short-bladed gutting knife, the other stands tense before Istvan, palm out.
They say nothing, nothing need be said. Istvan’s hand dips into his pocket, slides out empty as “Wait,” he murmurs, “I have something for you—” then with scornful force cuffs the first boy, the taller, so hard that the boy falls sideways like a sapling to an axe, as Rupert clamps the knife-wielder’s arm, spins then knees him, once, twice, kicks him to the ground and into his fallen accomplice, kicks that other in the ribs, kicks him again for good measure; then he and Istvan walk on. One of the boys burbles and vomits, the other lies still.
Istvan glances over his shoulder—no stealthy third—as Rupert tugs his coat back into place, makes to pocket the hunting knife but “Give it to me,” says Istvan, “mine’s gone missing…. Did he cut you, that little prick?” tilting Rupert’s chin to check for hurt but “No,” says Rupert, smiling, a very faint smile.
“It’s wet.”
“May be a scratch. Fuck it.”
“Let me—” Istvan reaches with his handkerchief, Rupert halts him, hand on his wrist; and they stand so, in the wind and the dark, Rupert holding Istvan’s wrist, staring at one another.
At the Poppy, each turns his own way through the bustling lobby, this evening’s show has drawn last evening’s crowd as well. Jonathan’s piano chants a cheery alehouse rhythm, Laddie and the girls will soon be on the floor, so Omar is busy, Guillame is busy, but both converge on Rupert as he slips off his coat, Omar’s frown instant at the sight of the blood—“What’s this then, what happened?”—but Rupert shakes his head, lights the first of a nightlong chain of cheroots.
“It’s nothing,” he says. “Nothing happened.”
Meanwhile Istvan reaches the stairs, Decca and Velma descending and “Go on,” Decca orders Velma as soon as she sees him, “wait for me in the kitchen,” waiting until Velma has gone to ask, “So?” tense and low. “What happened?”
“Nothing. The meat was bad, the wine was passable. He has a strumpet’s taste in ornament. What did you expect?”
She glances toward the lobby, then motions him determinedly upward, the quiet heart of the staircase and “I have money,” she says, low. “Enough to send you back to Brussels. Or even Paris, if you—”
“Little girl, I don’t want your money.”
“Oh what do you want?” Her voice is hard, her eyes, yes, are filled with tears. “Don’t play your games here! That man—you don’t understand, he will kill you. He and Rupert—”
“No,” says Istvan, kindly but firmly, he could be correcting a wayward child. “The old masher, yes. Yes indeed. But Rupert—”
“There is more there than you imagine.” She is whispering, now, her fingers tight on his arm. “How do you think we live, here? He loathes it, but he does it. For all of us.”
Istvan says nothing. She holds him, he watches her, chin lifted, gazing down through his lashes, until voices rise, men’s voices, the tricks beginning to gather so she turns, dark silk rustling like dead leaves, and Istvan climbs to the landing though not to the Cell after all: instead he heads to the Blue Room, Lucy alone in a corset and a frown, cleaning her nails with a pair of embroidery scissors and “Miss Dollymop,” he says, in an old man’s high-pitched wheedle, “Miss Judy, have you time to give an old gent succor? How about just a suck?”
Lucy laughs, then frowns again and “I’d do it for free,” leaning back to show herself, smooth legs, pink sex, “but I’m on duty. The show is ’most over, the tricks’ll be up here directly—”
“Ah,” his murmur, “don’t fret about that. Put your dress on, darling. We’re going to have some fun.”
Omar
So I say to the gent, this trick from Madagascar, or Borneo, or wherever the fuck he hails from with his swarthy skin and his two-inch prick, I say, “Sir, messire, your honor, things may well be different
They say nothing, nothing need be said. Istvan’s hand dips into his pocket, slides out empty as “Wait,” he murmurs, “I have something for you—” then with scornful force cuffs the first boy, the taller, so hard that the boy falls sideways like a sapling to an axe, as Rupert clamps the knife-wielder’s arm, spins then knees him, once, twice, kicks him to the ground and into his fallen accomplice, kicks that other in the ribs, kicks him again for good measure; then he and Istvan walk on. One of the boys burbles and vomits, the other lies still.
Istvan glances over his shoulder—no stealthy third—as Rupert tugs his coat back into place, makes to pocket the hunting knife but “Give it to me,” says Istvan, “mine’s gone missing…. Did he cut you, that little prick?” tilting Rupert’s chin to check for hurt but “No,” says Rupert, smiling, a very faint smile.
“It’s wet.”
“May be a scratch. Fuck it.”
“Let me—” Istvan reaches with his handkerchief, Rupert halts him, hand on his wrist; and they stand so, in the wind and the dark, Rupert holding Istvan’s wrist, staring at one another.
At the Poppy, each turns his own way through the bustling lobby, this evening’s show has drawn last evening’s crowd as well. Jonathan’s piano chants a cheery alehouse rhythm, Laddie and the girls will soon be on the floor, so Omar is busy, Guillame is busy, but both converge on Rupert as he slips off his coat, Omar’s frown instant at the sight of the blood—“What’s this then, what happened?”—but Rupert shakes his head, lights the first of a nightlong chain of cheroots.
“It’s nothing,” he says. “Nothing happened.”
Meanwhile Istvan reaches the stairs, Decca and Velma descending and “Go on,” Decca orders Velma as soon as she sees him, “wait for me in the kitchen,” waiting until Velma has gone to ask, “So?” tense and low. “What happened?”
“Nothing. The meat was bad, the wine was passable. He has a strumpet’s taste in ornament. What did you expect?”
She glances toward the lobby, then motions him determinedly upward, the quiet heart of the staircase and “I have money,” she says, low. “Enough to send you back to Brussels. Or even Paris, if you—”
“Little girl, I don’t want your money.”
“Oh what do you want?” Her voice is hard, her eyes, yes, are filled with tears. “Don’t play your games here! That man—you don’t understand, he will kill you. He and Rupert—”
“No,” says Istvan, kindly but firmly, he could be correcting a wayward child. “The old masher, yes. Yes indeed. But Rupert—”
“There is more there than you imagine.” She is whispering, now, her fingers tight on his arm. “How do you think we live, here? He loathes it, but he does it. For all of us.”
Istvan says nothing. She holds him, he watches her, chin lifted, gazing down through his lashes, until voices rise, men’s voices, the tricks beginning to gather so she turns, dark silk rustling like dead leaves, and Istvan climbs to the landing though not to the Cell after all: instead he heads to the Blue Room, Lucy alone in a corset and a frown, cleaning her nails with a pair of embroidery scissors and “Miss Dollymop,” he says, in an old man’s high-pitched wheedle, “Miss Judy, have you time to give an old gent succor? How about just a suck?”
Lucy laughs, then frowns again and “I’d do it for free,” leaning back to show herself, smooth legs, pink sex, “but I’m on duty. The show is ’most over, the tricks’ll be up here directly—”
“Ah,” his murmur, “don’t fret about that. Put your dress on, darling. We’re going to have some fun.”
Omar
So I say to the gent, this trick from Madagascar, or Borneo, or wherever the fuck he hails from with his swarthy skin and his two-inch prick, I say, “Sir, messire, your honor, things may well be different
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