Lawless (10 page)

She brightened. “You did? Who?”

“That Prussian, Lepp.”

“Oh, God. Spare me!”

He described the encounter at the Gare du Nord, including Lepp’s promise that he’d be back to see her. At that, she shivered.

“Let’s hope not. After he was in here the last time, I made a few inquiries. Some of the—ah—working girls in the neighborhood know a little about him.” She proceeded to describe some of Lepp’s aberrations. Manet grew increasingly embarrassed, but the barmaid paid no attention. She said Lepp had been heard to boast about a secret pied-à-terre somewhere on the left bank. “He reportedly pays both prostitutes and impoverished students from the Sorbonne to spend an hour satisfying his peculiar needs. I want no part of that fellow, I tell y—”

“I didn’t expect anyone to be here!” a bellowing voice interrupted. “Hortense and I have had a terrible fight!”

Matt stood up. “Hello, Paul.” His friend looked even more wild-eyed than usual. Manet sat motionless, as if wanting to be inconspicuous. He and Matt’s friend didn’t always hit it off.

“Lisa, you unwashed slut, get me some wine!” Paul yelled, grabbing a chair and sitting down.

She made a face and told him to get it himself. She flounced out. Paul didn’t move.

Manet made an effort to be cordial, extended his hand. “How are you, Cézanne?”

Paul glared. “I do not shake your hand, Mr. Manet. I have not washed for a week.”

The other man sighed. “Really, Cézanne, your rudeness is unbelievable sometimes.”

Paul fixed the other artist with a murderous eye. “I’ve nothing to say to you. I’m not intelligent enough to speak on your level. I don’t even know why I sit at this table. I don’t fit in. I don’t dress or speak like a smug provincial lawyer!”

Manet snatched up his stick and gloves. “In one of your insufferable moods, are you? I shouldn’t wonder Hortense had her claws out. She’d be happier living with a wild orangutan. Good evening!”

Manet stalked out. Matt stared after him, then sighed in an annoyed way. “Why do you insult everyone, Paul?”

Paul slammed his elbows on the table and covered his eyes with his palms. “Shut up. Just shut up and leave me alone.”

It was sensible to give in to Paul’s wishes when he was in such a state. Matt slipped away from the table. For a moment he was able to appreciate Dolly’s feeling that a normal existence was much more preferable than a career among such emotionally stunted people. It was difficult for Matt to make outsiders understand that outrageous character flaws in a man such as Paul were more than made up for by incredible talent. Indeed, the flaws had probably helped nurture the talent. They were its price.

He was halfway to the arch leading to the kitchen when the front door banged open again. Paul’s head had sunk onto his arms and he appeared to be dozing as Matt turned, saw the new arrival, and exclaimed, “Sime!”

Carrying a carpetbag in one hand, Strelnik rushed toward him. “Thank God. I left the house in such a rush, I didn’t have a chance to ask Dolly where you were. I was hoping you might be here.”

Matt had seldom seen his friend so agitated. “Sime, what’s wrong?”

“I’m afraid I may be in very serious trouble.”

Lisa strolled up behind Matt and leaned on his shoulder, absently reaching down with her left hand to tweak his rump. Strelnik couldn’t see. He gave the barmaid a suspicious stare, then said to Matt, “I must talk to you privately.”

“All right. Excuse us, Lisa.”

She shrugged and disappeared again. Matt led the agitated little man to a table against the far wall, six or eight feet from Paul, who was snoring and making maudlin noises.

Strelnik jerked off his shabby cap and twisted it in his hands as he leaned forward. “I have to be gone for a few days, Matt. Will you look after Leah and the baby for me? See that nothing happens to them?”

Matt started to laugh. “What do you mean? What could possibly happen to them?”

“I don’t know,” Strelnik replied, nervously raking fingers through his bright red beard. “But I fear I’ve become a dangerous man to know. I want you to be aware of that before you agree to anything.”

Strelnik’s statements struck Matt as pretentious and melodramatic. Yet what he saw in the Russian’s round, dark eyes was the kind of fright that precluded laughter.

“I wish you’d explain that, Sime.”

“I’ll try. I’m still rather shaky. This afternoon certain—associates of mine sent a coded telegraph message. From Berlin.”

Matt was slow to realize the significance. Strelnik blurted, “My brother’s been arrested!”

“Your brother? I’m sorry to hear it. But how does that involve you?”

“I’m not sure. But I was advised to go into hiding. You see, Matt, my brother, Yuri, is allied with certain groups that oppose the monolithic state Otto Bismarck is attempting to build in Germany. Yuri had been trying to discover what position the Premier has taken in regard to the throne of Spain.”

Matt didn’t understand, and said so. Strelnik cast another anxious look toward the street entrance, then explained.

The throne of Spain had been left vacant after a political upheaval in 1868. It was still vacant because various claimants and candidates were maneuvering behind the scenes. Yuri Strelnik had learned that Bismarck was promoting Prince Leopold of Hohenzollern-Simaringen, a member of the ruling house of Prussia, for that kingship.

Bewildered, Matt shook his head. “Sime, forgive me. I still don’t follow.”

“No, I realize you don’t take politics very seriously, Matthew. But some men take it with deadly seriousness.”

“I know. I lost a brother because of men like that. Go on.”

“Yuri and his comrades wanted to expose the Hohenzollern candidacy. If it became a matter of public record, France would react violently, since the news would mean Prussia’s sphere of influence may soon extend to Spain.”

“I never imagined you and your crowd here in Paris were friends of the Emperor, Sime.”

“Definitely not! We’re interested solely in the people’s cause. However, any international friction that embarrasses Bismarck and blunts his drive for power works to the advantage of the German people. Bismarck wants to enthrone William, the Prussian king, as kaiser of a unified, militaristic-Germany. By hampering his plan we foster ours, which is the eventual overthrow of Bismarck’s regime.”

“And your cause is helped by exposure of a meaningless candidacy for a meaningless throne?”

“Believe me, the exposure would not be meaningless. France will not view it that way. The Emperor will consider Bismarck’s maneuver to be provocative. And doubly insulting because Bismarck kept the candidacy a secret until the Spanish parliament approved it.”

“You don’t mean France would declare war over a breach of protocol?”

“Oh, no, certainly not. That would be going too far. But severe diplomatic repercussions—those are virtually guaranteed.”

“All right, Sime, that’s reasonably clear. Just explain why you have to go into hiding.”

“Because Yuri finally obtained
documentation
of the Hohenzollern candidacy!”

“Have you seen it?”

“I have not. But the Prussians may think I have. Yuri and I correspond all the time. You know that. I’m sure they do too. And the Prussian eagle has talons that reach a great distance,” Strelnik declared with breathy emphasis. “A
great
distance.”

That much Matt was willing to grant, given the presence in Paris of men such as Lepp. Perhaps Strelnik had good cause for fear, though Matt did find if ludicrous that there could be such furor over an obsolete kingship. On the other hand, Jeremiah had been lost because of hotheaded partisanship for slavery, an outmoded and immoral institution, and for secession, a windy debating platform topic not worth one human life.

“You can count on Dolly and me to watch out for your wife and boy. Don’t worry about them.”

Strelnik put on his cap and picked up his carpetbag. “I’ll try not to, Matt.”

“Does Leah know where you’re going?”

“No one knows but the people who will be hiding me. I’ll come home as soon as I’m told that it’s safe. Meanwhile”—he pumped Matt’s hand—“thank you from the bottom of my heart. Yesterday you paid me a sort of reverse compliment. Now it’s my turn—”

One more swift look at the street door. “You are a decent man, Matthew—even if you do have no comprehension of what powers actually move the world. One of them isn’t a paintbrush. That much I’ll tell you. I fear that long after the cleansing revolutionary fire has burned out the old order you’ll still be standing in the ashes scratching your head and wondering what happened. And you’ll never understand why the old order had to die to make way for the new.”

“No, I won’t,” Matt agreed. “In case there’s an emergency, I do think I should know where to find you.”

“No, you shouldn’t!” Strelnik shot back with an alarmed look. “It will be safer that way.”

He picked up the carpetbag, paused at the door to look both ways along the avenue, then rushed off into the gathering twilight. For some reason, the little man’s last remark made Matt shiver.

N
EXT MORNING HE
woke before dawn, trembling in the spell of a dream in which he’d clearly seen himself standing before the finished painting of the Matamoras cantina.

The painting had been equally clear—a huge, crowded canvas conveying a sense of boisterous and bawdy life. From the central figure of the dark-haired dancing girl to the dim groupings at the tables around the perimeter, the images seemed to pulse with a kind of arrested motion. In the workroom of his dreaming mind, the painting had come out perfectly. But then Fochet was fond of saying, “Here is a truth that will prevent disappointment and self-satisfaction. The picture on your canvas is never as good as the one in your head.”

Details of the dream began to fade almost immediately. He left the bed quickly. When Dolly murmured and reached for him, he was already in the outer room. He lurched about, lighting a lamp and locating paper and a stick of charcoal.

He began scribbling a series of little scenes from the dream painting. A fat proprietor with mustachios like opposing horizontal question marks. Three Confederate captains bent over cards and tequila at one of the tables. A flamboyantly dressed vaquero practically cross-eyed with drink, reaching out to pinch the dancing girl. He finished four sketches before the dream slipped completely away.

In the summer he always slept naked, and tonight was no exception. Though the flat was cool, his body still felt warm from the fever of excitement. His heartbeat was unusually fast, his breathing quick and raspy.

He glanced up at the skylight, saw only brilliant stars against blackness. It wasn’t even close to morning. But he knew he couldn’t sleep. He dressed, then bent to kiss Dolly’s temple.

She lay on her side, snoring lightly again. Gently he touched her upraised hip, as if to bless and protect the unborn baby in her womb. In some curious but certain way, he already knew the child would be male.

How in God’s name could he let her even
think
about destroying their son? He couldn’t. At the same time, he could not—would not—surrender his independence.

All at once he had what struck him as an inspired idea. Perhaps Fochet would help resolve the dilemma!

The more he thought about the idea, the more he liked it. He was whistling as he passed from the garden into the Rue Saint-Vincent and set off at a brisk pace.

Just as false dawn broke, he let himself into the building which housed the atelier of Étienne Fochet on its second and topmost floor. The building was located halfway down the east slope of the hill crowned by marble-columned Saint-Pierre de Montmartre, the old church which elderly residents of the village said had once been a Roman temple. At the head of the stairs Matt unlocked the outer door of the studio. All the walls on the second floor had been knocked out to create one huge, loftlike room in which he quickly got to work.

By lamplight he hammered a frame together, using scrap lumber Fochet kept for that purpose. The frame was six feet high, nine feet wide. Then he stretched and tacked a huge new piece of linen onto the frame. By nine o’clock, when the other students began to drift in, he had the linen prepared and the frame fitted into two small easels. The top of the frame leaned against the studio’s east wall.

Matt stood on a small box, applying the ground with swift, broad strokes. For the moment he’d forgotten everything else: Strelnik; Dolly; the problem of the baby; the fact that he hadn’t eaten breakfast; even where he was. The fever, the joyous fever, had claimed him again.

Soon, though, activity in the atelier made it impossible for him to totally shut out his surroundings. Fochet had thirty-one students. About half were present on any given day, the rest off doing copy work at the Louvre, sleeping with their mistresses, recovering from drinking bouts, or just loafing. Only ten of the students were still receiving formalized instruction. They and all the others paid the teacher a small fee which went toward the rent and the wages of whatever model he hired off the street that week. Fochet actually charged nothing for his occasional lectures or for individual instruction. A good thing, too, the students joked. The teacher’s usual manner was one of outrage, as if he really hated to be burdened with pupils. The truth was, he preferred teaching above everything else.

Shortly the atelier was in a state of hubbub. Matt kept working away at the ground while the day’s first fight broke out. Three students who had been loudly debating the artistic merits of Offenbach’s highly popular music decided to settle their differences by punching, kicking and biting each other. Most of the other students paid no attention. Two were guffawing like donkeys over a sketch one of them had done. The picture was a cruel caricature of the pendulous breasts and scraggly pubis of the naked fat girl who sat on a box on the dais in the center of the room. The poor creature looked baffled and vaguely alarmed as she stared out at the ring of young men around her, the clutter of easels and work cabinets, and the combatants tussling and screaming obscenities in the background.