipe. “Go on.”

Adelaïda colored under the young man's admiring gaze, and composed herself a moment before going on.

The pipe bit back when I sucked on it, but it filled my lungs with a delectable pleasure. Two of the musicians whistled their approval, and a third began to beat slow time upon his timbrel. Elizaveta, hearing the music, stood, lifted her arms in the air, and began to bounce, a beatific grin across her face. The musicians cheered her on, and one of the pipers began to whistle Adelaïda's tune.

“No, we don't!” someone shouted, then guffawed.

The musicians joined in, one singing counterpoint, and the yard filled with music as it had not since the day of our wedding. The song grew more boisterous when I brought from the storage shed a cask of barley malt, and the louder the singing grew, the more Sophronia, not to be outdone, lifted her huge mouth to the heavens in praise. Hammadi held her peace, and trailed her black tail with dignity around the near pasture. Inside my house, who knew what wonders they discussed,
⁶
but outside, where my ancestors had done their days' labor and lived out their short, dreary lives, how pleasant was the atmosphere. My wife's song was excellent diversion; the sun in the sky was a great, hot ball of the only light there is that does not smoke or sputter; and all my sorrows, for all their depth and persistence, were nothing compared to the sunny smell of the grass and the clarity of my pleasure in sitting upon it. What little change matters when the real things—the plainest things—remain forever unchanged.

Afternoon waned, and the soft light of the setting sun cast deep shadows across the bodies in my yard, the house and barn, and even our hills; the tart nectar, which had raised everyone's spirits so high, had now left them in various states of slumber on the ground. The Archduke did not leave till past sundown, and when Ruth escorted him out her face was as weary as if she'd done a full day's labor. He wore a broad, regal smile. The bearers and musicians had all long since fallen asleep under the lull of the pipe, and sighed and snorted when they awoke to find their day's work but partway done. I provided flaming torches to the two pipers, that their instruments might be silent and they might lead the way home. And how the Archduke, his glossy hair, his bright gown, and his intricate sandals, did glow in their glare. The most intrepid of my neighbors, mainly the young, still lolled about the periphery of my property, but the rest had gone home to prepare for tomorrow's honest labor. Ruth and the Archduke bowed to and thanked one another so many times I began to fear they'd both gone stark mad; and then finally he approached and placed his arms about her with a
gesture of such shocking familiarity that I began to fear for her honor. He patted her back and said, “I will look forward to our next meeting.”

“Oh,” she said, “me, too. It's been a real pleasure.”

“Gundron,” he said, bowing full low, “I can't thank you enough. Keep up the good work, man—and send word by Ruth of any new innovations, hear?”

“I will, sir, though I've got some other—”

“Hut hut!” he called to his men as he entered his litter.

The sotted thirteen began to grumble and raise themselves onto elbows and knees. “Ready to take you home, master,” one of the bearers offered valiantly. The eight of them stumbled to the litter, spat in their palms, rolled their shoulders, and otherwise prepared for what was sure to be a dreadful journey. Two of them let the curtains down, all eight lifted the contraption groaning aloft, and with the pipers silently out front to light the way, he left at a stately pace, accompanied by the drums and trumpet. My neighbors, waving us good night, followed off behind, and the procession, as it left my yard, looked like a peculiar funeral.

Before they were even gone, Ruth stumbled back inside and collapsed onto her pallet. “Good God,” she said.

We rushed in to question her. “Tell me everything,” said my wife.

Ruth covered her eyes with her hands. “There's not much to tell. He wants me to write his biography.”

“His what?”

“The story of his life.”

“What for?”

“To spread his fame outside his immediate surroundings, I guess. He seems to have a pretty clear idea that Neem—”

“Nnms,” I again corrected.

“—isn't all there is. He thinks there are pagan settlements all about, and he wants to bring them to God and under his own dominion. So he wants me to write it all down so he can go out, and, I don't know, conquer new territories, or at least spread his fame. Do you know anything about tribes of heathens, out in the hills or whatever?”

“There are tales,” Adelaïda said solemnly, “but no one counts them for much.”

“There was at least one fisherman,” I said, “to bring my grandmother across the hills.”

“Anyway, he wants his story told.”

Only the greatest of princes, the most mythic and heroic, had ever, to my knowledge, received such an honor. I had not known our own Archduke was so great, and wondered if indeed he were so. “And did you agree?” I asked, picking at the remains of what had been an excellent ham. Poor Ragan, gone to feed us, her mate, Mauritius, snuffling disconsolate in the barn.

“Not really. I told him I'd think about it.”

“You are wise not to decide quickly,” I said, snug in the knowledge of her independence of mind, “though certain it would be a great honor.”

“I'm sure”—she nodded, closing her eyes—“but it wasn't really what I had in mind.”

“You knew not about the Archduke before you came here?”

“I might have guessed you'd have one, but that's not what I'm interested in. I mean, I want to write about you, about your neighbors, about your life here. We have enough rich people at home. Everyone knows what rich people do.”

Of such a book, about common men such as myself, I had never heard, and though it made my heart race, I dared not ask. Whatever she meant, it was great reassurance to know that our Ruth's judgment was not clouded by nobility; and that she would not also embark upon the project of memorializing the Archduke—which might well, to be frank, strain the limits of our hospitality—without asking our opinion, our permission, our blessing. I rejoiced in the soundness of her thought.

I wonder now what would have been her decision had the next week's events not befallen us.

¹
A few of the extant poems resemble haiku: “Deep autumn/New snow buries old snow/Under the dim moon.”

²
His nobility held no intrinsic interest for me, but the awe with which the villagers talked about him filled me with curiosity; and I was interested, of course, to see how a nobleman's life differed from the lives of the farmers with whom I was now spending my time.

³
“A strange, sharp-spoken, curly-headed thing like you, she was. And being the first, the people were nowise prepared for her oddities.”

Her cairn was as tall as I, and rose starkly from the bare dirt surrounding it. Mandrik was strewing daisies around the base, which only made the rocks look more barren by contrast. “And where did you say she came from?”

“From the sea.”

“Before that, though.”

He crouched down on his haunches to admire his work, then regarded me with his wide, still eyes. “She was the sea's creature, Ruth, as sure as you're the creature of the Beyond. As sure as the light of Heaven burns within us both.”

I felt abashed at the frankness of his faith.

“Do I frighten you,” he asked gently, “when I speak to you thus?”

I said, “No,” but in truth he did frighten me. I had never dreamed of anyone like him, and was flummoxed to find him in what I had thought would be a prosaic farming village.

⁴
“I don't know why he's so forthright about some things and so coy about others,” said Mandrik when I asked him later about the circumstances of the poppy expedition. “He'll talk about his desire for his wife, and he'll talk about death, but opium poppies will rain the wrath of Heaven down upon him. Who can blame him, I suppose. It's an ugly habit, even among those Eastern peoples with whom it originated.

“When I returned from abroad, we spent a great deal of time together, discussing what had happened in my absence, and where I had been since last he saw me. I had resolved, upon my return, to tell him all the truth, that he might know the grim details of what I had witnessed. But faced with his dear, sloppy-toothed grin, and with those clear gray eyes (how their expression reminded me of our parents and siblings), I became abashed; my voice caught in my throat, and would not issue forth. Pressed with questions, I gave slippery answers; and tired of my own tale's vagueness, I occasionally made things up.”

I suppose I must have looked at him askance, because a nervous smile flickered across his ordinarily serene face.

“When we went to see the poppies that day, I am afraid I ran quite away with myself inventing a tale about poppy fields in distant lands. I described riding a mule down a treacherous slope of the Himalayas, through a cold, thin air that left the sky the palest blue. And there, in the valley below, beneath the craggy shadows of the snow-capped mountains, spread a sea of red, sunward-turned flowers as far as the eye could see. The uses of opium, with its dim, smoke-filled rooms, full of silken carpets, great cushions, and lax bodies, the shining, dirty hookahs with their sinister bubble and suck—all this I had on written authority, so I did not feel altogether untruthful in relaying it.”

“And Yves took this all on faith?”

“Yes, I believe he did.”

I was desperate to question him further, but found my mind empty when I tried to dredge up a single concrete thing to ask. I felt nauseous in my confusion between my curiosity, my idea of my professional duty, and my dumb awe in Mandrik's presence.

⁵
Where the Archduke had gotten orange trees in the first place, I never was able to ascertain; but I later learned, to my great delight, that he had cobbled together a primitive greenhouse of leaded glass to protect them from the elements, and that he nursed and watered them daily with his own two hands—the only manual labor he ever performed.

⁶
Primarily the Archduke's largish ego, and whether or not we had this or that marvelous thing (e.g., harnesses, pavement, crenellation) in Cambridge.

CHAPTER FOUR