Under the Poppy by Kathe Koja Page B

stay?”
    “Whiskey,” says Rupert to the maid. Both men look at him; he offers a thin smile and “I’ll have my wine with the meal,” he says, but leaves his glass behind when dinner is announced. The three of them move together, past the benched and watchful bodyguard, through the lobby that has become more crowded, now, as night comes on, trunks arriving, carts departing, men calling one to another, people passing on the stairs and “Ah,” says Jürgen Vidor, pausing to halt a narrow-faced gentleman on his way down. “Mr. Arrowsmith, good evening. You’re acquainted with Mr. Bok—”
    “Indeed,” a bow pleasant and correct. “Good evening, messire.” His gaze touches Istvan, is there the slightest flicker in his eyes?
    “And this is—”
    “The maître de marionette ,” says Mr. Arrowsmith; his smile is genuine. “Of course. Sir, I much enjoyed your programme.”
    “Many thanks,” Istvan says. His bow is luxurious. “You are too kind. I was but one of a talented troupe.”
    “So many talents, at the Poppy,” says Jürgen Vidor, with a genial air. To watch the four of them, one might think he, Istvan, and Mr. Arrowsmith are old friends, Rupert a conscript or a mute valet, so much does he angle himself apart, so silently does he stand.
    But as one they move aside when a fifth descends: Colonel Essenhigh, his springy whiskers doused in some spicy scent, his uniform buffed and brushed and “Good evening, Colonel,” says Jürgen Vidor; he seems mildly surprised. “I understood you to be in Archenberg tonight—?”
    “No,” says the colonel. “I’m not.”
    “You know Mr. Arrowsmith. And Mr. Bok—”
    “Yes,” nodding first to Mr. Arrowsmith, no nod for Rupert, who returns the look, the two of them expressionless as wolves on the steppe, dogs in the alley until “You,” says the colonel abruptly to Istvan. “That was your show, at the whorehouse, eh? With the dolls?” Istvan gives an agreeable nod. “I don’t care for that, sir. Dolls, and other things. A man ought to fuck a woman and no one else, that’s what I say.”
    “Pan Loudermilk would agree with you.”
    “Who’s that?”
    “A doll.”
    Mr. Arrowsmith’s lips purse minutely. Jürgen Vidor nods toward the stairs. “Will you join us at dinner, Colonel? Mr. Arrowsmith?” who shrugs graciously, he is otherwise engaged but “I don’t care to eat with masquers,” the colonel says curtly, “with people who hide what they are.”
    “You must often be lonely, then, Colonel,” says Mr. Arrowsmith, with affable regret. “Come, have a drink with me before my appointment. I don’t know that I can subdue that villainous brandy alone.”
    The colonel shakes his head. “I’m going to the whorehouse. The real whorehouse,” stolid down the stairs, the others watch him go and “He lacks imagination,” says Mr. Arrowsmith, in a diagnostic tone. “Endemic in the military, I’m afraid.”
    “I could teach him to waltz,” says Istvan. Mr. Arrowsmith smiles openly. Jürgen Vidor motions ascent: “Shall we, then? Good evening, Mr. Arrowsmith.”
    The first impression of his rooms is of an overstuffed pocket: red velvet curtains deeply drawn, every surface cluttered with books, maps, inkstands, wax flowers and other ephemera of vertu , a large rosewood teapoy, opera glasses, a brass telescope, a silver cigar-lighter shaped like a nude Greek god. Two wardrobe trunks stand open, hung with waistcoats, lined with neckties and cravats. By the shrouded window, a round table is set for three, with ugly, heavy china. A chipped teak bed tray is half laid with a hand of cards creased with much usage, the kings and queens furtive and Italianate. Istvan nudges them with one finger: “You play patience, messire?”
    Jürgen Vidor shrugs. “In the small hours, I am often wakeful.”
    “You have many cares,” Istvan says, with sympathy. “A man of business such as yourself.” Rupert, by the dining table, gives him a glare; his whiskey