The Mercury Waltz (27 page)

If Tilde, who has watched in silence and great alarm while Rupert—blood-spotted, half-shaven, wholly wretched—receives from a drenched driver a note and follows it to the cab that waits for him outside, if she reaches as he leaves for her cards—and she does, scrabbling for the velvet sack as soon as the door swings shut—she does so as the true
savant,
all unknowing, perfectly wise, both the Mater and the Woman Alone. And as she does, the last card of the spread falls into place: the Jack of Dreams, Frédéric with his scarf and stained shirt, stepping dazed out of the rain and into the Mercury, where Tilde greets him with a dry nod and the teapot.

He pours for them both, takes a seat at the table, tugging off the sodden gipsy rag and “She was very upset,” he says, to Tilde, to himself, to the air. There is a deep scratch down his cheek, not one of the old bruised marks but a new one; Tilde regards it with an eyebrow raised and “Her aunt,” Frédéric says. “Miss Mariette’s aunt, she slapped me. She was wearing a pronged ring, I believe.”

“Who’s Miss Mariette?”

“She is—she was my fiancée.” There is a brandy bottle, nearly empty, on Istvan’s worktable; Tilde points to it and Frédéric drinks, one burning, gulping swallow, two. “She said that I was a gay deceiver and that my family would pay with shame and sorrow—her aunt did, I mean. Her aunt is quite a bit stronger than she looks.—It’s raining dreadfully,” as a gravid peal of thunder echoes like the cue for Ragnarok, the turning wheel to put to end the world that was so a new world may begin. “Where is everyone?”

“Here,” says Tilde, pointing down at the cards. She drinks more tea. Frédéric finishes the brandy. The thunder peals again.

At another table, in the hectic light of many candelabra, decked and twined with vines and fans of nodding peacock feathers, the courses are served—oysters, hare, trout in
sauce Americaine,
roasted peacock—as black wine and Champagne froth and flow in the fountains, and the hungry and unfed musicians play a series of sumptuous tunes. At the place of honor, Christobel de Metz gazes past her dinner partner—a beefy cousin of some German margrave, come to the city especially for this night, hastily inserted in her husband’s empty chair—and thinks of Isobel serene in the garden, and little Isidore in his nightshirt waving at the windows; perhaps there is a moon over Chatiens tonight, calm and white above these endless clouds. She herself feels as lunar and removed from the circumstance around her, as if all were a sort of play, as she sets aside her half-drunk glass—dark emeralds, bright wedding stone—to do as her husband has bid her, anticipating with a satisfaction as distant the consternation this announcement will cause—

—but now a servant is at her elbow, proffering a folded note—“From your entertainment fellows, Madame”—a note she reads with silent astonishment, reads again and then “Have them do as they suggest,” she says to the servant, who bows and retreats. The exchange is observed by both Herr de Vries and Martin Eig, who themselves have not exchanged, tonight, more than half a dozen words.

In the serving-pantry, beside a tower of untouched dishes (no one cared for the spongy hearts of palm), that servant past other peeping servants delivers Madame’s message to the two elegant performers. Haden, biting his lip, mentally rehearses what Istvan has instructed—the bow, the laugh, the songs: “
Qu’a-t-il fait?
” and the other, those bits at least he knows—as he costumes himself in the player’s cloak that smells faintly of turpentine and old smoke; while Istvan on a three-legged stool murmurs over Mr. Castor in a way both eerie and tender, as if he is a living man, faithful lifelong friend, repository of terrible sorrows and even more terrible love, this puppet once called Puck, oh, with his keyhole heart indeed, who understands the keyhole but the key, and friend, too, to Pan Loudermilk, who helped win back Mouse, and Marco who first presided at his loss.
Cur fox, cumbox….
Is Rupert with that other Puck now, that pouting, greedy Cupid so very militantly handsome, so rich in all the years of lifetime still ahead, and himself still chasing safety, when he holds it, has always held it, right there in his own hand! How very far one must come to go nowhere at all, the drawing rooms of the great, yes, with Mrs. Cupid at the table, the protégée Madame with all the cool composure of her late sister, and a little streak, it seems, of Isobel’s rebellion. But it takes wit to be a real
farceur
, something
la grande Madame
understood instinctively, something this young woman may one day learn—

—may be even this day, this night, for it is time, now, for himself and his wooden accomplice and the “Kit,” with a sidewise nod, “avaunt,” noting as he nods Haden’s hesitation, Haden another one with so much life ahead, what a life it bids to be! so “What’s amiss, Mr. Jacks?” with almost a smile. “You know how to play a crowd.”

“Well, yes, but—this,” plucking at the cumbrous cloak, “an’t my usual venue.”

“Then it’s time, isn’t it, to widen your stage—”

“—and tuck in your nuts,” from another voice, Mr. Castor’s voice as the trio steps into the brilliant candlelight, the aroma of warm flesh and cooked quail, the soft roar of voices rising then fading at their approach, quickstep in ringing rhythm across the terrazzo floor and “
Qu’a-t-il fait?
” Haden whistles, reckless music like a marching tune, a soldier’s ditty, “what did he do, what did he do?” before de Vries and his lady, and the lady de Metz with her great green rocks, and Eig who looks completely flummoxed to see him parading there beside Stefan Hilaire, grand jester and master of revels, who takes the room’s center as if it already belongs to him and “A
very
good evening,
cher mesdames et messieurs!
We are here,” raising Mr. Castor with a flourish, “to salute your famous thespian competition, we are here to give to you, to all of you,
The Tale of the Puppet’s Heart.
”

It is Emory who opens the door, but does not himself enter; Rupert steps alone into the theatre’s lobby. The scent of roses is overwhelming, confusing, as if he has come again into the drawing room beneath the great portrait, watched by many knowing eyes, but the only one watching now is Benjamin: “
Maître,
” with a beautiful smile, never has he been more beautiful, as the boy he was or the man he will be, all throughout his long, long life. “Here you are at last.”

Approaching past a festive little bow, freshly barbered, in a finely fitted jacket of black and amber—Rupert conscious, then, of his own roughly scraped face, the dull wet wool of his coat—and “I’ve just been practicing,” says Benjamin, nodding toward the exquisite white Weber. “That new Parisian song, do you know it? ‘
Dans tes bras,
’” humming, “not what they’re playing at the banquet, certainly. God, how I’ve hated those things! But Christobel will do well there, she always does well. And she quite approves of this venture…. Shall we have our own ceremony, then?” the flow of words itself like music, as they walk side by side down the slope of the aisle, Rupert looking up, up to the flies, to the catwalk, Benjamin marking the direction of his gaze and “It’s the best view in the house,” he says, leading the way until they stand shoulder to shoulder, lights and stage and flowers all below and “
Voila!
” with a last flourish; he is almost laughing in his pleasure. “Welcome to the Garden, the kingdom of Art.”

A kingdom indeed, so fine and so large; Rupert tries to think of what this stage might hold, tries to see there Mr. Pollux and Mr. Castor, Istvan and himself—Istvan, the way he looked, the way he left, oh Jesu, where is he now?—yet can picture nothing, only the breadth of the emptiness. Still “I’ve owed you thanks,” he says formally, “for the shows at the Mercury. Your poems,” taking from his pocket the little red journal, “they showed me how to put a life into words, a man’s own life. There was one we did, called
Vulpecula’s Hide
—”

—but Benjamin is not listening, he is staring at the journal, he takes it from Rupert at once and “I’d quite forgotten this,” he says. “The poetry…. All my poetry, now, is here,” touching his breast pocket, where the grey journal bides, what a contrast between that book and this one!
White keys beside black, your hands beside mine. See what I did with the life you left me.
Slowly he turns the scrawled pages, half those pages still pristine: “The Opera Mauve, remember? And the Veau d’Or! How drunk they all were, there, those spotty boys…. But we never went abroad, did we. We never went to Greece—”

“To what end?” Rupert’s voice is very low. Thunder sounds distantly, as if from offstage; the rain has finally ceased. Emory has stepped inside; Emory’s wet shoes make faint puddles on the floor; Emory is listening. “I could have given you no life.”

“I meant to give you the world. Now I can.” Benjamin closes the red journal, leans close and closer to Rupert, to breathe deeply in: a strange and passionate, voluptuously intimate action, more intimate than a kiss could ever be as “Our bed at the townhouse—I sleep in it still. Sometimes I think I can scent you there,” in animal comfort, the deep scent of old love for “All I had,” his murmur, “all I have ever had, was you.”

“Oh,
mesdames et messieurs,
” says the puppet with a shrug, a kind of dark burlesque, as if he, the knight, must now be the trickster as well: but is he Mr. Castor still, is he Puck again, is he someone new? Istvan is smiling; it is not a good smile, it is not a bad smile, it is present in the banquet room,
et in Arcadia ego.
“Our little song—did you like that song?—it asks, What did he do?” as Haden, tense, whistles the song more slowly, there in the quiet of the center of the floor. Those at the tables watch with great interest: all have heard of the Mercury, but very few of this audience have ever been there, so this impromptu—is it?—is a spicy fillip to what has been a very staid affair. The theatre contingent glares in white-lipped outrage: to seize the evening in this way, when the Mercury cannot win, everyone knows the Mercury cannot win! It is unheard-of, unendurable! though Alban Cockrill strains forward, elbows on the table, to miss not a motion or jot. Frau de Vries is round-eyed as a codfish, her mouth hung slightly open, Herr de Vries beside her with folded hands, a ropy muscle fluttering in his jaw. Only Christobel de Metz seems calm, a woman at an absorbing play, while Martin Eig’s gaze flicks back and forth, back and forth, between her and the two performers, a gaze Haden marks with a sudden inward start, then a narrow-eyed certainty, hilarity: Can it possibly be?—but look, see Eig gawping! The policeman and the highborn lady, what a joke. Trust Eig to pick someone so fucking plain—

“And what a question it is! What do any of us do, dear, very dear, very passionately dear
mesdames et messieurs,
” Istvan’s gorgeous bow less a bow than a swoon, “when love takes us by the throat,” bending lower and lower still, “or puts hands on us elsewise,” face-to-face, his living lips nearly brushing the wooden mouth, “and bids us take what we cannot hold?” as the puppet pulls away, jerks away, leaving his handler one-handed and bereft; it ought to be comic, someone even laughs, but it is a half-hysterical giggle, in no way the sound of humor.

Istvan kneels in tableau with the spurning puppet, head bent; Haden stands above them alone. See all those eyes watching! watching him, whose business is so often, was so often, to be unseen, or be seen to be other than what he really is, a jack in the hand become a deuce or a king;
Keep a good watch on that pale knave, now! Where’s he hiding at, eh?
And he so good at the game, that inborn language of falsity, a fluency even more than for the gambling, though in some ways it is very like…. Then let them watch! as he feels it for the first time onstage, that surge he knows from the tables, when the current of luck shifts abruptly, fully, from one player to the next: and knows it for the first time as the same game, the same play, with a player’s smile he knows already to suppress, keeping his gaze grave as a fragment flashes across his mind, some fleeting poetry, is it from Ovid?
Quod in te est, prome,
bring forth what is in you…. Frédéric would know.

It is so still that one can clearly hear the wine splashing in the fountains, a man’s tiny, nervous, hastily covered cough. Into that stillness Haden inserts his whistle, like a lockpick with a jimmy, the bright filthy tune turning cold and colder the slower he goes, until it is like a dirge, as he steps over, looms over, Istvan and Mr. Castor, swallowing up the lovers in the black folds of the cloak.

They stand so, face-to-face, as if in the last act of a play, what might such a play be called? as “This place,” says Rupert carefully, like an actor unsure of his lines. “You made it for us, you say, you mean to give it to—”

“For us, yes,” those eyes so bright, brown and gray and glittering hazel, clear water rushing over depths untouched; what does he see, when he looks at Rupert now? “And it took more work,
Maître,
than you ever can imagine. But now all the hard work is over, and we’ll do just as we please together, you to play and I to play—”

“Benjamin—”

“—though M. Dieudonne, Hilaire, whatever silly name he names himself, he wasn’t very kind to me on
his
stage, remember? So there’ll be no place for him here.”

A silence falls in the empty Garden, Emory below unseen and listening with all his might as “Benjamin,” Rupert says again into that silence, “listen to me,” for how did he not, could he not know this, not understand that this would be the price? Istvan knew. Blindness, his own sheer obdurate blindness, and now he must be harsh. “You and I, we had our moment, none sweeter. But it never could have been more.”

“Our ‘moment’ is now. When you left me, you left a boy. Now I’m a man—”

“And him I’ve loved, man and boy, for all my life—”

“You needn’t make a speech of it,” sharply, though Benjamin still smiles. “I suppose I can understand a certain loyalty. If you must, then, he may stay on at the Mercury Theatre, and play with his puppets. That’s proximity enough, isn’t it?”