The Bastards' Paradise Page 3

  Those worlds are much upon my mind, now, as a man in my position—most frequently supine; hors de combat, you might say—has a great deal of time in which to reflect upon his own part in such affairs, the storms of war that continue, in some avenues, to this very day. Whether those dark clouds will ever part, to shine the light of truth upon the men who hold and govern those avenues, is a question for philosophers or priests—several of whom now come regularly to my couch, with their somewhat parochial taste in spirits. But none, alas, have answers.

  Perhaps those answers lie instead in the mutable lessons of myth? All myths begin in a truth retold, Mutato nomine de te fabula narratur is the maxim. And les mecs would surely say the same, those changeable little actors, for in play lies hope, perhaps the only hope; and the hope for righteousness, too.

  “You have grown poetical,” our old friend the General once accused me, and surely it is so; and verbose in my correspondence—so many letters in the writing-box, will they ever be read? I shall close this one now by wishing yourself and M. Bok the greatest success in your work and travels, and with the further wish that you will one day tender in person my regards to your estimable sister. Her hospitality was unforgettable, and a part of me still dwells beneath her roof.

  With respect and sincerity, I remain,

  Your servant,

  Javier James Arrowsmith

  “He’s late,” says Portia del Azore, glancing again at her cloisonné watch: en suite at the luncheon table set for three, sparkling china, drooping foxglove in a vase; she drops a crust of toast to the whining pug beneath her chair. “Hush, Bijou! —And Frau Ezterhaus is so particular about time—”

  “He keeps his own timetable,” says Roland Smalls, “you must have noticed that. In Paris, say?”

  She ignores this, takes a licorice drop from her tin, takes the cork from a bottle of mineral water, pours half a glass without offering the same to Roland Smalls. No one would call her beautiful, her features too sharp, eyes too deeply set under brows too strong, but she takes the eye and holds it, as a salon painting might, or a railway poster, an advertisement for the modern world itself: black silk bands at her wrists, black silk tie, daringly, at her throat, the yellow silk fluted, the skirt columnar; one copper-toed boot taps with irritation, a nearly constant tattoo. “The fountain boat races begin promptly at two-fifteen, and afterward we are to stay for tea, and speak of a possible engagement. —Why do you look so? Need I explain how important an appointment like this can be?”

  “Not to me,” with a pleasant shrug; nearly all he does includes a shrug, Sir Roland Smalls, baronet and eldest son, whose ancestral home has gone unseen by him since childhood, a separation begun at school, reinforced at university, and refined into perpetual self-exile, to visit and revisit those cities and towns meant for gentlemen of leisure, gentlemen with certain tastes for certain pleasures: the reading of classic poetry, the investigation of Grecian ruins, the sunlight through the leaves of an orange grove, a young street Arab at one’s side…. It has been a pleasant journey, interrupted only by a matrimonial foray with an Italian conte’s daughter, brokered and undone within a six-month span, the annulment’s original charge of “conjugal fraud” altered to the more vaguely tragic “no infants can be produced alive.” His family’s response was as if to a great catastrophe, his younger brother pacing the hotel suite in Cologne—

  How do you mean to conduct yourself, then? No heir, no wife, no life—

  I have a life. The rest I leave to you, Ronald, and your mania for duty. You’re lord of the manor now, you ought to thank me.

  Thank you? For disgracing our family, with your—purchased amours—

  I tried to purchase a wife, and see how that turned out. Would it ease your mind if I bought a lady friend?

  —but in no evident way is Roland Smalls a catastrophic man: fair hair, a close-clipped mustache cleanly waxed, he might be thirty, he might be fifty, an ageless smiling figure in clean white linen and cuffs, spats the color of fresh celery, reaching past Portia del Azore for the still-warm pot of tea, stout Darjeeling beside her own tisane chamomile. “You’ll do as you mean to, of course. What else?”

  “Then why do you look so?” The boot tap-taps. “It’s why he is here.”

  “Is it?”

  “If you won’t help, I beg you don’t hinder. If he—” as a knock is heard at the door, both turning in their chairs, the pug snorting a bark: but it is a young hotel runner, not Istvan, no matter that a place has been set for him, a new gift—silver cufflinks, a pair of cunningly coiled snakes—purchased and wrapped for him, an agenda created, the whole day and stay and pilgrimage to revolve around his performances. The servant’s note, addressed to the Marchioness del Azore, bears the crest of another society madam, a former Van Symans daughter: We shall hope to see you and your “find” at charades tonight, if the world does not end in the meantime! and “Is the world ending?” asks Roland as the servant departs. “The weather seems tolerable, not a drop of rain, they say, today. Biblically, I suppose, it’s to end in fire and brimstone—”

  “The papers call it a war,” turning over the only paper that can matter, this note with its blue ink and boundless implications, this next entrée to a world she has kept hard pace beside for so long: clever girl, Polly the striver, she and her younger sister renamed—I’ll be Portia, you can be Feodora. That’s the Queen’s own sister’s name—and relocated from the servants’ quarters, learning there besides decorum—Face your ladyship, answer when she talks to you, keep silent when she doesn’t. And keep your distance!—how a fine lady speaks, how she dresses, what she reads, how often she locks her bedroom door, so his lordship must in relief go elsewhere; it is a full curriculum. And if the sisters’ paths have since diverged—

  I’m called an adventuress, Polly. “Une grande horizontale.”

  Call it what you please, Feo, but as long as you’re whoring, I don’t know you.

  —the lessons learned have stayed with Portia, updated with the times as they change, and she with them: a fine lady who lacquers her fingernails, who reads the latest novels or at least leafs through them, who travels in the genteel company of a man not her husband, a lavender friend From one of our best families; and keeps an eye open, always, for the next step up, the next handhold on the precipice. It is why she is here, it is why she looks again at her watch, it is why, when the door next opens, she prepares to dispatch the runner with a carefully worded reply, half regret at their tardiness, half intimation of better things in store, since such things, of course, take their own time—

  —but instead “Bonjour, groundlings,” Istvan nodding past the brim of a old brown homburg, pinched just that hour at the train station from a distracted traveler left even more distracted, pointing back with two fingers to direct “Next door,” to the lanky young servant wheeling an old leather trunk, as Roland rises with a smile: “You’re to stay here, then,” with undisguised pleasure and “See?” to Portia who has risen as well. “The world’s not a bit ending, with news like that.”

  “The end of the world?” as Istvan reaches to the table for a raisin cruller; in mufti today, the pearl earring tucked to a pocket, a plain coat and loose trousers such as a workingman might wear; only the goatee still speaks of the exotic. “I could have left the trunk, then, couldn’t I.”

  “Quickly,” snaps Portia to the servant, “a cab. There’s still time, the fountain races don’t start until—Frau Ezterhaus,” to Istvan’s questioning gaze above the pastry. “She’s especially invited you, invited us to—”

  “Fountain races?”

  “It’s boats,” says Roland helpfully; he pours a glass of mineral water for Istvan, pulls out the third chair at the table. “Little boats, no bigger than a man’s palm, sent round and round a fountain with paddles. Some people find it very entertaining.”

  “Alas. I’ve business.”

  “But Frau Ezterhaus most especially—What business? And why are you dressed—”

  “What busine
ss could that be of yours, Baroness?” nipping two more crullers from the tray, barking back at Bijou who barks at him as Roland trails him to the door, wondering aloud if he would care for company on the way, could he be lured into an early drink at “The Drooping Lily? I hear it’s quite delightfully recherché,” but “It’s closed,” with a shrug, as “Charades!” Portia calls, the creamy note tight in her fist. “Will you at least take part in the charades?”

  “Oh, without a doubt. Enjoy the flotilla,” with a cheery wink, as he closes the door on Roland’s hopeful smile, turning then to the loitering servant in hotel livery gay as any theatre costume, a youth he recognizes as a former ruffian of Haden’s, a youth he tips, then waggles by the chin as “You’re off the boards, then, youngster? The last time I saw you, you were wearing a pointy little mask.”

  “What, down at the playhouse, you mean? Oh I never, sir! And if I did I wouldn’t now, they’ll pop you in the coop as quick as—Hang on, an’t you—”

  —as Istvan heads past him down the stairs, eschewing the brassy, newly installed lift; something about lifts, their chains and rattling doors, speaks to him of the trap. Strange, usually it is Rupert who dislikes such conveniences, himself who seeks the new—such as their visit to the Exposition, a giant spectacle de lantern magique: the whirling sky-wheel and the Mareorama, the Ethiopian rug dancers and mermaids who splashed in a wheeled and bubbling tank, the phonograph mania to blare “Paris My Paradise” seemingly from every corner, the cunning metal automata of the wine-drinking clown and naughty nun and priest, made, it was said, by that fellow on the rue Saulnier, or was it down by the waxwork museum? One forgets, the figures themselves forgettable beyond their novelty, their ability to play only one trick. The opposite of puppets…. But other novelties were more congenial: recall that poudre de riz shared out by some apache boys in a doorway, one sharp sniff enough to open the eyes and keep them wide open all night!

  He had not brought that back to Mouse, holed up above the two-room boîte, Rupert at the rain-washed window irritable and pent—We should be miles from here by now—tossing down the newspaper, yesterday’s papers read unto the columns of adverts, the personal notices but Tomorrow we will be, Istvan tying and retying an almost-new cravat, adding a false gold stickpin to cover the unfortunate scar on his vest. Or the next day at the latest. In the meantime—

  In the meantime I sit stuck in this fucking box.

  Your last stroll did us no favors, did it? a foray for kaffee crème, the dim buvette with just a few tables but one of them seating—who could have foreseen?—M. Denis de Mercy, tubby now as a wobbly-toy, his stare over spectacles one of confusion, his brother beside with a hand half-raised in surprise—Why, it’s —Isn’t it? and it was all they could do to get lost again, hats abandoned and collars yanked up, Istvan fashioning an eye patch from a snatched-up serviette, Rupert with a livery cap jammed down on his head and “No one searches for a dead man,” you said, “it’s quite safe—”

  Who killed me in the first place? And made us into everlasting dodgers? Go. Go play your God damned dice, or cards, or whatever it is you’re truly about. As always I’ll be the last to know, refusing the offered kiss, chin turned stubborn and away but then, more softly, You’ve a knife? glancing up to see Istvan glancing down and The sword of my wit, as always, rousing a smile of exasperation, of love unmatched and You never change, messire. Do you.

  Nor you.

  The gushing rain was not enough to deter those determined to seek pleasure, that pleasure-palace sparkling with electric lights, bored and vampish dancing girls in costumes made of owl feathers, respectful stagehands to draw the curtains to a compact back room—M. Boilfast says you’re to have all you need, sir—and admit to that private show a group select in its tastes and stiffly charged for the tasting: among them a fluttery viscount, a famous English novelist and his half-soused wife, twin daughters of a questionable saddle-soap magnate, and the woman and man seated first and front, she in gold waffled silk and a hat like a beekeeper’s, he in ascot and white eelskin trousers, both in a manner of speaking aristocracy, both staring at the entering player as if they had never seen anything like him before; and nor they had, as well-traveled as they were and are: Istvan all in black, from boots to the kohl on his eyelids, sore hand wrapped in velvet, rain-damp and combative to create a performance as rich with mockery as the wallet behind it was flat—distressingly flat, the last of their funds gone into that two-room, and the way still to pay for the road ahead; it is expensive, nowadays, to be a vagabond!—to bait and chant and sing with the freshly-made Mr. Loup: No gospels, gentlemen and ladies, no morals-of-the-story! offering instead a selection of songs ranging from the risqué to the scabrous, ending with a tune dredged straight from the alleys, “The Tale of Stinky Peters,” with Mr. Loup pointedly holding his nose with his one hand, raising instead of disgusted gasps a chorus of knowing laughter, as if at a most sophisticated jest, and none more knowing, or more encouraging, than from the two seated in front, neither of whom could tear their gazes from him.

  Finally the song made its end, the puppet made a yawn and It’s time we were abed. Who cares to join us? with more titters roused, applause muffled by gloves so What, no takers? Then we’ll pass the fucking hat, and be on our way, Mr. Loup with his tiny crooked hat to roost inside Istvan’s and pass into the audience, and stand before each, half-farce, half-menace, until some tithe should be paid, leaving for last Portia del Azore to wet her lips and tuck into the hat banknotes enough to stuff it full, notes immediately trumped and doubled by the single one folded and dropped atop by Roland Smalls; his knock come first to the backstage door, a room with a dressing table nearly as large as the stage just employed, two chairs and a chaise and Istvan already reclined and extracting a cigarette from a left-behind packet of Ravens, as if waiting for that knock, for them to enter, she the first to speak and to pull a chair beside the chaise, to admit that she had not been, till now, wholly familiar with his great artistry, though certainly she had heard of him, heard his name in various top salons—

  You frequent such? past a lazy stream of smoke. What name? —Sit down, butterfly, to Roland, who smiled brightly and continuously, saying little but looking much, until I’ll order some refreshments, his murmur as Portia continued to offer her bona fides, her many enviable if still-unspecified connections, inquiring if Istvan would play this theatre again, or travel elsewhere; if he employed an assistant, someone to aid him on his path—

  No need, madame, or it is mademoiselle? I buckle my own boots, I’ve been doing it for quite some time now.

  But someone said—That is, I understood that you once had a helper, in your shows? A man who played the music?

  A coy chuckle from inside the case, Mr. Loup insinuant to ask You’d be my helper? a reply in tandem with the gaze through the smoke, given as if in challenge, leavened by humor, an icy private humor at an old and arid jest and Believe me, monsieur, more urgently still, I could be of real assistance to you. I’m well-acquainted with the theatrical world, in London I was—

  A toast! Roland Smalls reentering beside a servant with tray and glasses, a nicely chilled bottle of Roger—no, it’s Pol Roger now, isn’t it? I hope this will suffice? and Quite, Istvan brisk to reach and stick the bottle in his case, a discourtesy that did nothing to take the smile from Roland Smalls, murmuring then of performances seen at the Opéra, at the Parthenon, in Covent Garden, Your own artistry is much the same! a statement that, given the show just past, must be only a lie or buffoonery but was neither, was something else entirely, something noted by Portia del Azore stiffly smiling on her chair, gazing at the men as Istvan deliberately tugged off his midnight tie: You’ll excuse us now, mademoiselle. Unless you’d like to see me naked.

  I’d very much like to see you—That is, to talk to you of business, mutually advantageous business. We’re at the Hôtel Alan, offering the finely engraved carte-de-visite with a perspiring hand—she sweats like a docker, does Portia del Azore, or whatever her true n
ame might be—as the door closed and A marchioness, is she? Istvan’s raised eyebrow. And what is she to you?

  Nothing really. A useful amusement, like a monkey one picks up at the fairgrounds, Roland Smalls with hands clasped tight to watch him strip his shirt, then toss both it and the tie into the case, make a beautiful smile—and within the hour, wounded vest and jacket resumed, share out with Rupert, along with the cigarettes and a fresh copy of the Paris Herald, the champagne, delicious as a cool kiss to the lips though Rupert was startled and annoyed by the drink’s expense: You spent what we’ve got on this? Or did you win it in some game? but No game, Istvan’s shrug. Just a gift from the groundlings, met not the next day but the next, in a restaurant with marble floors and polished brass stands of ferns, where over Dover sole and Spanish brandy a bargain was proposed and a payment accepted, though it was called neither a payment nor a bargain—

  —as now, still, those pennies must feign to be pinched, it will not do for Mouse to know these funds, or their source…. Now Istvan sails past the doubled doormen, into streets so changed from the streets they had been that it is itself a kind of magic lantern show, played for no one’s benefit except the makers of gunpowder and bunting, the sellers of candles, the newspapers—there seems to be a new post on every corner, and a new fellow to bawl of it, Herr Seraphim must have his pick! though not the drinkers of milky tea and bitter gin, both those last in evidence as he passes through old quarters, by the locked doors of the Garden of Eden, a dusty sidewise placard still advertising the final tale told—“The Magistrate’s Daughter: A Saga of Redemption”—and the empty Cleopatra, its doors stuck with competing bills of political slogans, Cockrill’s Palace just the same; though it seems there might be a bit of light on somewhere inside that last, since a puppet, gaudy or not, so often finds a way…. Past barricades and heaps of bricks from breakage or too-hasty rebuilding, past Crescent Bridge with its lurking swans and whores so discreet they can barely be told from the palm-swingers, past tired strivers in tight collars and their female twins in platter hats, and little packs of glum-looking students, some of whom mark the curious freedom of this figure who passes in but not of the crowds, one or two pausing to watch as he cuts through the Park denuded of its gypsies and its wine and lemonade booths, the Panorama Ride—“Journey to the Great Cities of the Earth!”—and the Wheel become a roost for shitting pigeons, the carousel still extant but without riders or an attendant to turn the crank, so the chariots and steeds sit stranded, their painted eyes running as it begins, again, inevitably, to rain.