Under the Poppy by Kathe Koja

Author:Kathe Koja [Koja, Kathe]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, General, Gay, Historical, Literary, Political
ISBN: 9781931520881
Google: 0tFR83ZVdkoC
Amazon: B0048EKIDS
Publisher: Small Beer Press
Published: 2013-10-17T16:00:00+00:00

There is no music but one seems to hear music, there is nothing but the man and his accomplice, the puppet and its animator, a sphere of longing and desire as great, and as small, as the world itself, the world of this shabby, quiet, exclusive little venue, the Fin du Monde, its center the stage where the man now bows his head as the puppet seems to lean forward on its own, to offer a secret to the couples at the cabaret tables, a secret it dare not share with the man—

“For only the lover understands

What price he pays for his love’s commands

As he strips his heart and courageously stands

At the bloody great gates of the God-damned Garden of Eden.”

Silence again, a hush like awe or grief until “Merci,” the puppet says coolly, “you may applaud,” and they do, the women beating their gloved palms together, the men their canes on the floor; one in particular, topped with a silver griffin’s head, thumps a martial tattoo. The man in the top hat lifts his masked face to the light, his smile as courteous as the puppet is not, and bows, bows again; when he stands upright, the puppet is gone, he is alone.

“A very good evening, mesdames et messieurs,” he says, then is gone himself behind the modest drapes that veil a backstage more modest still, a table, a half-filled water pitcher, the door to the alley before which waits a sturdy little half-bald man and “Thin crowd,” Istvan says, tossing down the mask and top hat, catching up an opera cape.

“The mayor’s sister,” says the half-bald man, “is the damsel in red. And her lover beside her, he’s the commissioner of drains.”

“Well, that suits…. Tell Jardin he still owes me for last week.”

“Certainly, Monsieur. Very good show, Monsieur.”

“Merci,” from the folds of the opera cape; Istvan exits into the rain.

Yellow hair in the gaslight bright as brass, golden as the little silk crown she stitches, her needle quick and sure and “I’m that proud,” Lucy says, “of our Mickey. You should have seen him climb the rig, without me even giving him the cue. He’s going to be a very fine player one day.”

Rupert nods through the cloud of cheroot smoke, the scent of strong tea, pouring for them at the wooden seamstress’s board that serves as a tea table, as the wide and cluttered chamber is parlor and workroom both. Outside are the streets and darkness, the long windows hidden by close-drawn canvas drapes. She in a gaily quilted wrapper, freesia and rose; he in dark serge coat, little silver spectacles in studious shine; he has recently begun to wear them, to need to wear them.

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