The Mercury Waltz (32 page)

Please. Go on.

“The terrible shame of what you have done, and thus become, has entirely ruined our family. Of dishonored Miss Mariette and her parents, I shall not speak. Of your mother, know that she does not cease from weeping. Of my own woes and troubles on your behalf I will say nothing”—though he goes on and on for bally fucking pages, an’t he…. No, I won’t,
stern as Frédéric rose as if to entreat him, but reached instead around him to rummage in the old carpetbag, and take out, what? two small flat leaves, two French letters that he tossed upon the coverlet, Haden’s eyebrows raised to the hairline and
He sent them with me,
Frédéric said,
when I came here,
looking as if he could not choose whether to laugh or cry.
Oh, he doesn’t know! How can he ever know, or understand—

Well, I know,
crisply balling up the letter, as if he did the same to Blum
père,
that I wouldn’t use this to wipe my runny arsehole. Now you tell me,
playfully,
just who you meant to post those letters to?
flipping away the dusty little objects, bearing down on Frédéric to pin him to the bed, smiling, then laughing, then not laughing, only sighing, only the muffled, seeking sounds of love until
Here,
Haden’s murmur,
here’s damnation to all fathers,
as he hung about Frédéric’s neck the Christopher medal, still warm from their bodies’ heat.
Let them keep the shame, let them blame themselves if they need someone to fucking chastise,
as Frédéric examined the ornament—the scratched, scored, stalwart bearer of the babe, the reassurance of the motto beside—then kissed it reverently, an object of veneration as
You wear it, now,
Haden said; if the corporal had seen him then, as stalwart, so tender and masterful, that man would have gone down on his knees.
Wear it, it will make you safe.

Now Haden tucks to his breast pocket this new letter to the Blums, he says nothing, he picks up his hat to go—no more mere bowler, a fine silked beaver hat with a yellow band, to match his new canary-yellow coat—but “Wait,” says Tilde peremptory; she points to the cards on the tabletop. “You’re here,” and then to Frédéric, “you, too. Sit down,” to the spread that spreads as if without any effort from her fingers, as if the cards have been pent and must tell all they know: to Haden become the Lord of Hares, and Frédéric present in the presence of the Scribe, the one who watches and writes what he sees, their spread is interwoven, as it should be. And yet “Oh!” in dry surprise, for see, she herself is fully woven there as well, as the Queen of Flowers crossed by the Deuce, the card of increase, that would be the little baby—

—as Frédéric observes, with a scribe’s full attention, the cast of those cards against the table’s wood, the vivid, peculiar, almost barbaric pictures, so much in them of warfare and of blood! However does a girl as young as Miss Tilde put her hands to such things, wherever could she have gotten them, and the skill that puts them to such singular use? She comes from elsewhere, her accent tells him so while revealing no origin; she has no family but these theatre-men, and the child inside her; of the child’s father she has never spoken, and of course he would never ask. But still he is curious—there is a great deal that he does not know about Miss Tilde, and would like to know; he is always very polite to her; he is, secretly, slightly afraid of her, but in an entirely salutary way—there is that in her that is akin to Haden, his own adored Hadrian a man of the streets as Miss Tilde is a girl the same, both at home in situations that would fully confuse or thoroughly overcome him. Well, he will be a humble student to them both, a good student, he knows how to learn—

—as “There’s you,” Haden says with a sudden grin, elbow to Tilde’s side: the only other female on the table, the Justice with her scales and sword and blinded sockets, blinding herself with that sword so that she may not be swayed by the evidence of her eyes, but “That’s not me, hayrick,” says Tilde scornfully, laying down the next card in the spread, “that’s—
Oh,
” in a different voice, a sudden, flat, doomsday voice, as the card shows like Icarus a falling man with a burning torch, the torch inverted, the wax swallowing its own flame: the card Descent: and “What? What does it mean?” asks Frédéric, dismayed by her dismay, as Haden’s head turns toward a sudden sound, the brisk knock on the squareside door—

—itself unheeded by the two upstairs, as the pennywhistler’s flute has risen to a sweeter tune, a very old one, “Lady Angela Takes the Air” and “Hear that,” says Istvan, “it takes one back…. Come,” holding out his arms. “Come and dance with me, Mouse.”

“You know I can’t dance.”

“Dance with me,” with a smile like mystery, an April smile on this October afternoon. “Waltz with me, no one will see,” so to please him Rupert rises, folder set aside, worries suspended as his half-frown dissolves into a smile half-shy—the boy Tacio would have known that smile, and his young friend in the viaduct—as he takes Istvan into his arms, and, with great concentration, haltingly follows the steps, Istvan humming the tune along with the pennywhistle, so old, so sweet, as timeless as their own time spent together, a lifetime of journeys and partings, of endless love forever well-met: eyes almost closed, the pearl earring swaying—

—as footsteps cease and the door opens, not with violence, inexorable, for half a moment they do not even stop or see until “Herr Stefan Hilaire,” says one constable, as the other, grimacing at the unnatural tableau, halts beside him, truncheon at his belt. “Herr Hilaire, you’re to come with us, now.”

“How so?” says Istvan, “the song’s not over,” as Rupert in reflex steps in front of him, to take the brunt of whatever blow is coming: “By whose authority?” with a hard and narrowing stare, seeing that truncheon clearly with his one good eye. “By whose authority do you enter our place of business, come right the fuck into our
rooms?
” with such ferocity that the two constables fall back, one of them backing nearly to the hallway, as the other with the weapon makes to rally, to grasp at Istvan: “He’s to be questioned, that’s all. Now you, you’ll stand aside, Herr Bok, we’re not here for you—”

—as Rupert in one motion takes the truncheon from that constable and flings it to the floor, dealing in that motion’s return a blow to the throat so blunt that the constable has time only to blink before he buckles, the second stepping forward to be treated the same, it is as if they have offered themselves obediently to Rupert’s fists and “Why, fuck this standing,” says Istvan, more amazed still than alarmed. “Whatever can they want with—”

“Go,” Rupert over his shoulder, kicking the fallen first constable, injuring, not harming as he wants, “go now,” turning for the other, heel stamping on the palm that held the truncheon, that constable will never use that hand again. “I’ll follow as I may—
Go!
” as Istvan turns at last for the door—

—to be met by Haden, yellow eyes ablaze: “Uncle, look out, they’re swarming the fucking place,” hurrying him not down to the windowless second floor but up, up to the little rooftop trapdoor, both shoving, wriggling through as Tilde below barks curses like an alley cur, beside white-faced Frédéric—at the table they had thought, for one wild moment, the constables come somehow for
him
—to throw whatever he can think of into their path, waving arms, shouts, objections, obfuscation: “We shall involve our solicitor! Give me your names, I shall take down all your names! We shall have you all before the Prefecture, this is trespass!” and “It’s trespass they want him for,” growls one of the constables, “trespass and disorder, ” a young man who, if Frédéric or he had time to mark it, had once sat side by side on a hot night in this very theatre, watching and applauding as two puppets, two men, fought their way to final freedom, then kissed in the fair hills far away.

Upstairs Rupert, like that knight upon the road, continues to batter whomever gains the stairs, fighting for time, fighting in sweat and a certain red enjoyment, the physical release of combat and defense, until his breath comes hard and the blow comes from his bad side, not a truncheon this time but only a uniformed elbow, not even fully aimed but lucky in its mark: it stuns him sidewise, he hits the wall, the beautifully papered wall of this hall, this house, this home created with so much care, where he thought to live safely with his love until Time, the last assailant, took one from the other: and if he has time for another thought before the constables surround him and his gaze goes dark, that thought is for Istvan, of hope for escape—

—that already is a lost hope as they drop from the fire ladder into the alley’s shadows, Haden trying to bluff them onward, his hat tugged low on Istvan’s head, their arms securely hooked—“Let us pass! Mr. Jacks from the
Intelligencer,
for fuck’s sake let us pass!”—but Istvan is separated from him by yet another clot of constables—did they send, Istvan in distant wonder, half the fucking force?—to be thrust into a constables’ van, windowless and dim, shoved to his hands and knees as the door slams and the locks catch, as Rupert is dragged half-conscious out the front doors of the Mercury, watched by a staring crowd who do nothing as Tilde, scrambling, shrieking, tries to pry him from the constables’ grasp, herself pushed harshly down to rise and stumble after, hand at her side, until Haden catches at her arm to haul her back and “At what do you stare!” shouts Frédéric from the steps, incensed by that crowd of silent sidewalk watchers, as if what they behold is only a play, and not the real pain and blood of fellow citizens. “What do you see?” But no one rises to his challenge, no one says a word, nothing happens but nothing as the constables take Istvan and Rupert away, as Haden and Frédéric step one to each side to help Tilde back into the empty theatre, where she hunches at the table, the cards scattered like leaves in Fortune’s wind, while Haden pours three teacups full of brandy, and Frédéric, with cold hands, turns the useless locks on all the doors—

—as a cab pauses in the square, a woman inside in a tobacco-brown suit and pale blue gloves, gloves of antique lace fastened at the wrists by little drops of peridot, gloves such as are commonly worn by well-born brides; Mrs. Lucy Pimm owns a very similar pair. Christobel peers at the dispersing crowd, then bids the driver call a constable to her window—“What has happened here, officer?”—to be told what may be the
dénouement
of that strange evening’s entertainment of two men and a puppet, wasted champagne and shattered sharps of crystal, her husband’s tears staining the modern black pleats of her skirt.

The cab rolls away, its destination altered; the constable departs after his troupe; the crowd disperses. The pennywhistle changes its tune to the song of the day, “A Lad Makes His Way,” in hopes of luring back listeners; though as he puffs, that player notes that the meager coinage in his upturned hat has been snatched in the melee, which may be a sign to him to leave this city, to make his own way and try his luck in some other, kinder spot. The notes rise; the river stinks; the gods are silent. The rooftop hatchway lies still opened; by midnight, it has begun to rain.

The hallway leading to the rooms of inquiry is kept deliberately quiet: an isolating tactic meant to confirm to those kept inside that no one can hear what happens; no one, no matter how they call, will come. Martin Eig himself radiates a certain quiet as he moves down the stairs, nodding to those he passes, who nod respectfully back to him. As he descends he considers the varied rooms into which his work leads him: such as that suite at the Hotel Baron St. Williams, green damask and mahogany and strewn disorder, books and piled trunks and the smell of whiskey, the leaden stare of Herr de Metz, who was assuredly more than half drunk when he arrived. Sideways in the chair like some potentate, some careless emperor of commerce, with his servant behind in dun livery, pouring tea like a lady’s maid—and the lady herself, Frau de Metz, Christobel in a pale green suit, excusing herself with a nod so exquisitely neutral as to mean less than nothing, passing into her own suite to quietly close the doors, as Herr de Metz turned that half-mast stare to him:
We’ve met, you say, at some dreary civic function. At de Vries’, was it?

Yes,
accepting tea, exceptionally good tea, from the servant whom he thought then would leave but
You may freely speak before Emory,
said Herr de Metz.
Go on, speak. Why did you send me that note? Why are you here?

I am here,
he had said—and for a moment felt what he never would have recognized as an actor’s reflex, an inner gathering, the flung ball of the soul about to be launched—
because of Herr de Vries, at least indirectly. I believe that you and he have less in common than do you and I, Herr de Metz.

The idea obviously amused the man—
How so?
—gazing with what would have had to elevate to become contempt, a gaze to change then and constrict into an active, blacker interest as Martin Eig continued to speak, as patient toil and iron fortitude melded to become a kind of force, a missile aimed at a multiplicity of targets for
Old men are the past; young men—new men—are the future. And it is no longer only the name that makes the man—something, I believe, that Herr de Vries does not understand.

De Vries was a great friend of my father’s.

I know. I know a great deal about your family. But now a man may make his own name by what he himself chooses to do,
as the servant poured more tea, more whiskey, Emory whose eyes missed nothing: the sweat on Martin Eig’s upper lip, the fleeting rage on his master’s face when a name was introduced,
That actor Hilaire, or perhaps you know him better as Dieudonne—

I know him.

—who is to be used as another sort of missile, he and Bok at that man, and that man at de Vries; Eszterhaus and Banek have been convinced that it will work:
Like a game of ninepins,
Eszterhaus had said, frightened and elated.
You’ll have all our fortunes in your roll, Eig!
But it takes great skill and, yes, great energy, to play such games; when Martin Eig left those rooms the linen of his shirt was damp, though de Metz’s hand was icy, a very brief handshake as
I shall contact you again, sir, as events proceed,
nodding to that stare, that face that most would call handsome, chiseled chin and noble brow and dark-ringed, muddy, dissipated eyes; what enormous vice those eyes have surely seen! There has been a parade of street boys up and down these hotel stairs already, he knows;
she
doubtless knows as well.
And of course, sir, my office door is open to you at any time.