Читать книгу The Grand Dark - Richard Kadrey - Страница 12

When Largo returned to work, Herr Branca showed some compassion by not bringing up the call from the doorman immediately. His only acknowledgment came when Largo turned in his receipt book. Branca said, “We’re going to have to do something about your appearance.”

Largo touched his rain-soaked suit and looked at Branca. “Sir?”

“Your clothes. We can’t have the chief courier roaming the streets looking as if he’s just escaped the penitentiary, can we?”

“No. I suppose not.”

“Good. I’m delighted that you approve.”

“But I didn’t think my clothes were that bad.”

Branca filled in some figures on a form. “What you think about these matters doesn’t concern the company.”

“Of course,” said Largo, feeling like a prize pig on the auction block. “I didn’t mean to overstep.”

“Never mind. I’ve arranged that you will soon receive a certain sum of money with which you will purchase clothes and shoes that look a bit less like you stole them from a … what was the word the caller used?”

“Scarecrow?”

“Yes, that’s it. As you saw today, some districts don’t appreciate the working classes begriming their streets. Arrogant bastards. When you’ve acquired your new wardrobe, I’ll want to see it. Under no circumstances will you wear the clothes except on company business. Is that understood?”

“Completely.” Though both knew full well that he was lying.

“Good. Now to the important part. Seeing as how you’re an adult apparently capable of feeding and bathing yourself, please tell me that there is no need for me to accompany you on this excursion.”

Quickly, Largo said, “No, sir. Not necessary at all.” The thought of Herr Branca hovering around him as he tried on pants was horrifying. He remembered what Frau Heller had said. “I even know where to go.”

“Thank heavens. It’s the little mercies that help us sleep at night, don’t you agree?”

“Entirely,” said Largo, not quite certain what he was agreeing with.

“That will be all today. I’ll see you tomorrow promptly at six, yes?”

“On the dot, sir.”

“Very good. And you’re still saying ‘sir’ too much. Work on that.”

“I will,” he said, once more having to choke back the word sir and happy that he managed it.

When he left the office, he saw some of the other couriers gathered around the loading dock, smoking and talking. Weimer passed around a flask, making a great show of it that he wasn’t letting Parvulesco have a drink. Andrzej was the first to notice Largo approaching. “If it isn’t the Lord High Chancellor himself,” he said. “Good evening, Your Lordship. How lovely of you to grace us with your presence.”

A few of the other couriers laughed. Others just glared at Largo. He’d been through enough for one day and wondered if he could leave through the back exit and avoid Andrzej’s nonsense. However, he’d already been called out in front of the couriers and knew there would be trouble if he didn’t answer in kind. There was nothing to do but speak as if he were still in the Green. “What’s up your ass, my fine brother?”

“You. You’re what’s up my ass,” Andrzej said coldly. He was five years older and a head taller than any of the other couriers. “König isn’t gone a day and you’re in there mincing around with high and mighty Branca, trying to steal his job.”

“I didn’t steal anything. When Branca gave me the job I was as surprised as anyone. I was even late this morning, for shit’s sake.”

Parvulesco grabbed Weimer’s flask, took a quick drink, and tossed it back to him. Weimer, whose right arm was a simple wood-and-steel prosthetic, fumbled with it in the air and finally dropped it. He claimed to have lost his real arm in the early days of the war, but no one believed him. When asked where he had served, he could never name the same company or regiment twice. Plus, he didn’t have a Red Eagle medal, something all wounded soldiers received. Worse, while drunk one night, Andrzej had told the others that someone else’s name was carved into the underside of the prosthetic, all but saying that Weimer had stolen it. It had been an amusing story at the time, but Largo had never trusted either of them since.

“König is going to kick the guts out of you when he gets back,” Andrzej said. “We’ve all seen you brown-nosing Branca. He’ll know you stabbed him in the back.”

“Like Weimer knows you told us about his arm?”

Weimer lowered the flask. “What did he tell you?”

“Nothing,” said Andrzej. Then to Largo, “Shut up.”

Largo wondered if this was why Branca had warned him that morning. The problem was that if he was attacked, he knew he couldn’t use the knife. It would be his word against Andrzej’s and he wasn’t sure how many of the other couriers would side with him against the bully. Besides, he had to admit that after today, more than ever, he was afraid for both his safety and his job. Still, Largo was pleased by the image of Andrzej on the business end of his brass knuckles, even if he knew that he couldn’t do anything but reflect the bastard’s arrogance back at him.

Luckily, he didn’t even have to do that.

“Fuck off, you loudmouth,” said Parvulesco. “You would have taken the job and laughed in König’s face when he got back. Besides, from what I hear, König won’t be coming back any time soon.”

“What do you mean?” said Weimer. “Where is he?”

“Yeah. Where?” said Andrzej.

Parvulesco dropped the butt of his cigarette and crushed it with his boot. “From what I hear, and unlike certain people who like to play at being tough, König has joined the army to fight the northern hordes.”

No one said anything at first. Then Andrzej made a disgusted face at Parvulesco. “You’re a liar and just as much Branca’s whore as Frau Moorden over there.”

Parvulesco lit another cigarette … and then casually flicked it so that it bounced off Andrzej’s cheek.

The big man screamed and danced back, batting at his face. Largo and the other couriers laughed. When Andrzej regained his composure, he charged at Parvulesco, who jumped and easily rolled onto the loading dock. Andrzej, on the other hand, had to rush up the stairs at the end of the dock—where he almost ran face-first into Herr Branca. Andrzej stopped just before crashing into him.

Branca said, “Enjoying the evening air, are we, Andrzej?”

He took a step back and his shoulders slumped. “Yes, sir. Just sharing a smoke and a chat with the boys.”

“Running with a cigarette can be bad for your health.” Branca looked farther down the loading dock. “Don’t you agree, Parvulesco?”

“Yes, sir,” he said. “Very much. I was about to point that out to the lads when things became a bit …”

“Boisterous?” said Branca.

“Yes, sir. Exactly. But you needn’t worry about that. We were all headed home. Isn’t that right, boys?”

There was general agreement among the couriers that they were, in fact, all heading home at that exact moment.

“Then I wish you all a good evening and expect to see you all here bright and early tomorrow. I’m led to believe that it will be a busy day.”

“Thank you, sir. I’m sure we’re looking forward to it,” Parvulesco said.

Branca turned his head downward. “And you, Andrzej? Are you looking forward to a busy day’s work?”

The big man smiled up at his supervisor. “Very much. Busy is always better than bored. Right, sir?”

“And employed is better than unemployed,” said Branca. “Good evening, gentlemen. Have safe journeys home.”

The group broke up without another word.

Parvulesco and Largo rode out through the employee gate together. Largo got close to his friend and said, “Where did you hear that König had joined the army?”

Parvulesco looked at him in shock. “I just made it up. Do you know where he really is?”

Largo looked straight ahead, shaking his head slightly. “I shouldn’t say. It’s too dangerous.”

Parvulesco veered his bicycle closer and spoke in a mock-conspiratorial tone. “Come on. You can’t say something like that and leave me to wonder forever. Give me a hint.”

“I can’t.”

“Look, if it’s dangerous, shouldn’t you share at least some of the information with a friend?”

Largo looked at him. “You’re trying to make me feel guilty.”

“Yes. That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

They rode on in silence for a few more minutes as Largo considered what Parvulesco had said. He wondered if he didn’t owe his friend, who’d just stood up for him, some special consideration. Looking straight ahead at the road, Largo said, “König was taken away by a pair of black birds.”

For a moment, Parvulesco looked as if he didn’t believe him. “The Nachtvogel? You’re not serious, are you?”

“Believe what you like,” Largo said. “But you didn’t hear anything from me on the matter.”

Parvulesco looked at him gravely. “Shit. Do you think that means they’ll be watching the rest of us?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” said Largo. “And thank you for standing up for me back there.”

Parvulesco smiled. “Any day I can goad that walking pile of boars’ balls is a good one.”

Largo laughed and Parvulesco said, “I won’t whisper a word of what you told me to anyone.”

“Thank you.”

Parvulesco looked thoughtful. “To change the subject to something a bit happier, you know that with your promotion you have a good chance to make some extra money.”

“You mean the tips? I know. Isn’t it great?”

“I’m not talking about that,” said Parvulesco. “König said there were other ways, but the prick would never say what. So keep your eyes open for money falling from the sky.”

Largo was intrigued by the idea, but annoyed at König for keeping the secret to himself. “He didn’t give any hints about how or what to look for?”

“Not a one.”

Something occurred to him. “How do you know about it? Did everybody know about it but me?”

Parvulesco let go of the handlebars and rode that way for a few minutes. “I’m probably the only one. I caught him with a pretty prostitute by the girlie cinema near the docks. That’s when he told me and gave me a few coins to keep my mouth shut.”

König wasting his extra money on prostitutes struck Largo as the height of stupidity. There were so many better things to spend your money on, he thought. Like Remy. “I’ll be sure to be on the lookout for opportunities.”

“Good. And when you find one, you’ll owe me a beer.”

“Done.” They slowed when they reached a fork in the road. As Largo steered away, he shouted, “Good night. And thanks!”

Parvulesco veered off in the opposite direction, calling, “Say hello to Remy for me.”

“And hello to Roland for me,” Largo replied.

With the image of Remy’s face in his head, Largo rode to his dismal flat in record time.

He lived in a third-floor walk-up in the Rauschgift district, more commonly known as Little Shambles. While his building was superficially cleaner than the one he’d entered in Haxan Green, the stairs and halls nevertheless reeked of cooking fat and rotting vegetables. Layers of wallpaper flaked from the walls, revealing generations of decorations, like geological layers. Red and white peppermint stripes lay atop a beige pattern of waterfowl, which revealed flocked turquoise squares. Largo’s flat was at the end of the hall near the shared bathroom, which was both a blessing and a curse. If he was careful, he could be first to wash and shave in the morning, but it meant that he had to listen to everyone else on the floor groan with dawn hangovers and curse the lack of hot water.

He opened the three locks that secured his flat and went inside.

Without turning on the lights, Largo went to the tiny kitchen and turned on the small Bakelite wireless Remy had given him the previous Christmas. Tinny dance music, all trumpets and drums, filled the flat. Through the small living room, he went to an even smaller room that housed a loft bed and a wooden writing desk that Largo hardly ever used for its intended purpose. The desk, with its numerous drawers and cubbyholes, functioned mainly as his dresser. He stripped off his clothes, hanging his damp suit from the underside of the loft bed, before turning on the light. More than the smells in the hall or his cramped quarters, it was the light that drove Largo mad.

The lone bedroom bulb hung from the ceiling by a thick cord. It flickered twice before fully illuminating. The light it gave off was a yellowish white that made Largo think of piss or cheap cheese. It covered everything, including him. He couldn’t comb his hair in the morning without feeling slightly dirty. Remy, of course, loved it. On the nights she’d stayed there she said it was like swimming in egg custard. Largo always smiled at the description, but he died a little inside each time he heard it.

The reason for the piss light and the perpetually black skies over Little Shambles was simple: the coal-stoked power plant on the next block. You couldn’t escape the stink and it covered all the streets and windows with a fine layer of soot. So different from Remy’s flat in Kromium’s artists’ quarter, which was powered by cool and lovely plazma. Her wireless was twice the size of Largo’s and the lights throughout her rooms were as bright and white as new-fallen snow. As he dropped the small coins and the Valda into a tin box he kept under his mattress, Largo debated with himself.

With my new position and the prospect of more tips like today’s, there’s only one question: New clothes or a new flat? If the company is going to supply me with a new suit, maybe I can think about rooms in Dolch or even Geschoss. No coal in Geschoss.

It was a wonderful thought until reality hit him. A flat in Geschoss would cost easily more than double his current rent. And yet … it was sure to come with a private bath. That alone might be worth the expense. As much as his custard-colored flat amused Remy, rooms in Geschoss would really impress her. They would make him seem more serious and substantial, and less of a frazzled boy. And, just maybe, perhaps a new flat would be enough that she’d even consider moving in with him.

But that’s a long way off. One Valda and a couple of small princes aren’t going to get me far. I need to cut my expenses and save every penny. It’s only the essentials from now on.

Which made him think of morphia.

It had been hours since he’d fortified himself and he was beginning to feel the lack of the drug. He took the little bottle from his jacket and put two drops under his tongue. The effects were immediate and heavenly. He dropped to the rickety wooden desk chair and let his head fall back. When it came to cutting expenses, morphia wasn’t an option. It was the only thing that made the squalor of his rooms and the monotony of his job bearable. What else was there to cut down on, then? But his mind was already drifting, softened in morphia’s gentle warmth. He’d worry about expenses in the morning. Now there was nothing but bliss, and soon there would be Remy—another, even better kind of bliss.

On his way across town, the coal-powered streetlights of Little Shambles gave way to the plazma illumination of Kromium. Where Copper Weg crossed Bronzegasse, a Black Widow carried a load of machine parts to the armaments factory. With his general hostility toward Maras and his frustration at the confrontation with Andrzej, a delicious thought came to him.

Largo knew that interfering with the armament factory’s business was a jailing offense and could get you a sound beating by the bullocks. Still, after checking the street twice for police, Largo sped along in front of the Widow and, while passing a shuttered greengrocer, kicked a trash can into the street. Under its load, the burdened Mara was too slow to sidestep the obstruction. One of its front feet came down on top of the can and pierced its side such that the can became stuck on its leg. The Widow stumbled drunkenly this way and that, trying to kick the can off. Before he turned off Copper Weg, Largo looked back and saw that a crowd had gathered where the great black spider was still hopping in the street. They smiled and applauded the contraption’s improvised dance routine.

That’s one for our side, he thought. He was sure Parvulesco would have agreed.

The marquee for the theater—his destination—lay a long block ahead, but it was still bright enough to light the whole street. With the morphia in his system and the theater just ahead, whatever memories Largo had of his strange day faded away.

Of course, the Grand Dark wasn’t the theater’s real name, but it was the one everyone knew it by because its real name was a mouthful. Over the box office, the marquee proudly shouted its true name to the whole district.

THEATER OF THE GRAND DARKNESS

Dr. Krokodil presents

Elegant Butchery

Sensual Slaughter

Voluptuous Demises

The top of the marquee was sculpted into the upper jaw of a great steel reptile. The lower jaw surrounded the doors and thrust several feet over the street. The pointed teeth along each jaw glowed a bright plazma white. For the patrons, entering the Grand Dark was a gleeful surrender, a leap down the gullet of an alluring monster.

Largo chained his bicycle near the back of the theater and Ilsa in the ticket booth waved him inside. He crept through the lobby and slipped between the red velvet curtains into the performance area. The first play of the evening was already under way.

He found a seat in the last row and sat down. The Grand Dark specialized in Schöner Mord, little productions of violence and depravity performed by life-size puppets controlled by actors backstage in galvanic suits. The dolls required no crude strings, but were instead powered by nearly invisible wires along the floor furnishing the watts needed to make them seem almost alive. They moved with fluid, eerie grace, like a three-dimensional zoetrope brought to life.

The night’s first production was called The Boudoir Phantasm. It was a fiction in which the ghost of a murdered wife possessed the body of the husband’s new bride and killed him with a cleaver, the same way he’d killed her. When the new wife came out of her hypnotic state and saw what she’d done, she threw herself from the boudoir’s window to her death, much to the delight of the murdered bride. It was a simple tale but elegantly produced. In fact, the run had been extended for two weeks. Since the end of the war, spiritualism was all the rage in Lower Proszawa, so ghost stories were very popular.

When the play ended, Largo wanted to rush backstage and tell Remy what a wonderful job she’d done as the murdered bride, but she never liked to socialize between plays, so he remained in his seat. Normally he would have joined the other patrons in the lobby for a smoke or a drink, but he was thinking about expenses again, so he stayed where he was. Besides, it wasn’t as if the show had stopped completely.

The small band that provided the soundtrack for the plays performed during the intermission for tips—and the Trefle numbers of elegant gentlemen and ladies they might meet for trysts later in the night. An evening of murder in the Grand Dark was known to get even the stodgiest patron’s blood up. And the drugs helped, of course. By intermission, the air in the theater was heavy with hashish smoke. In the dark corners of the lobby, men and women snorted cocaine together and kissed in groups of two and three. It was a condition of the tension that gripped the city: after the horrors of the Great War, grab as much pleasure as possible before the next, inevitable conflagration. Largo felt a stab of jealousy watching as other theatergoers with money spent it on such pleasures and indulged in them so deeply and openly.

As he pushed himself down into his plush seat, his hand touched something hard stuck between the bottom cushion and the armrest. Curious, he dug down and pulled out a small vial of white powder. Largo looked around to see if anybody had noticed him. Satisfied that no one had spotted his good fortune, he opened the vial, dropped a few grains onto the back of his hand, and sniffed. The sudden rush of energy and sense of well-being confirmed that he’d stumbled on someone’s lost cocaine. He screwed the top back on the vial and quickly stuffed it into his pocket before anyone saw him. It would be a special treat he could share with Remy after the night’s final performance. Between the gold coins and now the cocaine, the strangeness of the day seemed to have finally been balanced out. He leaned back in his seat, tapping his foot to the music, relishing the bitter taste of the cocaine as it dripped down the back of his throat.

The second play of the evening began fifteen minutes later.

The Erotic Underworld of Blixa Konstantin was a tale of sex, murder, and political revolution lifted from a lurid yellowsheet story—at least, the murder and revolutionaries had been cribbed from the sheets. The sex, Una Herzog—the Grand Dark’s owner and chief auteur—had added herself. Finding the erotic in even the most depraved stories was one of her specialties.

The production was straightforward. Blixa Konstantin, a dedicated anarchist, was betrayed to the Nachtvogel by his lover, Eva. To spice up the story, Una added an affair in which both Blixa and Eva were secretly seeing the same woman—a simple but lusty shopgirl—shifting the story from one of bland political treachery to a lovers’ triangle gone terribly wrong.

And keeping everyone rapt in their seats.

While Remy had played the vengeful bride in the first play, in this one she was Eva, because being murdered was one of her greatest talents. She’d studied dance and acrobatics as a girl and was able to contort her body into strange and grotesque positions, which made her death in doll form all the more disturbing and exciting for the theater’s patrons. Largo was always mesmerized by her performances. He loved Remy for herself, but her talent made her dazzling.

As the curtain finally went down on the still and bloody puppets, the audience erupted into a standing ovation. Some of the patrons shouted for the players to come out and take a bow, but Una strictly forbade it, afraid that seeing the humans behind the dolls would break the spell of the performances. She insisted that the puppets were the stars, not the actors. Since she paid everyone’s salary, they were quick to agree.

As the theatergoers filed out, more drugged and happier than ever, Largo finally made his way past them to the rear of the theater. The effects of the cocaine had worn off and he wanted to show Remy his find.

Backstage, the theater’s dressers helped the players out of their galvanic attire, skintight aluminized suits studded with wires and small switches that covered the entirety of the actors’ bodies. Largo caught sight of Remy at the far side of the stage, slipping a bit wearily into her dressing room. He started her way but was stopped by Una, who maneuvered in front of him and put a hand on his chest.

“Largo, how are you this evening?” she said. She was an inch or two taller than he was, but carried herself so that she seemed even larger.

“Fine. Thank you.”

“What did you think of the plays tonight? You know it was poor Blixa Konstantin’s last hurrah. His sordid little tale is being retired for a newer, even more exciting story. Would you like to know what it is?”

At that moment, there was nothing Largo wanted to hear less than one of Una’s new obsessions. However, since she was Remy’s employer, politeness seemed the best course. “Yes, please,” he said.

She got closer and showed him a yellowsheet clipping with a bold headline and an illustration of a human head mounted on what looked like a Blind Mara. The headline read MAD SURGEON MELDS HUMAN AND MACHINE INTO A CREATURE OF DIVINE HORROR.

“Can you believe it?” said Una. “Some lunatic put a corpse’s head on a Mara and used galvanics to animate it. Only for a few minutes, you understand, but that’s long enough to make a wonderful story for the theater, don’t you think?”

Largo had to turn away from the illustration. Looking at it made him queasy. “It’s perfect. A surefire hit.”

Una folded the clipping and put it in a pocket of her brocade bustier. “It will be when I’m through with it. Imagine a mad scientist constructing a lover from machine and flesh. There are so many possibilities. I can’t wait to write it.”

Largo hesitated, then said, “You don’t think it might be just a little far-fetched …?”

Una looked at him as if he were a little dim. She said, “Stranger things happen every day. Science and lust? Who says they can’t be intertwined?” She patted him on the shoulder as if he were a small dog. “But I’m keeping you from your lady love. Go and see her. She’s going to make a brilliant monster for her scientist lover.”

“Thanks. Lovely seeing you, Una. I can’t wait for the new play.” But she had already moved off, distracted by a player complaining that his suit was giving him electric shocks. Largo used the moment to duck into Remy’s dressing room.

She was naked when he went in, toweling the sweat of the performance off her body. Her hair and eyes were dark, and her body was as trim as an athlete’s. Largo was fairly certain that if they ever had a fight, she could easily overcome him, a fate to which he wasn’t entirely averse.

When she saw him in the mirror, she ran over and threw her arms around him, kissing him hard and for a long time. When she pulled away she said, “What took you so long getting here? I thought you’d forgotten about me.” She handed him the towel and turned around. Largo began wiping the sweat off her back and legs. She laughed and pulled away for a second when the towel tickled her thigh. Then she leaned against his chest.

“It was Una,” he said, bringing the towel around to wipe her front. She pushed herself into the thick material when he reached her breasts and he lingered there as her hands wrapped around his and she dug her nails into him. “She was telling me about how she wants to cut off your head and turn you into a Mara.”

Remy threw the towel away and guided his hand down between her legs, where she ground against his fingers. “I know. Isn’t it wonderful? Science, lust, and death. The cornerstones of the world!”

“That’s only three cornerstones,” he said, nipping her shoulder. “Aren’t there supposed to be four?”

She sighed and said, “You’re right. I left out one. Morphia. You brought some with you, right?”

With his free hand, he took the cocaine vial from his pocket and held it in front of her. “Look at what else I have.”

Remy spun around, kissed him, took the vial, and pressed it lovingly between her breasts. Her smile was both wicked and silly, like a naughty child’s after she’d been caught stealing sips of the adults’ dinner wine. He loved seeing her in such a delighted mood. “What a treat. But we’ll keep it for later, all right? We’re going to a party at Werner Petersen’s house. Do you know him? He’s a great arts patron.”

Largo’s heart sank a little and the desire from a moment before evaporated. He always felt clumsy and drab around Remy’s artist friends, and his clothes were pathetic. But maybe more cocaine would help his mood. He took the vial back and dropped it into his jacket pocket.

Remy pressed against him and cupped his groin in her hand. In her silkiest voice she said, “Morphia, please. Now, please.”

Her hunger helped to lift his mood once more. He kissed her lips when he took out the bottle. Remy grinned as she closed her eyes and opened her mouth. Largo put two drops under her tongue. Then she snatched the bottle from his hand and did the same for him. They kissed, letting the morphia mix and melt their bones at the same time. A moment later, Remy let her head fall back. “Why is it so necessary for people to get dressed when they go out? I feel too wonderful for clothes. Why can’t I just go like this?”

“You’d certainly be the hit of the party,” said Largo. She shivered when he touched her nipples. “But I’m afraid we might both be arrested on the way. Besides, it’s cold out. You’d freeze your poor toes.”

Remy dropped down into a chair by the dressing table. “All right, I suppose for the sake of my toes I’ll put on shoes.”

Largo went to the clothes stand where her dress hung from a padded hanger. It was black silk and opaque for the most part, but with a flower pattern down the front that revealed glimpses of her skin and the flesh-colored brassieres she favored. He held it up before her and said, “Come on. I’ll help you put it on.”

“Fine,” she said. “But I’m not wearing anything under it. I plan to fuck you quite violently when we get home and there’s no point in wearing anything that will get in the way.”

“A bold fashion choice, but one I heartily endorse.”

Remy stood and held up her hands as Largo slipped the dress over her and zipped her up in the back.

“Can you see my tits?” she said, standing in front of a full-length mirror mounted behind the dressing room door.

“Quite well,” he said.

“Good. I want everyone to be jealous of you tonight. Some of the people who will be at the party are quite delightful, but you know how it is with rich art benefactors. A lot of their friends are more prudish than a country priest.”

“Trust me, you’ll make them forget their vows,” said Largo. “But I’m not so sure about me.”

“What’s wrong?” said Remy, turning and touching his cheek.

“Look at me. My coat has holes at the elbows and my shirt looks like someone stole it from a corpse bound for Potter’s Field.”

“But you look adorable that way. My handsome waif with the lovely cock.”

Largo looked at her and said, “Am I how you go slumming?”

“Don’t be silly,” said Remy. “I love you for you, and because you’re not like the jaded snots I work with. Pretty boys from rich families who expect the world to open its legs for them. I know that you’ve worked for what you have, and that makes you better than them.”

Largo kissed her when she was done. Remy had saved the day after all, the way she had so many times before. “Thank you,” he said. “But I still look like a scarecrow.”

Remy waved away his worry as if it were nothing and ran her fingers along Largo’s jaw to his lips. “Your coat is perfect. Some of the artists will be wearing much worse. Everyone will think you’re a famous painter or poet. As for the rest, wait here.”

Remy left the room and came back a moment later with a pressed white shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons down the front. “Where did you get that?” Largo said.

“From the doll that plays Blixa. This is one of his extra shirts. Try it on. I think it will be perfect.”

Feeling extremely foolish, Largo stripped off his shirt and slipped on the new one. Earlier he’d been tempted to wear the knife and harness to amuse Remy, but now standing foolishly in her dressing room in doll clothes he was glad he hadn’t. Remy buttoned the shirt for him. “You look wonderful,” she said. “It’s like it was made for you.”

“The collar is a bit tight,” he said.

Remy rolled her eyes at him. “Practically everything women wear is too tight or too loose or too hot. Welcome to our world,” she said.

Largo gave her a small bow. “Then as one lady to another, shall we go?”

Remy took his hand and led him to the door. On the way out, she swatted him on the rear end. “Lovely ass, Fräulein.”

“Am I to suffer all the indignities of a woman tonight too?” said Largo.

“We’ll see,” said Remy. “I think you’d look darling in lipstick, but not false eyelashes, so you’re safe for the moment.”

“It’s the little mercies that help us sleep at night.”

She cocked her head and looked at him. “Pardon?”

They went out the backstage door and Remy hailed a Mara cab for them.

“It’s just something Herr Branca said at work today,” said Largo. He left his bicycle chained behind the theater and held the door for her as they got into the cab.

“No,” said Remy firmly. “I forbid you to talk about him or work. This is a night for fun, not worrying about the cares of stuffy old men.”

“I agree completely,” said Largo as Remy spoke Werner Petersen’s address into a small Trefle mounted in the back seat of the cab.

“Thank you,” said the Mara in a static-filled voice. It whirred to life and sped off. Largo put his arm around Remy and she rested her head on his shoulder. While he was still nervous about the party, the morphia helped him to not care too much.