The Mercury Waltz (28 page)

Very quietly, “It’s not for you to say who stays or goes, at the Mercury.”

“Isn’t it?” again. “I own it, I can do as I think best. But oh,
Maître,
let’s not talk of all that now, now when we’re to be so happy! Let’s have a toast, and—What is it?” as Rupert’s face stills and darkens, as he pulls away from Benjamin’s grasping hand: the hand with the ring, the boy with his hand to the punch glass, the boy a man, a gentleman and “‘An unnamed gentleman,’” says Rupert, his back pressed to the catwalk railing, the feeling somehow of falling. “‘A friend of your theatre’—that’s all been you?”

“Of course I’m your friend, whyever else would I buy the place? It’s worth nothing on its own. Now,” reaching again and more firmly, “come here to me—”

—but “No,” Rupert pulling farther away, “let go,” as Benjamin, face changing, eyes widening, grasps even harder: at his shoulders, neck, chin, dragging him mouth to mouth, an unmastered hunger but “I said let go!” Rupert holding him off, grappling while the tears begin, tears unshed for years, tears that taste of salt and darkness and “What else dare you ask of me?” Benjamin’s cry, “I’ve waited and waited, I’ve worked, I’ve done everything!
Everything!
” in agony, in a fury, battering with fists and boots as Rupert tries to dodge without returning the blows, keep them both safely upright so high above the stage, though a moment’s black urge urges elsewise, oh the God-damned quality—

—as Emory sprints in panic up the aisle—“My lord! My lord!”—to take the catwalk steps two at a time, pushed aside by Rupert hurling himself down those steps and away, Benjamin up above shuddering to see him go: hands locked to the railing, the lonely, maddened, awful son of his father—“You owe me a life!
Maître,
Rupert!
Rupert!
”—as Emory finally reaches him, throws his arms around him, holds him fast so that he cannot fall—

—while Rupert bursts outside, sprinting as if pursued though no one pursues him, through the dogleg streets of pavement and slippery cobble, to swerve and finally stop beside a grimy little tavern, the Yellow Road, men inside laughing and quarreling in the smell of raw gin; he leans coughing against its wall, hands clamped to his knees, feeling as if he has run for weeks, for years. A street cleaner in peaked cap and carelessly fastened uniform steps out, looks at Rupert, looks again and “Man,” in drunken amity, “you’re bleeding like a turkeycock. Here,” offering a handkerchief or what was once a handkerchief, now a ball of fabric stained to a color indescribable but “Many thanks,” says Rupert, wiping at his face as the man ambles off, sweat and rain and tears and blood, his breath slowing, until he jams the rag into his pocket and turns again for the street and for the Mercury, seeking Istvan on every corner as he goes.

The cloak ripples like water, Haden holds it steady as stone as “Such a handsome fellow,” Istvan croons from inside; again the effect could have been comic, but instead inspires something like a voyeur’s interest, something like a child’s dread. “But do you own no master? Out upon the lonely roads, who feeds you?” as a small hand emerges, the puppet’s hand tugging to keep the cloak in place—“Love feeds me”—while Haden begins to whistle a different tune, Cupid’s tune of the notched bow and the passionate archer, the song recognized by several in the audience, including Herr de Vries, that song a great favorite of Lucien Topps’—

—until, abruptly, with no sense of timing at all, “That’s enough,” from Martin Eig on his feet, Martin Eig who also recognizes the tune, who refuses to allow the sniggering filth to last a moment longer. How has it been allowed at all? this insult to the competition and all here present, especially Christobel de Metz, and she already insulted enough by the absence of her husband; and apparently startled by whatever communiqué she had earlier received, who sent it, what did it say? He will find that out, too. Let de Vries sit there and do nothing, let them all watch and learn who is truly in charge, let
her
see what kind of man he is—as he advances like Colossus, the new man
par excellence,
across the gold-flecked floor to where the players stand; it is the greatest moment of his life. “That’s
quite
enough.”

“Why,” says a pleasant voice, Istvan’s voice, “it’s Mr. Pinch. Be corked, Mr. Pinch,” and this time there is a laugh, Haden’s insinuating laugh to lead the audience, not many of them know this term, but they see that Eig does: and Eig’s lips pinch, yes, at their laughter, the snickers of children titillated by a naughty word. He takes a moment to stare the snickerers into silence, before ordering the players to “Cease this display at once,” unwholesome Hilaire and his kaleidoscope of names, of identities and lies—and Haden St.-Mary! St.-Mary to whom he has offered real patronage, of whom he had thought to make something useful and fine; and this is how he is repaid? “Both of you will come with me.”

“Be careful, Mr. Pinch,” says Mr. Castor. Haden is still whistling, louder now and bawdy, he even winks from under the bowler at one of the ladies sitting nearest, a plush-breasted blonde whose blanching husband he rather thinks he knows. Mr. Castor raises his voice above the music—“Be careful!”—as Istvan emerges, both he and Mr. Castor masked now in white plague masks, pity he has no other for the kit, but the cloak will have to do…. For Istvan there is a glee that is something like a child’s, and something like a man’s with a heartsick mind, and something like something not a man at all, or if a man a kind of man that no one here has ever seen before, or will again. “You put your hands to a felon, and you come away with a god! For are not we all philosophical toys? and subject as subjects to the God-damned pantheon?—Take your hands off me,” for Martin Eig has clamped him by the forearm, as if he personally will drag Istvan away. “I said, take your hands off, messire—”

—as two things happen in almost perfect simultaneity, Haden bolting from Istvan’s side as if escaping for the door, and Christobel de Metz rising to her feet to call out, imperious as a queen, “Mr. Eig, stop! I know these men,” though whatever else she has to say is swallowed in the harsh music of crashing crystal, the fragile fountains still pumping champagne now pumping it across the floor, mingling with the Turkish wine black as spilled blood, Haden’s boot heels having done for both with several sidewise kicks. Eig swivels to Christobel, stretching out his other hand—to impel, or to quell? “Madame, no—” while Istvan pulls free, he and Mr. Castor chasing Haden not out the hallway doors but back through the pantry, up a flight of pink marble stairs, Istvan whipping off the plague mask, Haden tossing him the hat—“This way”—into a bedchamber with midnight blue drapes half-drawn at a casement window, through which they drop like ripe fruit from a tree, down into the wet garden of gravel paths and topiary, where Jozsef and several liveried men are milling, patrolling, the rest of the patrollers drawn inside by the sudden noise so “Go on, uncle,” Haden says, eyes gleaming. “I’m right behind you,” as he pauses to deal Jozsef a tremendous wallop in the belly, a punch so hard the older man instantly vomits, the stench of quail assaults the air—

—as the three of them, watched over perhaps by a god or gods gone unusually philosophical, make a thorough and doubled escape as neat as any street-sung ballad: Istvan and puppet straight through the scrolled iron gates left unlocked for the guests’ arrival, Haden—after another glorious wallop, to which Jozsef contributes two teeth—back through the house, past the roiled ballroom, into the kitchen to dodge a startled cook and a crate of leeks then dart out a Dutch door that leads to an alley and the avenue—

—where he skids to a stop, scuffs some greenery from his boots, tosses the cloak to Istvan, and disappears with a wave into the mazy streets. Istvan stuffs his hair under the hat, rolls the puppet into the cloak, and flags a startled cab driver with “My child’s got
la grippe
, can you hurry?” away from the townhouse and its neighbors, past shuttered buildings and empty cafés, toward the city’s foundling hospital that sits two short blocks from Rottermond Square—

—yet why stop there? Why not go on, if Mouse so prefers his princely bolthole?
It would be a gift,
yes, may be to both of them, to bring the endless push-and-pull to final curtain.
Come back, or don’t at all….
Suspended in the cab’s darkness, his own darkness, another scene he has played oh, so many times: alone on the compass, the heart’s needle a-spin, one can go anywhere, everywhere, with a puppet and a mask—

—as the cab jolts to the curb, Istvan disembarking with a handful of coin, the driver calling out in confusion, “
L’enfant
, sir, hey! It’s over that way!” but “It’s a miracle,” Istvan calls back, “a full recovery,” as he turns on his heel like an actor on cue, the plague mask poking up like a pointing finger, pointing to love’s defeat and defiance, homing back with Mr. Castor to Rupert and the Mercury.

The trio sits at the table, Tilde diligent over the angel’s cloth-of-gold—now is not the time to teach Frédéric how to sew—and Rupert with a bottle of whiskey from which he drinks as thirstily as if it were water. Frédéric writes in his notebook, the Scout pencil nearly leadless, doggedly scratching away until “Here,” Rupert says, handing him a gilt-silver Eagle, “use this. Keep it, if you like.”

“Why—why, this is very fine! Are you sure, sir? This is
very
—”

“I’m sure.”

They sit in silence beyond the sounds of the occasional cab rattle or shouted curse from the square, the metronomic dripping of the roof though “It’s stopped raining,” Tilde says, a truthful statement that no one answers. Frédéric observes that Rupert Bok looks just like a brigand, with his stained shirt and torn cheek and shadowed beard, only the bright silver spectacles somewhat incongruous, though the private, sunken stare behind them is not, a stare no doubt related to M. Hilaire’s absence and M. Bok’s precipitous arrival, its question—
Is he here?
—that Tilde answered with a shake of her head. Then Frédéric notes again his own stained shirt, his own cut cheek, and sighs—

—as a quick, determined scrabbling is heard at the door, locked alley door, Rupert‘s head jerking like a wolf’s to a scent and “What’s that?” Tilde’s frown, all three turning as the key turns in the lock and Istvan enters, disheveled, wet, in Haden’s crooked bowler, Mr. Castor wrapped like contraband in the long bedraggled cloak.

Frédéric jumps to his feet, as if this entrance calls for some action on his part, though Tilde is wiser, Tilde does nothing as Rupert in three rapid steps is there at Istvan’s side, Istvan whom he takes at once into his arms, takes him as a brigand, yes, takes a precious prize, takes him to kiss him ferociously, entirely, uncaring of the watching two, Tilde who gathers costume and pins and exits for her room, Frédéric who stares, stares as the kiss continues, Istvan’s arms about Rupert’s neck, Rupert’s hands in his hair—

—until Frédéric makes some sound, he must have, for they pause, their gazes turn to consider him: Istvan’s eyes half-lidded, Rupert already busy at jacket and tie and “Oh! Beg pardon!” Frédéric’s gasp, rushing out past them into the endless night as “Messire,” says Rupert, his voice a husky mutter, Frédéric instantly forgotten, all the world forgotten, “I’ve done with it, all of it. All but you,” to bring Istvan’s whispered assent, as like the boys they were they take their pleasure right where they stand, take it one from the other to give it back in sighs and little groanings, arching spine and clever fingers and even, is it? laughter, laughter the teasing gift of Eros, excruciating, healing, both in one—

—and afterward gathering their shed clothing, the golden cravat left like a spent flower on the floor, as Istvan hangs Mr. Castor on his proper hook and Rupert takes up the whiskey bottle, to climb the stairs to the narrow cot and entwine as well the tales of the banquet hall and the catwalk, Istvan’s head on Rupert’s chest, Scheherazade to one another until the stories are combined: “You were right,” Rupert says, “about that Garden—it’s a fine-enough place, but never for us. And twice to be our fucking landlord!…I ought not have spoken so,” gently stroking Istvan’s shoulder. “And I’m sorry for your boy.”

“Luc. Yes.”

Then later: “Do whatever you will, messire, make your play wherever you wish. I’m with you, I’ve said all I had to say.”

“Shall we say one thing more?” as Istvan smiles, and yawns, wrapping himself in the coverlet to sleep, while Rupert sits, shirt thrown over his shoulders, smoking by the open window, as the dark leavens and the light changes, the first news vendors gather, the rooftop sparrows begin to flutter and call.

And if this night has any ending, this is where it truly lies: in birds and darkness, splashing water, boys puffing gipsy smokes and romping in the rain-swollen river, Haden’s boys, as Haden—thoughtful, naked, drinking but not drunk—sets down the brandy bottle to slip in and swim beside them. It is in the manner of a baptism, though he does not think it so, does not think at all, lets his mind lie still: yet feeling as he had so long ago on the smoky road with the corporal, that he has left for good, now, that he has gone—gone where? while Crescent Bridge still stands, and his boys surround him? He strokes backward, lets some floating garbage pass, his hair pale against the tea-brown water like a lily of the tide, until the light begins to take hold, first light of the new day so “I’m for off,” he says to the boys, climbing out onto the bank to reach for his piled clothes—

—to be startled by the figure waiting there beneath the bridge: a man, a young man whose voice he knows when that man calls out—“Haden”—Frédéric’s voice, Frédéric’s gaze watching him come drenched and beautiful from the water, this friend of his heart, all his heart in his eyes, Frédéric whom Haden watches, now, abashed somehow in his nakedness and unsure in every way what is happening, what he ought to say or do. So it is Frédéric who steps forward, who as if in a dream, like a mortal bold to a god come to earth, puts his hand, his warm, dry, trembling hand to Haden’s river-cool cheek, then to his lips, two fingers brushing the scar, and then “Haden,” Frédéric says again, and puts his mouth there, trembling so that he can barely stand.