whores—Dusan did something similar in the Grand ’Place, once, though nothing like so elaborate.…The little pianist is quite talented, too.
Tonight Vidor dines tête-à-tête with his amour potentiel . Tomorrow he and I will meet with the colonel, if he returns in time, and the wire from Brussels agrees. Until then I take the air, I read the local broadsheets, I harry the silverfish, I attempt to buoy my spirits with spirits and conversation. If the redheaded young madam was amenable, I might ask for her, she reminds me not a little of my own sweet Liserl. But that drink, I’d warrant, is sour all the way down.
“Lovely,” Istvan’s wink as he and Rupert enter the hotel to the smell of boiled beef, horseshit, and horsehair glue. A hulking man in brown clodhoppers sits as if planted on the bench by the door. One ill-potted tree lists at drunken attention, the sullen clerk does the same, watching them approach the front desk. Istvan is groomed and clean-shaven, boots freshly blacked, faultless in midnight blue. Beside him Rupert, in his black and shabby hat, looks like a beadle or a jailer, stands watchful as both and “One jape,” he murmurs, “one funny joke…. Not tonight.”
“My thoughts were purely pious, till you spoke.”
“For Mr. Vidor,” says Rupert to the desk clerk, who stands marginally more erect, though his expression does not change, suspicion and grime and “I thought,” the clerk says, “you was maybe here to hire some more whores for your dancehall.”
Istvan gives him a wink. “Are you looking to change professions?”
“Quiet.—Mr. Vidor,” says Rupert. “Is he in?”
“I am, and I am here,” summoned seemingly out of the air, resplendent in bottle-brown velvet, impeccable boots, a dandy’s shimmering tie. His genial hand offered first to Rupert, then to Istvan, the clerk’s quick and counterfeit grin as “Mister Vidor,” he says, too loudly, “gents to see you. Will you be wantin’ the guard, sir?” nodding to the hulk in the corner; Jürgen Vidor shakes his head. “And you was dinin’ in your room tonight, is that right? With these gents, is that right?”
“Yes, dinner in my rooms. But we’ll have the wine now,” nodding toward a little alcove, green-striped curtains and a table set for three, a brown-haired maid with a bottle and a nervous smile and “Whiskey,” Rupert says to her, though Jürgen Vidor raises his eyebrows: “We’ve a quite acceptable Bordeaux,” he says. “The General sent it with his compliments. You will have a taste, at least, Rupert?”
Istvan looks down at the green needlepoint chair, watching through his lashes; Rupert feels his gaze. “I’m not much for wine, Mr. Vidor, as you know.”
“Just a taste.”
Three glasses are poured. Jürgen Vidor offers a toast: “To Caliban and sawdust,” nodding at Istvan. “I felicitate you, sir, on your performance. And your artistry. It is not often one sees such wit in such a lonely place.”
“Many thanks,” says Istvan. “I felt myself inspired.”
“By—?”
“Erato. Or is it Euterpe?” He sips his wine; he appears to be in vast good humor. “I confess I’ve been known to confuse them.”
“Sisters sometimes look alike,” says Jürgen Vidor. “Even Melpomene…. I understand you come to us from abroad?”
“This vintage is excellent,” Istvan says; he taps Rupert on the wrist. “Try it, go on.—Yes, I was on the Continent awhile. A poor player like myself must go wherever the winds take him.”
“I think you are too modest. I am sure you have had many patrons.”
Between them, Rupert sits silent, the wine stem in his fingers. Jürgen Vidor’s gaze never leaves Istvan, who leans back in his chair and smiles, a sunny smile and “The theatre,” he says, “finds friends wherever it goes. Or makes them. I am fortunate enough to stop here for a time—”
“How long are you with us?”
“Until the muse beckons me elsewhere. And yourself, Mr. Vidor? Do you
Tonight Vidor dines tête-à-tête with his amour potentiel . Tomorrow he and I will meet with the colonel, if he returns in time, and the wire from Brussels agrees. Until then I take the air, I read the local broadsheets, I harry the silverfish, I attempt to buoy my spirits with spirits and conversation. If the redheaded young madam was amenable, I might ask for her, she reminds me not a little of my own sweet Liserl. But that drink, I’d warrant, is sour all the way down.
“Lovely,” Istvan’s wink as he and Rupert enter the hotel to the smell of boiled beef, horseshit, and horsehair glue. A hulking man in brown clodhoppers sits as if planted on the bench by the door. One ill-potted tree lists at drunken attention, the sullen clerk does the same, watching them approach the front desk. Istvan is groomed and clean-shaven, boots freshly blacked, faultless in midnight blue. Beside him Rupert, in his black and shabby hat, looks like a beadle or a jailer, stands watchful as both and “One jape,” he murmurs, “one funny joke…. Not tonight.”
“My thoughts were purely pious, till you spoke.”
“For Mr. Vidor,” says Rupert to the desk clerk, who stands marginally more erect, though his expression does not change, suspicion and grime and “I thought,” the clerk says, “you was maybe here to hire some more whores for your dancehall.”
Istvan gives him a wink. “Are you looking to change professions?”
“Quiet.—Mr. Vidor,” says Rupert. “Is he in?”
“I am, and I am here,” summoned seemingly out of the air, resplendent in bottle-brown velvet, impeccable boots, a dandy’s shimmering tie. His genial hand offered first to Rupert, then to Istvan, the clerk’s quick and counterfeit grin as “Mister Vidor,” he says, too loudly, “gents to see you. Will you be wantin’ the guard, sir?” nodding to the hulk in the corner; Jürgen Vidor shakes his head. “And you was dinin’ in your room tonight, is that right? With these gents, is that right?”
“Yes, dinner in my rooms. But we’ll have the wine now,” nodding toward a little alcove, green-striped curtains and a table set for three, a brown-haired maid with a bottle and a nervous smile and “Whiskey,” Rupert says to her, though Jürgen Vidor raises his eyebrows: “We’ve a quite acceptable Bordeaux,” he says. “The General sent it with his compliments. You will have a taste, at least, Rupert?”
Istvan looks down at the green needlepoint chair, watching through his lashes; Rupert feels his gaze. “I’m not much for wine, Mr. Vidor, as you know.”
“Just a taste.”
Three glasses are poured. Jürgen Vidor offers a toast: “To Caliban and sawdust,” nodding at Istvan. “I felicitate you, sir, on your performance. And your artistry. It is not often one sees such wit in such a lonely place.”
“Many thanks,” says Istvan. “I felt myself inspired.”
“By—?”
“Erato. Or is it Euterpe?” He sips his wine; he appears to be in vast good humor. “I confess I’ve been known to confuse them.”
“Sisters sometimes look alike,” says Jürgen Vidor. “Even Melpomene…. I understand you come to us from abroad?”
“This vintage is excellent,” Istvan says; he taps Rupert on the wrist. “Try it, go on.—Yes, I was on the Continent awhile. A poor player like myself must go wherever the winds take him.”
“I think you are too modest. I am sure you have had many patrons.”
Between them, Rupert sits silent, the wine stem in his fingers. Jürgen Vidor’s gaze never leaves Istvan, who leans back in his chair and smiles, a sunny smile and “The theatre,” he says, “finds friends wherever it goes. Or makes them. I am fortunate enough to stop here for a time—”
“How long are you with us?”
“Until the muse beckons me elsewhere. And yourself, Mr. Vidor? Do you
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