Under the Poppy by Kathe Koja

was for Omar to drop the needle, that he sweat and bit the sheets for three nights running. Or how much money Vera hides in her necklace box, and how Jennie steals from her, cunning as a midnight rat. Or which of the tricks likes to hit, or be hit, or be tickled, or dress up like ladies, and which like to do other things, unclean things, it gives me the shivers sometimes, what she tells me. To look at them they all look like fine honest gentlemen. But they are not, no. That Mr. Franz—and he works for the mayor, too!
    And that Mr. Jürgen Vidor: Velma sees him, what he does with his jewelry-pins, what poor Laddie has to bear, and how Mr. Rupert has to stand and watch it all. At first I did not credit it, but she showed me through a chink in the door, the three of them there; it made me very sad. I am kind to Laddie, always, and now I try to be kinder. He also is like a Jew or a mute, the boy whores have it worst of all.
    I would be kind to Mr. Rupert, but he lets no one close to him, not even Miss Decca. Mr. Rupert is worried as well, but why, I don’t know, nor Velma, either. She says his writing desk is full of secrets, but those rooms he tends to himself, she has no key to that door. Mr. Istvan is the one he watches, whenever they are in the same place, he cannot take his eyes away…. Mr. Istvan is so clever with those dolls, his “mecs” as he calls them. His mecs speak for him, I think, the same way the piano speaks for me.

“Mr. Franz to see you,” says Omar, eyebrows raised as high as they will go, his tone courteous and noncommittal as the mayor’s attaché steps into the parlor-office, bowing to “Miss Decca, Mr. Bok,” beaver hat in hand, seating himself without invitation. There are little red blotches on his cravat, breakfast remnants perhaps, or dinner’s. His boots leave wet spots on the carpet, his coat is damp. “Many thanks for this opportunity.”
    At their table, account books set hastily aside, Rupert and Decca share a glance; it is she who answers, removing her pince-nez as Omar gently shuts the door, stands outside with folded arms, to listen, and ward away. “ Opportunity, Mr. Franz?”
    “To deliver the mayor’s message.” His gaze crawls the room, touching everything—the furnishings, petit-point and damask, the weary potted ivy, the plaster statue of Athena with her chipped breastplate and owl—before returning to the two at the table. “The mayor felicitates you on your shows, he enjoys your shows very very much. But the mayor is not happy with the—horse.” Mr. Franz’s lips twitch; it seems he is suppressing some emotion. “I need not speak of it more fully before Miss Decca, need I, need I explain what the horse is doing to that girl up there on that stage?”
    This time it is Rupert who replies. “What exactly is the mayor’s concern with the performance, Mr. Franz?”
    “He doesn’t care for it, not at all. Not at all.” Mr. Franz seems to be struggling internally. “It is not—Christian.”
    “It is not a real horse,” says Decca dryly. “Perhaps the mayor was unaware of that fact, having not been in attendance. It is merely one of the puppet players, operated by—”
    “The mayor is not a lackwit, Miss Decca.”
    “I never suggested that he was, Mr. Franz—”
    “Perhaps,” says Rupert, overriding them both, “I ought to speak with the mayor myself.”
    Mr. Franz draws back in his chair, nostrils wide; for that moment he looks like a horse of a sort, a beast about to kick or stampede. “That is very unnecessary, Mr. Bok, and very uncouth. I am here to speak for the mayor. You must speak to me as if I was the mayor himself.”
    Decca’s lips part; Rupert makes a minute move, one finger tapping softly against the table; her mouth closes. Rupert turns slightly in his chair, so he is facing the attaché head-on, and says, in a mild, reasonable voice, “Well then, if I were addressing the mayor personally on this issue, I would propose that a horse-puppet