Under the Poppy (42 page)

Now the rain begins again, just a spatter to start, and Otilie has the umbrella open and in service before two drops can strike Madame; but it comes down harder, a dour diagonal sleet, she moves to summon the carriage but “This way,” says Madame, turning instead down a nondescript
rue,
skirts splashing through dead leaves, dog shit, and some unknown effluvia, past a dubious locksmith and a stockman’s drinking
shop, into a shadowy sort of café: six tables below a tin ceiling, three of them filled by girls not a whit better than they should be, two by workingmen watching the girls, and the last by a younger man in an old
greatcoat, amusing himself, apparently, by making his teaspoon talk.

“Wait over there,” says Madame to Otilie, pointing without looking to the tea bar where the proprietress, who has, it seems, been anticipating Madame’s visit, immediately approaches with a clean pot and cups, one of which is already half filled with brandy: this one she sets before Istvan, who puts his little spoon aside, though not without a final whistle of farewell, noted by Isobel who smiles: “My apologies to have kept you waiting. I see the performance has already begun.”

“You are punctual, Madame. I was early,” swirling the brandy in the cup, toasting her silently before he swallows. It occurs to Isobel that she has never before seen him in daylight, this M. Dieudonne, Etienne, Dusan, Istvan, whatever his name may be. In a kind of studied deshabille, he looks weary, as if his night had been a long one, his lips are turned down but his eyes are bright; and he owns a singular ease, like a cat asleep on a silk divan or a marble step, the player’s ease, all places a stage to him, a throne or the dock the same. “A busy day for you, Madame, I am sure. I am gratified that you and I may meet.”

“I as well, Monsieur. This is a—likely place,” the like of which she has never entered in her life before, its set-dressing of whores and day laborers, its smell of mildew and boiled milk, but the tea is surprisingly good, strong China tea, and its warmth is very welcome: her feet are soaked, she feels the cold all throughout her body. From the corner of her eye, she notes Otilie dividing her attention between the costumes of the prostitutes and this tête-à-tête; the girl is sharper than she looks, she will bear a bit of watching herself. “And to stop for tea is pleasant; as you say, it has been a busy day. There are many details still to settle for my Twelfth Night dinner, many people will be present, some of whom you know—Fernande for one, and Achille’s parents, the Guerlains; the de Mercys. And of course M. Bok—”

“Of course.”

“And Hector Georges.”

He lifts his cup but does not drink. “The General.”

“Yes. He is an old friend of my father, whom you have not yet met—he also will be in attendance,” with a brisk sip of tea, a fine bit of acting on her own part, the calamity expressed with such offhand calm. How her heart sank, reading the letter, the de Metz crest come not from silly Charlotte this time but from him, telling her only that he would attend her soiree as well as spend some days at the town house, not deigning to say why, but she knows why: he is coming for Benjamin, he and Hector both. And she alone to stand between them, stand them off with what poor weapons she has—if only Benny were plausibly in Paris! or the dark side of the moon; if only Javier were in the city—but he has gone elsewhere, he has sent his regrets although
You may be seeing me in another form,
a mystery she could not cipher until she was contacted out of the blue by M. Dieudonne:
A mutual friend has suggested that we meet—

—although he speaks, now, this puppeteer with his spoon and his brandy, not of Javier or Hector but of several shows he has recently witnessed, or perhaps performed, puppet shows of such fine craft that “The strings are at all times visible to the audience, as is the puppeteer, but after a moment or two, both disappear entirely to the eye. And then all one sees is the actor, and the play.”

“And if one should endeavor to keep the strings in sight?”

“Ah, but it is not the strings that really signify, Madame. It is the motion. Which is why the puppet is the purest actor of all: he—or she—cannot be distracted, or turned inward, or waylaid by appetite or the desire to shine. For the puppet, it is only the going-forward that matters. Into thin air.”

Istvan pauses. A heavy cart rumbles by outside, bearing the sudden reek of rotten fish. At one of the adjacent tables, a whore laughs, the scornful laugh of a pretty girl: “So much the worse for him, then! Does he think he can buy me with a rabbit-fur stole?” The two workingmen murmur together, then chuckle. Otilie waits. Istvan drinks the last of his brandy, beckons backward, without looking, for more.

When the proprietress has again withdrawn, leaving behind the bottle, Isobel leans forward, gloved hands clasped before her, like a child listening to a fairy story, grave and alert. “And the moral of your story, Monsieur?”

“A simple one really. All that moves, requires a hand.”

He waits, poised, wanting to make sure she understands, to give him some sign; himself a sign to her:
into thin air
, yes, if one must. She takes a fortifying breath and “Hector,” she says, so quietly that he must lean forward as well. “The General, that is—you may have noticed, he wears a ring.”

“A silver ring. On his thumb.”

“Yes,” she says, and then she tells him a story: of two men who once were young together, one the son of a landed lord, the other of less noble provenance. The lord’s son was sent into the military, to give him some working knowledge of death and command, where he met the other, an especially adept attaché of the regiment. Both young men found themselves united by temperament as well as circumstance in a particular situation, where deeds of special ugliness were required, “the nature of which I do not know, Monsieur, Javier never told me, he said he did not want such pictures in my mind.” Gone into her own story, the black fairy tale of rapine; has she ever spoken of it before, aloud? Did she ever dream she would? “All I know for certain is since that time, Hector has worn that ring, which had been in our family from the time of the Terror. Since that time, Hector has been a special friend of my father’s, an accomplice for him, as the scorpion rides the snake.”

Now her gaze is downcast, as if shocked or shamed by her own revelation. Gently, Istvan tips the brandy bottle to her teacup, urges her to drink as “I will match that tale,” he says, “with one of my own.” Glancing to the door, where the sleet has turned to snow, the fat wet splashing snow that clogs the gutters, that obliterates the signs, that empties the streets of the upright and the harmless and “There was a brothel once,” he says, “called the Poppy,” where many plays were
staged, and many strings torn and tautened, humans, like puppets, jerked this way and that by a puppeteer intent not on art but domination,
a brothel where, in the throes of war, the General clashed in secret with Jürgen Vidor—

“Jürgen Vidor? He—You know him?”

“Yes.”

“You know that he is dead?”

“Yes indeed,” but by whose hand? since all that moves requires one: was it the knife that cut him, or the plan that set that knife in motion? Madame, he sees, can parse such details for herself, Madame is not a fool although “That knife,” she murmurs. “I will not ask more, but the man who—accomplished it, that man is known to you?”

“Indeed,” again; and he allows the silence to hang, allows her to imagine it was himself, another shield for Rupert. “But that is not yet the meat of the tale.” Speaking so softly now she must watch his lips to make out all the words, he tells her of a letter, written by Jürgen Vidor, found on his person, addressed to the General, naming Georges as the architect of the deed—although this last is not wholly true, the man who wrote that letter never intending it to be a testament from beyond the grave, no doubt he would have preferred to plant it as a flag on Georges’ corpse. Would that both were true. “And it still exists, that document.”

“This letter,” she breathes. Her eyes are shining:
ursa mater
, consider the banked ferocity of the female! “You carry it with you?”

“Never, Madame. It is in a very deep hidey-hole indeed,” thinking of the flimsy blue enamel letter box, the little iron safe with two keys, one his, one Rupert’s.

“Hector knows you have it?”

“Not yet.” He lets that sink, until her smile begins. “That knowledge
has been kept between me and one other since the day the letter was found. You are the third,” although that is not strictly true, either, but true enough for his purposes now. “And I tell you,” because another sort of hideaway is needed, a place where, whatever else may happen, Rupert will not be harmed, a nest made downy by Cupid’s love and, yes, Madame’s healthy hatred; what a boon to find her so well-armed, Arrowsmith must have a conscience after all—

—as she nods, reaching again for her tea, elated now and bus-inesslike: of course M. Bok is welcome under her roof at any time, for any duration, her protection will extend to him since “We consider him a most dear and valued friend, my brother and I,” with a sidewise glance, does M. Dieudonne know of Benny’s devotion? Yes. He knows.

And knows as well of her own soft spot for Rupert, though she does not guess how easily it can be glimpsed, giving Istvan another little inward smile: Why, the whole family wants Mouse! A brother and sister, again, how strange life is. Repertoire indeed… Well then, they will keep him safer if not safe, and it is the most that can be hoped for at this moment, the best that he can do.

Now Madame is glancing at her little timepiece, a golden rose depending at her breast, another glance in summons to her maid as “I must be on my way, Monsieur,” she says. “I know we shall meet again soon.” Leaning forward, her hand extended, but before he can bend to address it she draws him closer, offers her cheek and “I will tell you one thing more about Hector,” she murmurs, as his lips graze her skin. “He once thought, years ago, to be a player.”

It is the first time Isobel has seen it, the flicker of Istvan’s true smile, the way it changes his face, reveals a private universe unguessed—and calls forth her own in spontaneous answer, the curious, questing girl in the garden, impulsive to ask, “What is your name, Monsieur? Your true name. If it is not too impertinent to inquire?”

She is not lovely, Madame, no one would ever say so, but what intelligence in those eyes, in this request, though “It is most impertinent,” Istvan says, and kisses her cheek again, not a social salute but as a man to a woman: the scent not of roses, as one might expect, but lilies, cold white flowers crushed to powder, something alluring and bitter beneath. “And we most truly wear the names fate gives us, Madame, do we not? For instance, one might call you Dido,” with a courtly bow as the maid approaches, Lucy’s little friend, she gives him a wink as she unfurls the umbrella to shield her mistress, beckoning the carriage that rounds the corner to take them in. The door closes, Istvan sinks again into his seat to call for a bit of cheese, a pale mealy apple, both dissected and eaten on the tip of the little white knife as “
‘
We must be Salome,’ ” he says to the teaspoon, that replies in a wary voice, “
‘
But the platter is yet empty.’ ”

Fast broken, he takes from his inner pockets a jigsaw of wooden pieces, assembling them on the table as he drinks: the shattered arm, the cracked belly, the head, expression of surprise both intact and apt, none of them saw that coming, did they? there at the Hôtel Violette? Like a tuppence melodrama, Georges costumed in a businessman’s bowler, not alone, as he had promised, but attended by a thug called César, a failed pimp formerly of the dollhouse row who recognized Istvan as well, to neither’s pleasure, his presence explained by Georges as yet another reason why Hanzel the courier continued to be so inflexibly desired:
So many of my men are known to be my men, especially in this city
where he has, it seems, new and extra-military ambitions, since
A commission,
genially,
can prove quite constricting. Especially in these modern times.

I wouldn’t know, I’m not a soldier. Hence my reluctance to take orders.

Refusal, you mean,
as César glowered, walrus mustache and fat through the brisket, the unnamed puppet making him a special bow—Paying for your pink, now?—as We ought repair to the rooms, Georges meaning to lead the way but I’ll not take that order either, his own smile of open amusement, did the man think him an imbecile? To put a locked door between himself and flight? as all collapsed, then, into something worse than farce, Georges proffering the courier’s pouch, the last chance to gain, what? a goatherd’s path to a slavey’s power, and avoid destruction not for himself but Your fond companion; we need not say his name. Come, Hanzel, it will give me no pleasure at all to harm you—

Then that is where we differ,
his voice become one the General had never heard before, the voice of the feral creature he has never ceased to be, the puppet’s regretful
plié
as
Buy yourself two ropes—hang yourself on one, and on the other, be hanged:
with a stare of contempt worthy of Feste, and Pan Loudermilk, and the lineage of every jester servant only to the jest, a look at which César took great umbrage, the poor puppet taking the blow, the General enraged at the lobby’s sudden full attention, and off with a stare of his own, like a shot fired over the shoulder.… Hence the urgent meeting with Madame, hence “My poor associate,”
sotto voce
to the teaspoon, indicating the unnamed actor’s sad demise. “He died so fucking young, yeah?”

“Not to worry, mister,” from a smooth voice at his shoulder: one of the table whores, a slippery brunette with her hat cocked sideways, depositing herself unasked upon his knee. “For a nip of that brandy, I can make you smile again.”

“An ocean of that brandy could not make me smile today. And you, dear, have the venus clap,” loud enough for the workingmen to hear, the girl off his lap with a snarl, she means to say more but the look in his eye, then, returns her directly to the safety of her sisters, as Istvan sweeps the puppet scraps back into his pockets, drops coin onto the table, and takes himself out into the growing storm, where the lights of the electric lamps glow like fire under water, and the streets run with slush as brackish-black as graveyard mud.