The Mercury Waltz (39 page)

Now the baby makes a tiny wail, half in sleep, half in hunger, little fingers worming pinkly at his mouth. With a soothing murmur, Tilde bears him up the stairs to her own room, where it is marginally warmer, to sit in the fine desk chair, beside the pretty, solemn photograph of Ru in his French lace christening gown—gift of his two godfathers, its hasty provenance left deliberately vague—the making of the picture itself traded by Mr. Ridley the photographer for the chance to photograph the puppets. In the locket at her throat lies a curl of her baby’s hair, snipped the day that he was born, and a little scrap of paper with some stiff handwriting,
In the hills it is so fair, Herr Knight:
Ru and Sir Rupert, and she the link that holds them heart to heart.

As she nurses, she hums a song that her father had once sung to her, or could it have been her mother?—a very old song from a very old saying,
I have one question that I wouldn’t trade/For a thousand answers.
Humming and half-dozing in the businessman’s chair, in the quiet room of purple draperies and ticking silver clock, the mahogany wardrobe—inside of which lies an opulent opera cape atop the neatly folded boy’s garments, vest and trousers that fit her finely once more, would make of her a larky lad with hair braided tight beneath, perhaps, a tea-boy’s cap; Sir might not fully approve, but M. Stefan, she is certain, would be amused—and the great silken bed fit for a queen, with Ru’s carven cradle close by; he likes to watch the window’s dancing shadows, and hear the noises rising from the street. Such a large room, with room for Tanti, too, if she can in any way be ferreted out and found: Frédéric has already pledged that he will help her, Frédéric can write letters…. Sir and M. Stefan, those two will not be found, no matter who may do the looking; she has not asked the cards, yet, if they will ever come back.

From that window, if she cared to look or notice, Tilde could see Die Welt, closed down now and boarded, its windows broken out one time too many, no more
kaffee
or pastries left to sell. The broadsheet printer has closed as well, though the shoemaker’s shop still stands, as does the Heads or Tails, its doorway a constant beacon, even if the whiskey is watered and the dice are fixed, for the backroom faro and lansquenet games, though technically illegal, are the most popular in town.

Later, the bar gives its noise, if mutedly, to the emptied square as the moon makes her entrance from behind cold clouds, gone from ingénue to crone in the space of a month, as Haden pushes at the door of the second-floor bedroom, Frédéric on the bed in shirtsleeves, quoting as he enters: “‘—then came wand’ring by/A shadow, like an angel, with bright hair.’ I read them a bit of Shakespeare tonight, they seemed to like it. That Alek is so quick, he asks about everything, the newspapers, the puppets’ names, ‘Why are they called so?’” not Alexis and Corydon after all but Israfel and Faustus, new avatars for this city on the brink, a loveliness to be invaded, an ancient beauty gutted and spoiled and “He asked if there was to be a war,” Frédéric sighs, as Haden slips off his tie, “and if he would have to go and fight in it. I told him to learn his lines, and not to worry….
Is
there to be war, do you think? Herr Philpot is quite dire about it, and there’s all that saber rattling every day in the papers. ‘The rise of the new men—’”

“Fuck them. We’re new men, too. —Look, I found this in the stalls today,” kicking off his boots to lie sidewise across the bed, brandy in one hand, book in the other, and read aloud to Frédéric as he does most nights—from plays, or history, or poetry,
Come live with me and be my Love
—until yawns or kisses overtake them; until, this night, this book of a conqueror’s rise is set aside as Frédéric begins softly to hum, then sing, singing Haden to sleep with a song as old as any conquest, a song of a road to heights unguessed and depths as deep as Hell itself, all traversed and finally overcome by two saints, or heroes, or warriors; or they might be all three, in Frédéric’s crooning tenor, his hand stroking the tangles from Haden’s hair, Haden’s cat’s eyes, goat’s eyes, lover’s eyes closing in his own disjointed dream of roads and battles, laced with the smell of rain and lamp oil, and beneath it the sweet strong voice like Orpheus to sing him safely home.

“‘If we shadows have offended,’” Istvan quoting, closing the door with his boot heel and plucking off the gaudy little mask, fashioned of a newspaper advert, “why, whatever can you expect? All you tossed our way was a jolly quid…. Right, my hero?” nodding to Mr. Pollux as he sets down the puppet, as Rupert puts aside the wheezy little squeezebox and tries to light with a half-soggy match his soggier cheroot. All it has done, this day, this week, this season, is rain, their hats are sodden and their boots shin-high with country mud; winter was a harsh companion, and spring has come in little brighter: ice on the rooftops in the morning, breath in pale clouds till nearly noon as they tramp down lanes without signposts or names, past tired orchards and fields fallow or abandoned, daubed huts that might have stood in Caesar’s day; avoiding the cities, a determinedly low profile for such famous entertainers—though the last few hours have found them indoors at least in this roadside tavern, tin tankards and three-legged stools, amid roisterers of such decidedly agrarian tastes that “The Chevalier would suit them better,” says Istvan, “prick and horsehead, both. Though they do seem to enjoy my dancing—”

“And mine,”
sotto voce
from Mr. Pollux as “At least it’s dry,” says Rupert, frowning and still struggling with the match. One of his fingers has recently been broken, in a dispute over thespian excellence; the swelling is a nuisance, though he can still make a fist when he needs to. “And that black lager’s tasty—what’s it called again?” in this language he does not speak but somewhat understands; Istvan is more fluent, and a better mimic, and whether or not each understood the others, still as always he got them watching, these drovers and old soldiers and young malcontents, he made them squirm and smile and “It’s called ox piss,” says Istvan sweetly, “but never mind. Here,” giving Rupert the light from the sooty little hearth, the little room they will sleep in this night, having bought bed and board with their puppets’ travails: vaudeville and elegant death, tears as red as blood or drops of brandy, all the men present can understand this kind of play: for it is the same play, everywhere in every age. It is death and flight, it is one comrade helping another along; and if these two comrades seem to enjoy a somewhat more intimate congress—the puppets, perhaps even the men—those watching are inclined to shrug aside the issue, as in war, men do as they do and find joy where they can. And those puppets—Mr. Pollux who wears a formidable new cravat of yellow plaid, Mr. Castor whose carefully carven center keeps a little white knife, as faithful as its giver, as beloved by its receiver, swaddled in a scrap of leather so that, even in the midst of motion, that secret heart makes no sound at all—the puppets are as they ever are, undeceived and undeceiving; all their truth is in play.

Now Istvan reaches into the puppet case, past a small crazed silver mirror—on his hand, left hand, shines a rose gold ring, the Greek warrior turned inwards so as not to spur theft in this rude place—to take out a chamois bag of ivory dice: “For after the second act, yeah? May be I’ll win us some whiskey, someone here must have a taste. Or a bed without fleas, or—”

“Or a beating. Be careful, messire,” with a headshake; always the gambler! even there at the last in the quiet backstage, the stakes so high, how they had argued out that final spin of the wheel—

You’ll be Lazarus, yeah? But only we shall know it. You know it’s the only way, elsewise they’ll never stop,
he’ll
never stop—

And what if he thinks to see for himself? What if he sees that what’s fallen is only—

He’ll see what we show him, Cupid, if he has the wit to come and watch at all, which I do wager that he will. And if he gets too close, why, he’ll see stars,
with a smile like a fox at the throat of a king, a milder smile now as “I’m always careful; you’re the one with the broken hand. How is it mending?” turning that hand palm-up to examine the new swelling and the old, old scars, those different souvenirs of the road, of the years, all the years and “Tolerable,” says Rupert. “It’s this cough troubles me more, like the winter’s settled up into my chest.”

Istvan lifts the scratched spectacles to trace the scar beneath Rupert’s useless eye, and “Once,” he murmurs, “I dreamed that you died. I dreamed that you fell and fell forever, down into some awful dark—”

“It’s just a dream. Anyroad I did die, didn’t I? And I’m still here,” leaning close to give a boy’s kiss, quick and almost shy. “And you’re happy, now,” with the smile only Istvan can ever call from him. “Aren’t you.”

“Mouse, immensely.”

They stand so for a moment, in the smell of wood smoke and dry must from the straw sack bedding, past the clink of rattling bottles, men’s voices raised in familiar argument, till a brisk and summoning rap sounds at the door and “Be easy,” Istvan calls, as they step away from one another, “we’ll be out to charm you momentarily…. What shall we show them now, do you reckon? The slapstick, or the heartstrings?”

“Whichever you please,” as Rupert tucks the stick into his belt, the squeezebox beneath his arm, and Istvan resumes Mr. Pollux, who plucks up the newspaper mask. The doorway rap sounds again and more insistently so “Let’s go, messire,” says Rupert, with one last puff on the cheroot and “‘Whither thou goest,’” Istvan over his shoulder with a teasing smile, as they step past the fire and the room’s narrow window, the road half visible beyond it, together into the tavern crowd that welcomes them back with hoots and applause, back to the play that while it lasts is everything: love and motion, rest and reward, the puppets and their handlers certain only that that road is theirs, neither asked nor offered, only given and accepted by the knight and the trickster, the wolf and the fox, the men and the toys—

—and the boys in the viaduct, damp head nestled to a damper shoulder, two boys in scraps and mottled motley who, as the chilly rain at last begins to lessen, step out together to the gluey mud of the road, on their way to a town the name of which neither knows nor needs to, the first of a great geography. Just then, through the clouds like burnished silver the sun appears, a coin for the spending, a trinket for the having: the younger boy laughs to see the sparkle, the older boy looks to him and smiles. Cards fall; the fleeting god winks a blessing. The show begins.

Act One

Act Two