pretending to diddle a whore is somewhat less a threat to community standards than those drunken soldiers who broke up the Four Cups last night, one of whom was shot for his antics by a constable, but not before causing considerable uproar and distress to many citizens. I might then go on to invite the mayor to a private showing of the performance, so that he might judge for himself how—”
“I do not care for your tone, Mr. Bok.”
“I don’t give a fuck, Mr. Franz, what you care for or don’t. I do know you like to have your prick yanked, hard, while you bite my whores on their arms, leaving bruises and occasionally drawing blood. Which is none of the mayor’s business, or that of anyone else. I only mention it to illustrate my point: that the Poppy is a place apart, and things happen here that have nothing at all to do with the workaday world we all inhabit, in a sane, generous, and Christian fashion. Do I make myself clear, Mr. Franz?”
The attaché’s face is a curious shade of yellow, a cross between bile and beer. Decca sits very still, her fingers steepled against her lips. As no answer appears to be forthcoming, Rupert rises, calling for Omar who swings the door wide as Mr. Franz rises as well, his motions somewhat stiff, as if he himself were a puppet, a marionette and “Good day, Mr. Franz,” says Rupert. “Please give my kind regards to the Mayor, and Miss Decca’s as well. Show Mr. Franz out, Omar.”
“This way, messire,” says Omar, as Mr. Franz pushes past him; the door swings shut again. Decca looks as if she cannot decide whether to clap or cry; finally, she laughs, an airless little noise. “Was that—entirely wise?”
Rupert rubs his forehead. “Do you think that ass Redgrave dreamed up this foolishness for himself? As if the waters weren’t shit-murked enough.” He turns for the door again. “We can finish with the books later. I must step out.”
Where? but she does not ask because she knows he will not answer, believes at any rate she knows the answer, if not the final outcome. So she says nothing, only rises behind him, his dark, contained, and troubled form, one hand out helplessly, secretly, where he will never see—
—but he does see, turning to surprise her, that empty, reaching, supplicating hand, surprises her even more by taking her hand, taking her into his arms for a moment, a brotherly embrace as she, shocked, holds to him, her head tucked beneath his chin and “Trust me,” he says, “will you trust me? Things are getting darker here, I am doing the best that I can.”
For that moment she cannot answer, cannot speak a word: inhaling the scent of his waistcoat, of his body beneath, feeling the beat of his heart. Once, long ago, they slept this way, curled up on a quay, his arms around her like safety, his heart like the sound of the sea in her dreams. Finally “Yes,” she says on a breath, a tremulous exhalation. “Yes, I trust you.”
“All right, then. Good.” He releases her, slowly, slowly she steps away. “I’ll be back directly.… And tell your jester brother I want to see him.”
“He adores you,” she says.
Instantly his face pales, her eyes open wide with alarm—not at all what she meant to say, not at all what he thought to hear—and then his gaze goes flat and he is gone, slamming the door as she strikes the table, horrified at herself, has she lost her mind entirely?—as the teacups wobble, splashing the ledger, her hand creeps towards her throat but finds instead the lover’s eye inside her breast, circle of gold and blue, and her fingers seize it blindly through the silk, curl about it like a dying insect’s legs—
—but after a rigid pause she reaches, instead, to right the tipped and dripping cups, move the stained ledger, find something to blot the mess. From down the hall come nearing voices, Omar and Vera; she clears her throat, she takes a breath to call.
“Will the gentlemen be wantin’ wine, then? Or whiskey?” The
“I do not care for your tone, Mr. Bok.”
“I don’t give a fuck, Mr. Franz, what you care for or don’t. I do know you like to have your prick yanked, hard, while you bite my whores on their arms, leaving bruises and occasionally drawing blood. Which is none of the mayor’s business, or that of anyone else. I only mention it to illustrate my point: that the Poppy is a place apart, and things happen here that have nothing at all to do with the workaday world we all inhabit, in a sane, generous, and Christian fashion. Do I make myself clear, Mr. Franz?”
The attaché’s face is a curious shade of yellow, a cross between bile and beer. Decca sits very still, her fingers steepled against her lips. As no answer appears to be forthcoming, Rupert rises, calling for Omar who swings the door wide as Mr. Franz rises as well, his motions somewhat stiff, as if he himself were a puppet, a marionette and “Good day, Mr. Franz,” says Rupert. “Please give my kind regards to the Mayor, and Miss Decca’s as well. Show Mr. Franz out, Omar.”
“This way, messire,” says Omar, as Mr. Franz pushes past him; the door swings shut again. Decca looks as if she cannot decide whether to clap or cry; finally, she laughs, an airless little noise. “Was that—entirely wise?”
Rupert rubs his forehead. “Do you think that ass Redgrave dreamed up this foolishness for himself? As if the waters weren’t shit-murked enough.” He turns for the door again. “We can finish with the books later. I must step out.”
Where? but she does not ask because she knows he will not answer, believes at any rate she knows the answer, if not the final outcome. So she says nothing, only rises behind him, his dark, contained, and troubled form, one hand out helplessly, secretly, where he will never see—
—but he does see, turning to surprise her, that empty, reaching, supplicating hand, surprises her even more by taking her hand, taking her into his arms for a moment, a brotherly embrace as she, shocked, holds to him, her head tucked beneath his chin and “Trust me,” he says, “will you trust me? Things are getting darker here, I am doing the best that I can.”
For that moment she cannot answer, cannot speak a word: inhaling the scent of his waistcoat, of his body beneath, feeling the beat of his heart. Once, long ago, they slept this way, curled up on a quay, his arms around her like safety, his heart like the sound of the sea in her dreams. Finally “Yes,” she says on a breath, a tremulous exhalation. “Yes, I trust you.”
“All right, then. Good.” He releases her, slowly, slowly she steps away. “I’ll be back directly.… And tell your jester brother I want to see him.”
“He adores you,” she says.
Instantly his face pales, her eyes open wide with alarm—not at all what she meant to say, not at all what he thought to hear—and then his gaze goes flat and he is gone, slamming the door as she strikes the table, horrified at herself, has she lost her mind entirely?—as the teacups wobble, splashing the ledger, her hand creeps towards her throat but finds instead the lover’s eye inside her breast, circle of gold and blue, and her fingers seize it blindly through the silk, curl about it like a dying insect’s legs—
—but after a rigid pause she reaches, instead, to right the tipped and dripping cups, move the stained ledger, find something to blot the mess. From down the hall come nearing voices, Omar and Vera; she clears her throat, she takes a breath to call.
“Will the gentlemen be wantin’ wine, then? Or whiskey?” The
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