Under the Poppy (9 page)

“The first one,” says Istvan, carefully thumbing a glued eyelid, keeping it from sealing shut, “was called Marco, after a lad we—a lad I knew. After that, I let circumstance name them for me.”

“What about Miss Lucinda?” Lucy asks, and Istvan smiles: “A comely whore in Paris, who fed me pea soup and let me sleep between her tits on chilly nights.—Hold this, darling,” proffering one end of the twine while he twists the other: together they labor quietly in the Cell, their intercourse intent as any whore’s and customer’s but with creation as its aim: they handle the puppets as tenderly as parents with their young, Lucy giving Istvan her memories of the drummer with the concertina, she and her sister clapping for the toby-dog,
Droll Tales
and “Yes,” says Istvan, “I’ve a droll tale in mind myself,” a new show using again the players of the Poppy alongside his own troupe but “I’ve no title for it yet,” he says. “Perhaps ‘An Interlude with the Oracle’? That’s what she was, that Delphic lady: a voice-thrower, a ventriloquist. Puppets are very very old, darling, did you know that? and their handlers classed always as the vilest of men, down there with gypsies, Jews, and prostitutes,” winking, linking bone to bone, the Bishop restrung for possible use though “May be I ought to change his name,” Istvan muses. “What say you, my lord of the church?”

From the shuttered box, a dry voice proclaims, “Name us Legion, for we are many.”

Lucy starts, then laughs and “I still can’t feature how you do that,” she says, her fingers nimble in the snarl of strings; all the tools of his kit—the winking sharps and small steel hammers, the buttonhooks, the snips—lie easy in her hands, she is a marvelously quick study, as if she were born for the work. “I know it is a trick, I mean a dupe, but still—Do you ever make him talk to you, alone? the two of you? No, that’s silly, isn’t it.”

“Not at all.” Istvan pauses, considering, smiling, Rupert or Decca would recognize that smile. Finally “He sleeps,” says Istvan, “with a black cloth across his face. It keeps his soul primed…. Does that give you your answer?” and before she can give him hers, continues: “They are toys, philosophical toys, as we are puppets really, to our base desires. Don’t you see the same, in that Blue Room of yours? What man owns his soul in there? Does he not instead give it into your hands, to manipulate as you do his prick?”

“Turn it like a crank,” says Lucy, suddenly grinning, a funny wolfish look Istvan has never seen her wear: it surprises him into laughter, both of them chuckling as “We are so much alike, you and I,” he says, bending to kiss her cheek. “Both of us vendors of the art of the moment, the impermanent pleasure, the will-o’-the-wisp that lifts a man from the prison of time, and for just that moment sets him free—”

“Why, it’s poetry,” says another voice, Puggy’s voice, Guillame a-grin in the doorway, a bolt of dusty blue velvet beneath his arm. “A shame to cut in, but may I borrow your apprentice just a tick, messire? I need a lady’s touch with this rag.”

“Must you pay for her time, as I do? Decca ought at least give me a discount.”

Lucy bites a thread, makes a face that makes her look much older, lines sprung sharp around her lips and “That’s Decca’s daily labor,” she says, “to make me into her. That’s why she won’t let me play onstage, and sets me to everlasting scutwork, like
she
does, the evil cunt.”

Istvan raises his eyebrows, looks to Puggy, who shrugs in eloquent mock-surprise, and “I suppose she may leave me,” Istvan says, with reluctance equally counterfeit, “I’ve got an errand or two to run this noon. Lucy, love, will you find the time to finish the Bishop on your own?” and Lucy smiles, delighted as a child to be so trusted, bundles the bones and threading into her own room for later employment as Istvan winks Puggy to the door, closes it to dress in careful blue and black, boots and hat and cravat tied as they do on the Continent, a dandy’s flounce and flourish appreciated not at all by the surly clerk at the hotel where Mr. Arrowsmith sips his tea with a solemn face behind the grainy broadsheet and “Alas,” Istvan’s bow beside the table. “Is the news then so vastly grim, messire?”

“Not yet as grim as the tea,” says Mr. Arrowsmith, “but the wind is blowing, yes.—You come again to visit…?” letting it trail as Istvan waits, a moment’s test for each, of each until “May I invite you to join me in more palatable refreshment, sir?” as they then ascend the stairway, watched by the clerk who spits on the floor, marked by the chambermaid as they enter the suite just to the left of Jürgen Vidor’s, unseen by that man himself busied with communiqués from various sources from which he attempts to tease some usable truth; as Lucy, draped like Venus in moldy velvet, teases out the threads that worm and tickle beneath her damp armpit as Puggy, on his knees with the shears, chops the skirt down to mortal size and “What’s the new show to be,” he asks Lucy, “has he hinted?” as Mr. Arrowsmith asks the same of Istvan, who replies with a teasing smile.

It begins with a tinkling tune, sweet and sinister both, with just the slightest breath of heat, the prickling, serious sweat of real desire: and a girl’s dreamy voice, humming, musing to herself: Vera, blue velvet on a black swing, back and forth, alone on the stage as Jonathan, curtained off, plays the melody:

“I want to meet a swain

Who wants to meet me, too,

Who wants to do with me

The things I want to do.”

And here enters just such a one, Laddie tricked out as a toff in high hat and curling whiskers, an exaggerated hands-to-heart discovery when he sees luscious Vera, positioning himself at once behind her to set the swing in wider motion, as she continues to sing—
is
it Vera, singing? or another’s voice, Lucy’s voice so much richer and sweeter, Lucy cloaked in black again at the back of the stage, obscured by two tall figures, one with a definite horse’s head. At the far reaches of the house, beyond the tables and the watching tricks, Decca, in red from head to toe, a bloody, rosy, field-poppy red, pinches Velma viciously for some failure in service, Velma’s yip of pained surprise lost in Lucy’s voice rising into the second verse:

“He must be very handsome

And upright, too, of course.

But first of all he must possess

A large and healthy horse.”

—as the two men advance from the darkness, Vera swinging more lustily now, Laddie stepping back to give place to Istvan who is dressed as a rustic stable boy, breeches and slouch cap, leading the silent, impressive, priapic Chevalier, whose appearance creates a moment’s quiet in the audience, then a hearty laugh; even from Jürgen Vidor, in his seat up front between silent Rupert and gently smiling Mr. Arrowsmith
, who has a certain advantage over the rest, having had a private preview of the piece in his hotel room some days before:

But may they not take a bit of umbrage at the subject matter, your audience? How many have themselves found some comfort in the barnyard, do you suppose?

Oh, they’ll laugh, messire. All but our upright friend the colonel, who won’t be there.

No, he is en route to the capital with General Georges, some dilemma of logistics, soldiers are much easier to move as markers on a map than real men on muddy roads…. You are acquainted with the General, I believe?

We’ve met.

“We mustn’t tell Mamma,

For she would not endorse

Her precious virgin daughter

A-cant’ring on a horse.”

Vera rolls her eyes in perfect rhythm with Lucy’s bantering soprano, as the Chevalier approaches, bears down upon her in the swing, morning-coat, carved mandrake root and all: and Istvan the stable boy plays it purely for comedy, rolling his own eyes in shock as Vera hikes her pretty velvet dress to show herself knickerless beneath, as the Chevalier tosses his chestnut mane and mounts, neighing with such enthusiasm as to set the watchers howling, many are up from their chairs now, pressed beside the stage.

Brussels was kind to you, I surmise. Many times I heard your name mentioned among the fashionable ladies and lords. Your performances were well-attended, the Grand’ Place, the Place Royale—and the private shows, as well. Why, I myself heard, from the Misses van Symans
—

Brussels was good.

Yet you chose to come here, to shit and silverfish and war. I realize Art is a capricious goddess, but
—

The theatre’s not only art, messire, it’s magic, too. Sometimes the best magic is made in the dark.

Black magic? Well. It will soon be dark enough for any sorcery, once the full complement of troops arrive. You will want to be just a fond memory, here, when that day comes. I plan to be…. Your friend Mr. Bok is very fortunate.

How so?

In your friendship.

The men hoot more loudly still as Vera’s heels dig into the Chevalier’s
sides, her dress hiked up to her waist, Istvan shielding his eyes with one hand and miming self-pleasure with the other, Lucy’s voice ringing out with swoony glee:

“The paddock gates are open

The gallop has begun!

What man alone could ever be

A centaur’s-worth of fun?”

The piano leaps into a driving tantivvy-tantivvy, the rhythm of the hunt, as, in a true coup de th
éâ
tre, the Chevalier rears backward, Vera still merrily aboard, and “canters” around the stage, with scandalized Istvan—breeches agape, tugging the useless bridle—seemingly towed along as well. The men roar their approval, perhaps as much for the illusion as the sight of Vera’s pink thighs and buttocks, which in any case they have seen many times before.

The trio circles back to the swing at center stage as from both wings new equestriennes emerge, eager Pearl and loose-limbed Jennie slightly green around the gills, pantomiming clamor for their turns in the saddle while Vera, spent, slides almost gracefully to the floor, props herself on an elbow as Lucy, expert on the cue, sings out:

“Perhaps Mamma was wiser

Than I had thought before.

I had not dreamed that one could be

So awf’ly saddle-sore!”

Laughter, applause, more applause. From behind his creation, Istvan gives a modest bow, Laddie steps up to escort the Chevalier offstage; Istvan bows again, flanked by the girls, Vera flushed and smiling, Pearl beside Jennie who blinks like a bat at bay. Mr. Arrowsmith’s applause is vigorous, as Jürgen Vidor notes: “You’re a horseman at heart, then, Mr. Arrowsmith?”

“I admire sport in all its forms, Mr. Vidor. Especially when executed so well as that. What say you, Mr. Bok?”

“I don’t ride.”

But what of Mr. Bok’s other friends?

You mean the folk at the Poppy?

No—though they must be some consideration for him as well, he does not look the man to shirk his duties. No, I meant some others, here in town…. It is called
kukolnost,
is it not? The state of being a puppet?

Kukolnost,
“puppetness,” yes. Is there something you wish me to know, messire?

Only what you must surely know already: that your Mr. Bok has his own debts to pay. May I be very frank with you?

I’d assumed you were nothing but.

Since my advent in this unhappy place, I have noted two things about Jürgen Vidor. One is that he maps his own course here, beside his charge from abroad, and his alliance with General Georges, who himself has more than one master, as always do we all. Which, to my mind, may unnecessarily complicate what ought to be a simple situation. And the second is that, even in the midst of this tangle, Mr. Vidor finds ways to indulge himself, ways that war may threaten, that may then render him—unpredictable in his dealings.

He’s a trick. Tricks are always predictable.

Ah. Have you much experience with war?

Money plus blood makes war: a simple situation, as you say. I know blood and I know Rupert. I’ll run when I have to and take him with me. Is that frank enough for you, messire?

Admirably so. You lodge with him, then, not to ply your gift, but to oversee Mr. Bok’s?

You think his is to keep house in a brothel? Every skill I have, I had from him. I lodge there for many reasons, war or no war. And in the meantime, the mecs will continue to play.

Capital! Art and conflict are no strangers, sometimes the best grows from the worst. I will look forward even more avidly to your presentations. And it is my sincere hope that however long you linger here, Dusan, you will consider me a friendly and useful patron.

Mr. Arrowsmith, I already do.

It is to Mr. Arrowsmith that Istvan bows first, as he arrives beside their table, still clad in his stable boy’s weeds. He takes the chair beside Rupert, nods affably to Jürgen Vidor seated on Rupert’s left, who returns his nod with apparently equal affability before asking, “And where is your crooked little man tonight?”

Istvan’s smile is positively sunny: “Limbering up for Act II, I’d warrant. Eh, Rupert?” He reaches past Rupert’s unused wine goblet for his stout little glass of whiskey, drains it, winks at the trio, and leaves, after using Rupert’s shoulder to lever himself upright, to disappear once again past the curtains. Mr. Arrowsmith looks thoughtful, Rupert’s gaze is fixed on the tabletop. Only Jürgen Vidor smiles, cordial and very cold.