Under the Poppy (3 page)

The latch clicks, a figure pauses in the hallway: Rupert in shirtsleeves, silent and cold. He looks deliberately at the door—murmurs rising from within, Istvan’s soothing tenor—then turns to Decca, who waits in the shadows with folded arms.

“This is what you want?” he says, very quietly.

“Throw him out,” she says, as cold. “His hateful puppets, too.”

Jürgen Vidor

This is not by any measure a city, nor even a cosmopolitan town. Many who visit me here find it scarcely bearable, and wonder aloud that I stay, accustomed as I am to Venice and Paris and London, the conveniences and comforts of true cities, their soothing anonymity and bustle. But what distinguishes a gentleman is the ability to accommodate, no matter the circumstance. If one seeks
divertissement
in Paris, one visits the Objet d’Art. Here, one goes Under the Poppy.

It is a sort of vulgar wordplay, “poppy” being gutter slang for a woman’s female organs, though a somewhat grimmer version of
Papaver orientale
is indeed painted over the door. One recalls the delicacy of the door-knocker at the Pale Ophelia, that lovely nude form meant to be caressed as much as grasped, or the naughty devil winking from the wall at the Roxy…. I digress. The true poppy itself, opium, is not on open offer at the Poppy, though one can certainly obtain it there; the majordomo—a rough fellow name of Omar—is familiar with all intoxicants. And the whores, while not especially beautiful, are as skilled as one can reasonably expect, and very fairly priced.

What most distinguishes this brothel from its lower-caste brethren in town is a certain gaiety of intent and execution. Believing the erotic arts already twin to the theatrical, it marries the two, both onstage and in the private rooms: that is, one may watch, or dally with, an angel or a costumed beast, a mermaid from the sea, King Cophetua’s saucy beggar-maid, the barefoot Little Cora; or, if one has certain stories of one’s own devising, the whores will enact them, though this becomes more costly. Especially if it involves the receiving, or giving, of pain.

Permit me to digress once more, for it has long been my philosophy that pain is a sadly misunderstood phenomenon. In our lives we flee it by a thousand troubled routes, but does it not find us, always, no matter where we may hide? Its very ubiquity argues for our respect, and a closer scrutiny. Yes, certain grosser pangs, those of hunger or cold, are certainly to be despised, and may be successfully avoided with the application of some little industry.

But the sterner, more refined, most passionate pangs: do we not reach heights of immediacy, depths of contemplation, eternal instants of, yes, stern bliss, when by those pains we lie tautened to our very limits? And is this not happiness? Submission is the key, but not in a fearful or despairing way, as a broken brute gives over to the club: rather we throw wide the doors of our sanctum sanctorum, not only allowing but inviting the pain to enter, and, by giving such invitation, retain our mastery of self and situation, as well as divining more about both in the process.

Even so at the Poppy.

So, when business beckons me here, as it often does in the current and unstable situation, I do not drag my feet, I go willingly: into rooms kept chilly with too little coal, to bloody beef instead of foie gras, bouquets of feathers and prairie rose, the nightly parting of the somewhat shabby velvet curtains by a backwoods D’Oyly Carte, to reveal a mute who plays the piano like Monsieur Chopin himself, and the sensual acrobatics of girls who cannot spell their own names. And there is Omar’s pharmacœpia, of course, and the occasional afternoon concerto coerced from that mute, one forgets his name since he never speaks it, but certainly he could have a fine career were he not so maimed, and were he elsewhere: in Paris they would overlook his silence, or even find it piquant; the French are perverse, after all. And there is conversation, too, with the brittle proprietress, Miss Decca, she who sells every vice while tasting none for herself, and time spent with the Poppy’s owner, Mister Rupert Bok.

We met last winter, as I was traveling through the area, and found myself benighted by a hopelessly snowbound train and a taxi coachman who seemed to speak no human tongue; instead of pressing on to Archenberg as demanded, he brought me here, where boredom drove me from the first, musty embrace of the Europa Hotel—a third-rate hostel, even by local standards—to seek my evening’s entertainment elsewhere. I saw the swing of the black bloom, I accepted a light from a fur-hatted Omar, and smoked my cigar in the Poppy’s lobby, where the mute’s music beckoned me deeper inside. I recall being charmed by the rude vigor of the show, surprised by the decent tang of the brandy. Miss Decca offered me the bill of fare. And then I met Rupert.

Rupert—is a unique individual. He could easily move among the great, in the highest circles of society, any society anywhere, such is his natural refinement and innate courtesy. He possesses a rare quickness of mind, a brilliance, really; I do not know his equal, even in Paris. Even in London. And his wit
…
Well. I am by nature somewhat of a solitary, preferring my own company to that of others who neither share nor comprehend my views; and those with whom my business yokes me are often not to my taste, to put it mildly. But Rupert—suffice it to say that, from the start, I lacked no stimulation in his company.

Which is a true boon, since I find myself called here more often than formerly, as the civil situation continues to decay. Commerce is, or ought to be, a thing apart from politics, above it; no matter our individual affiliations, men must buy and sell, that is how the world spins. To complicate that necessary spin with needless disputes of border and tribute is a kind of evil, one that we, as men of business, must confront with all the weapons at our disposal, not the marching armies of czar and general but the subtler soldiers of the pen and the mind. I will touch only on the present crisis by noting that its escalation is marked by powers much greater than my own, men whose vision I share, beside whom I have toiled for many years; to build takes time. In this time, now, we are doing all we may to bring remedy, before the region’s circumstance deteriorates past all recall. Already there is talk of secession, already there are shortages in the shops—

At any rate, to go Under the Poppy at such a time is more comfort than concession, and I hesitate not at all to host my cosmopolitan colleagues when travel sends them this way. I am in fact employing the staff and players of the Poppy for a private celebration for a gentleman from Brussels with whom I am in ongoing consultation, regarding some interests we share. He, and I, and several of the local
haute monde
—Colonel Essenhigh certainly, and the mayor, and, alas, the mayor’s dunce of an attaché—will gather there for supper and entertainment. I am hopeful that Rupert will join us, if only for a while, but he is chary of much socializing, a reticence I respect and understand: after all, one does not pour the finest wine into a shallow trough. It is quite enough that he gives his time to me.

“Laddie,” Guillame says, “you’re the Light of Love, you’ll be here with the candelabra. Vera on the chaise, yes, just so. And you, Jen, up there, I want you dangling like a grape. A ripe grape about to fall into a hungry mouth—”

“The straps hurt my back,” says Spinning Jennie. “I can’t do it.” Lucy, kneeling beside her on the stage, hemming her costume, pinches Jennie’s long white thigh through the cheesecloth skirt; Jennie makes a sluggish gesture as if to chase a fly and “You’re so dosed,” says Lucy, “a hammer couldn’t hurt you. Puggy, look at her eyes.”

“Shut up, Lucy!”

“The harness, Jen. Go on,” chewing a cigar like Omar does; if it is true that Omar wants to be Rupert, then Guillame wants to be Omar, or at least look the part, bald head, cigars, and all. He has none of Omar’s imposing physical presence, being rather comically short and round, but when Guillame is in his element, bringing life to this stage, he possesses an undeniable energy, a human dynamo in boiled wool and old blue spats.

His title is stage manager, which means a thousand things on a hundred different days: direct and wrangle the players, cadge the props—such as the harness, a refurbished cast-off from the livery; conjured diamonds from paste, Triton’s trident from a hayfork, a paper dove that flutters into life—and construct and assemble the sets, school Lucy into a seamstress, make sure Jonathan has piano enough to play. Some nights he works the doors with Omar, vetting the lustful from the drunks. Most nights he stays up past dawn, reviewing the evening’s playlets: what brought applause or indifference, what roused the crowd, what roused them too much.
The verge,
he likes to say.
That’s where we want them, the utter, utter verge.

Guillame tells a thousand stories of his advent at the Poppy, his life before he came: in some he is the hero, some the villain, some just a winning young lad with a wonderful gift to share. There is no telling
which story might be true, if any, though portions of the tale persist in every telling, so perhaps the factory father is real, and the consumption
that killed him; certainly the scars on Guillame’s legs are real, from riding on the trains, any trains, as long as they were headed east. The theatre was calling me, he likes to say.

And it is true that he has a gift for it, the spectacle, the glitter and dash; he can make do with few resources, though he agitates always for more: as now, Decca passing through, a passing pince-nez glance and “Wax candles,” he implores, pointing at the candelabra held by a yawning Vladimir. “This fucking buffalo tallow, it’s all smoke, no one will be able to see a thing.”

“I can see her tits,” Decca says. “So will they.”

“If that’s all we mean to offer, we might as well change our name to the Sloppy. Or set up next to that cesspool on the corner.” First strident, now wheedling; he is a bit of an actor himself, Guillame. “Decca, have mercy. To spin gilt-paper to gold, and cheesecloth to silk, I must have the proper light.”

“The tables will have wax candles. We cannot afford—”

“We cannot afford to skimp for Jürgen Vidor, his one night will bring a year’s worth of business.” This is an exaggeration, but close enough to truth that Decca frowns, and fiddles with the pins on her breast, topaz winking between her fingers until “All right,” she says. “But save all the ends, mind…. Lucy, why are you here? No one wants you in the show.”

Lucy looks up from the skirt she is pinning. “Puggy wants me.”

“You belong upstairs.”

Slowly, Lucy draws the pins from her mouth. The others—Guillame, Jennie, Vera, Vladimir, Jonathan sitting quiet behind his keyboard—take a waiting breath, cut their eyes one to another. There are various theories as to why Decca so implacably hates Lucy; it is Guillame’s private opinion, shared only with Omar, that there is some jealousy involved.

Now “Upstairs,” Decca repeats and “That’s all you think I’m good for,” snaps Lucy. “You think I’m just tits and two holes.”

“Three.” Decca taps her lips. “Now go and ready your room.”

“Decca.” Guillame steps forward, into the sightline between Decca and Lucy. “If I might—”

“You might remember who is in charge here. Every hour Lucy spends prancing onstage is an hour stolen from the lockbox. Why do you flatter her into thinking she can do more than suck prick?” Her voice grows louder. “Why does she—”

“Stop.” Rupert in overcoat and gloves, the cold still on him, a princely apparition at the back of the house; his voice is calm but it carries. “In this room, Puggy is in charge; if he needs Lucy he must have her. When she must, she will be in her room, yes?” to Lucy who nods, replaces the pins in her mouth, straightens the hang of the cheesecloth with an angry tug. “Where’s Omar?”

Decca’s voice is even. “Seeing to the wine.”

“More guests are due than we expected—half the garrison it seems. Have him buy double. Puggy, tonight’s show will be exceptional?” as Guillame bows—“Exceptionally so”—and “It had better be,” striding up the aisle with Decca in his wake, into the empty lobby where she stands before him, en garde, at bay and “If she’s an actress,” low, “I’m a Dutchman. Have I no authority at all, here?”

“Why must you meddle where you’re not needed?” He stuffs his gloves into his pocket, rubs his forehead. In this brighter light, his overcoat looks scuffed and slightly shabby, his hat in need of brushing: the pauper prince. The whole lobby wears that same declining air, brave enough by candlelight, by day just a bedizened box smelling distantly of damp wool, cigars, and ancient sperm. “Christ knows there’s plenty else for you to do this day.”

She knows the truer source of his agitation; she bites her lip. “And what of you? You were abroad early.”

“Vidor sent for me this morning. Apparently he must have Redgrave and that idiot Franz attending, as well as the colonel and his retinue. And the man from abroad, all expecting our
ne plus ultra
, he says.” He rubs his forehead again. “Kippers and bacon fat, Jesu. And swilling tea by the gallon.”

“Did he—”

“What,” flat. “Did he what.”

“Will he,” carefully, “be returning to the hotel, after the show?”

“How the devil should I know?” although Decca knows that he does, knows that she knows, as well. She and Rupert never discuss Jürgen Vidor except in business terms—his river of money first a bonus, now a lifeline for the Poppy as times grow darker and rumors escalate—but this is the heart of that business, the wizened byzantine heart of an aging man, aging out of everything but wealth and acid need so “Let it be,” Rupert says now, and “Yes,” she says. So much of what she wants to say, longs to say, can never be uttered, ever. Especially to him. “So, you breakfasted, then?”

“On fucking kippers, yes…. What about that other?” nodding upward, the merest motion of his chin, face a forced blank, as Decca shakes her head: “Tomorrow,” she says softly. “Let him bide for the evening, this day has trouble enough.”

Watching them both, seen by neither, is Jonathan, sheet music in hand, paused at the lobby door he has opened as he does everything, quietly. Thin shadow waiting until they separate, Rupert up to the parlor office, Decca down to the kitchens and the yard, making sure they have safely gone before he climbs the stairs himself, past receiving rooms empty in dim daylight, past Velma on her knees with a bucket, toward the half-open, beckoning door of the Cell.