Undermajordomo Minor

  “Is that right?”

  Mr. Olderglough nodded.

  Lucy shook his head. “That’s a shame.”

  Mr. Olderglough nodded. “Lastly,” he said, “I am curious as to what happened with young Klara’s uniform.”

  “Her uniform, sir?”

  “Agnes tells me it was ripped at the neck and sleeve. I hope she hasn’t come to any harm?”

  “No, sir, she hasn’t.”

  “She got home safe, then?”

  “Safe and sound.”

  “Thank goodness for that. She seems a very nice girl.”

  “She is, sir. And thank you for saying so.”

  They walked for a time in silence. They were both smiling, now. Mr. Olderglough said, “Would you agree that the most appealing thing about a mystery is the fact of its mysteriousness?”

  Lucy considered this. “Perhaps I would, sir.”

  “But also the most frustrating, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Perhaps it is. But as is not unrarely the case, sir, I must admit to not knowing quite what you’re talking about.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Well, no matter.” He looked away. “You may take the night off, if you wish.”

  “I would like that very much, sir, and thank you.”

  “Yes, boy. Off you go, now.”

  Lucy walked toward the village then, listening to the chirring of crickets in the dusky air. He found himself drawn once again to the sight of the smoke spilling from Klara’s chimney. He wished he might live forever in that wonderful hovel.

  As he came nearer the village he noticed a crowd had assembled outside the shanty. Stepping to the front of the pack, now he saw the focus of their attentions: Adolphus stood before Klara’s door, famished and decrepit, in filth and bloodied rags, held up on either side by two of his comrades. One of these men knocked, and Klara answered, standing in silence and stillness, regarding Adolphus as though he were a specter. When she took him in her arms, a burst of jubilation came up among the villagers. She led him inside, and the crowd dispersed, all except for Lucy. When he recognized it was not possible for him to enter the shanty, he turned and walked away.

  X

  A BLUE BOY

  1

  There followed a desolate era where Lucy didn’t know quite where he stood with Klara. It was only days before and they had been connected as if by blood; now he heard nothing from her, and neither did he hear from Memel or Mewe. It was said among the villagers that Adolphus had been tortured and starved and was still very much in danger of dying, but time passed with no news of his demise, and as the smoke continued to spill from Klara’s chimney, Lucy knew she had to be nursing and feeding him and tending to his wounds. Meanwhile, and as if in concert with this unnerving scenario, the mood among the castle inhabitants grew ever more removed, with the Baroness forever breaking away from the Baron to be alone in her chambers, and the Baron chasing after her, his voice gone high and pleading. Finally they retired to their respective rooms, and a cruel silence existed in every hall and doorway. From the scullery, Agnes and Mr. Olderglough spoke only in whispers, and their words were unsure, for they were the both of them fearful of what was likely to come. It was an in-between time, and Lucy shirked his duties to spy on the village with his telescope, as when he had first arrived.

  One morning he watched Klara walking through the village and to the shanty, a bundle of kindling in her arms. He studied her face, but she wore no expression whatsoever; seven days had passed since Adolphus’s return, and a hard kernel of contempt had formed in Lucy’s heart. Why had she not come to him? Surely she knew he was aware of Adolphus staying with her; surely she knew he was in pain about it. What did it mean that she hadn’t bothered to address this? Well, what else could it mean? He told himself it was a matter of pride to wait for her, when in fact he was simply too frightened to go himself. When he thought of the way she might phrase her goodbye, he was sickened.

  Klara dropped her kindling and stared with an awestruck expression into the distance. Adolphus had emerged from the shanty and was standing under his own power in the doorway. The sun glanced off his face, and while it was plain he was not yet healthy, he was far healthier than before, and he smiled easily, beckoning with his hands for Klara to come nearer, and she did this. They stood before one another awhile, speaking unknown tender words. When Klara reached up her hand and stroked Adolphus’s cheek, then did Lucy know he had lost her. This is how it happened that his heart was so superbly broken.

  2

  Lucy was disinclined to leave the castle, and took to maundering in the halls, carrying his burden here and there, eating little, sleeping less, and saying nothing, for he found speaking to be actually painful for him. At last he retreated to his room, blacked out his window with ash, folded and stowed his telescope, and took to bed. At the start he had no specific thoughts or notions but was merely inhabiting a deep, even ache; then came the visions of merciful death, and he pondered the variants with a swooning reverence. On the third day of this, Mr. Olderglough came to visit, and Rose was at his side. As they entered the room, Lucy drew the pillow over his face. “Please don’t,” he said.

  “Don’t what, boy?”

  “Don’t say it.”

  “Don’t say what?”

  “Don’t say anything.”

  Mr. Olderglough sat on the bed. “Are you not well, Lucy?”

  “I’m not, no.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I’m not well.”

  “I suppose it’s something to do with Klara, is that it?”

  Lucy didn’t answer. Mr. Olderglough bowed his head, and his forelock came uncoiled. “What may I do to help you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “And when will you be better, I wonder?”

  “I don’t want to be better.”

  “That’s no kind of attitude.”

  “I can’t help it.”

  “Must you speak with the pillow over your face?”

  “I must, yes.”

  Mr. Olderglough set his forelock in place, looking sterner. “Lucy,” he said, “I’m here primarily because of my being worried about you. But there is also the fact of your being paid to perform services in the castle, and it has been some days where you haven’t done so. Now, we all come down with a trace of gloom from time to time, but—”

  “You’ve never once paid me,” said Lucy.

  Mr. Olderglough scowled. “Oh, come now, boy. That can’t be true.” He thought a moment. “Is that true?”

  “Never once.”

  “Well, that’s just terrible.” Mr. Olderglough paused, then brightened. “What if I did pay you? Then would you work?”

  “No.”

  “This is all very discouraging. May I ask after your plans?”

  “I have none.”

  “But surely you must. What of the future?”

  “There isn’t one.”

  Mr. Olderglough sighed. “I cannot claim to be enjoying this conversation, if I’m to be honest. As a matter of fact, I’m going to go away, now. I’ll leave Rose here with you, if you don’t mind. I found her wandering the halls this morning.”

  “Fine. Goodbye, sir.”

  “Yes, goodbye.” Mr. Olderglough left. Rose climbed onto the bed to lie next to Lucy, who presently returned to the swamp of his own self-pity, which was a relief, for as a habitat it was magnificent in its direness; and since it had been created from his own fabric, he felt some stamp of gratification as he wallowed there. There had always been something comforting in melancholy for him, as though it were a purposeful tradition he was taking part in.

  The next afternoon, Memel called on Lucy. Lucy did not cover his face for the visit, but stared away at the ceiling. Memel said, “Mewe is down with the grippe. Will you and Rose come for a walk with me?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m too sad to.”

  Memel puckered his face. “You shouldn’t ta
lk like that.”

  “Why.”

  “It’s sort of disgusting, don’t you think?” He sniffed the air. “Why don’t you empty your pot?”

  “I don’t care about it.”

  “Clearly you don’t.”

  There was a discordant note to Memel’s voice; Lucy looked at him, and was shocked to see how unwell the man appeared. He’d lost weight, and his color was gone, and he was trembling. “You’re still feeling poorly, Memel?”

  Memel said, “There’s something gone sour in me. I can’t seem to get rid of it, whatever it is.” He regarded his stomach, then turned back to Lucy. “Won’t you come along? I don’t feel like being alone today. And besides that, there’s something I want to show you.”

  Lucy did not in the least want to go, but Memel seemed so nakedly vulnerable that he felt duty-bound to come along, and so he rose from the bed and dressed, and they struck out, with Rose leading the way. Memel made some weather-related comments in hopes of conjuring a conversation, but Lucy would not be lured into speaking more than a word or two. Finally Memel asked him what was the matter. When Lucy told him nothing was, Memel pointed out that this was a lie.

  “Isn’t it true that you’re having troubles with Klara?”

  “I suppose that I am.”

  “Because of that soldier?”

  “Yes.” Lucy felt strange discussing Klara with Memel. “I wonder what she wants,” he said pallidly.

  “I couldn’t answer that, boy. And I doubt she could, either.” Memel laid a hand on Lucy’s shoulder. “I don’t know what she sees in that other one, to tell you the truth.”

  “Don’t you care for him?”

  “I have no regard for a man so willing to give his life for an idea,” said Memel, and he spat on the ground to emphasize his indignation. Lucy, for whom the war was still a mystery, said, “Yes, and what is the idea?”

  “Precisely,” Memel answered, pausing to catch his breath, though they’d not been walking at all briskly. Lucy offered him an arm; Memel accepted this, and they continued, heading for the tree line. They were passing a section of forest he’d never seen before, and presently they came to a clearing in the wood, a grassy knoll, uneven rows of homely tombstones: the villagers’ cemetery. Lucy followed Memel through the rows. They arrived at a grave and Memel pointed. “Klara’s mother,” he said. “Alida, was her name.” Kneeling, he said, “I suppose I’ll be joining her soon enough.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Why not? It’s true. I’ve already written my epitaph. Would you like to hear it?” Lucy said that he would and Memel cleared his throat, speaking skyward, as one reciting a poem:

  “He wandered here and there over rolling hills.

  He never saw the ocean but

  dreamed of it often enough.”

  He turned to Lucy with an inquisitive expression.

  “It’s very nice,” said Lucy.

  Memel bowed his head modestly. “Have you ever visited the ocean?”

  “No.”

  “A man once told me it was wide as the sky and twice as blue. Do you believe it?”

  “I suppose I do.”

  Memel shook his head at the wonder of this. “What do you think your stone will say?” he asked.

  Lucy had never thought of it. What was an epitaph meant to be, exactly? A summation of accomplishments? A representation of one’s general outlook? Fine, only he had as yet accomplished nothing, and he had no overarching opinion regarding his life or anyone else’s. Lucy was stymied; he shrugged the question off.

  “It will come to you in time, likely,” said Memel.

  Lucy wasn’t so sure. “Why did you bring me here, Memel?” he asked.

  Memel nodded, gesturing to Alida’s grave. “I was wondering if you were aware that she did the very same thing to me that Klara is doing to you now? And with my dearest friend Tomas, no less?”

  It was curious to think of Memel with any other friend besides Mewe. “I haven’t met a Tomas,” said Lucy.

  “You wouldn’t have. He’s been dead a good long while. A gambler, Tomas was. He and I were as close as could be, since we were boys, even.”

  “And when did he die?”

  “Just after the impropriety was revealed. He was murdered, you see.”

  “He was?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who murdered him?”

  “I did.”

  Lucy said, “You murdered your closest friend?”

  “Yes.”

  Lucy thought about this. “How did it come to pass?”

  “You want me to tell you?”

  “I want you to tell me.”

  “Well then, I will.”

  How It Came to Pass

  That Memel Murdered

  His Bosom Confidant, Tomas

  3

  Memel went to pay Tomas a visit one morning and found him in bed, clinging spiderishly to his wife, and with neither one of them wearing a stitch of clothing. They didn’t notice his being in the room, and Memel considered their labors in a stupor. Here was an utterly alien visual, for he hadn’t the slightest inkling of anything untoward going on between these two. When Alida spied him in the doorway, she shrieked, and Memel left the shanty to stand in the sunshine, clutching his shirtfront and gasping.

  Tomas emerged, half-dressed, and in a dead panic. He took Memel in his arms, but Memel could smell his wife on Tomas, and he turned away, stalking from the village and toward the hills. Tomas followed, calling after him; it was a dry, hot day, and when Tomas’s voice became raspy he ceased speaking, but he never stopped trailing Memel. They walked one in front of the other, above the village and through the forest until they arrived at the edge of the Very Large Hole, where Memel’s legs gave out. Tomas sat some feet away; after he’d caught his breath he said, “We used to come here as boys, and try to throw stones across to the other side, do you remember?”

  “I remember.”

  “But we never could do it, could we?”

  “No, we never could.”

  “And now I suppose we’re too old for it.”

  “Yes, that’s the truth.”

  In actuality they were neither of them old men; their arms were still wiry with muscle, their backs straight and strong, and yet they had surpassed the mean, the center mark of their lives, and were both aware of an overall dimming.

  “Every day, and a little closer to death,” said Tomas.

  “That’s how it is from the beginning, though,” Memel pointed out.

  “Yes, but did you think of it as a younger man?”

  Memel admitted he hadn’t. Tomas stood, picked up a stone, and threw it into the hole. Memel did the same. Neither stone went very far.

  “I should be able to do better than that,” Memel said.

  “Yes,” said Tomas. “Let’s try again, and give it our best.”

  They picked up stones and threw them as hard as they could. Both went a good deal farther than their first attempts, but Memel edged out Tomas for the greater distance.

  “Very nice,” said Tomas.

  He was standing near the lip of the Very Large Hole. His hands were on his hips; he stared into the abyss, and Memel took up a position behind him.

  “And so, what are we to do about this, Tomas?”

  “I don’t know what. I wish I did know.”

  “Well, what does Alida want?”

  “Who knows what that woman wants.” Tomas laughed to himself.

  Memel took a step closer to Tomas. It occurred to him to walk softly. “Shall we leave it up to her, then?”

  Tomas made a strange sound with his throat, for he was crying now. “I suppose we must do that,” he said.

  Memel took another step. “And what will become of us?”

  “That’s for you to say.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes. For my part, I pray that our friendship will remain.”

  Yet another step. “You want my wife and my friendship, eh?”

  “I know it?
??s impossible. But that’s my wish.” He took a shivering, sobbing breath. “Oh, Memel,” he said. “I love you so much.”

  Memel lunged, and Tomas was borne aloft and into the void. Memel had pushed with such force that he nearly tumbled into the hole himself; when he regained his footing, he stood wondering at the absoluteness of his friend’s absence. It was as if the darkness had eaten not just Tomas’s present, but his past also—his history in its entirety. Memel hastened back to the village. He was curious to see Alida’s face when he told her.

  4

  There was a tactility to this story which startled Lucy. He was unsettled by the image and deed, and by Memel’s undemonstrative manner of reportage; and yet he was moved by the tale as well. Was there not a measure of justice in the act, after all? Perhaps it was only natural, then, that Lucy was already reimagining the story so that it was Adolphus at the lip of the Very Large Hole, and he himself stood at Adolphus’s back, creeping ever closer. He wondered if he could actually go through with it. His heart was doubtful. “That must have been difficult to do,” he said to Memel.

  Memel shook his head. “I pushed him. That was all. He didn’t make a sound. You’d think he would have screamed.”

  “He was too surprised, maybe.”

  “It would be surprising, wouldn’t it? Slipping through the air like that, all at once?” Memel paused a moment to consider it. “Well, I can’t say I regret it, Lucy. Woe betide those who trifle with Eros, eh?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Cupid is well armed, and so must we be, isn’t that so?”

  “It is so.”

  Memel’s face grew long. “I do miss Tomas, though. Him and Alida both. I’ve never got over either of them being gone, if I’m to be honest.”

  With a degree of trepidation, Lucy asked, “And how did Alida die?”

  “In childbirth, nine months after the death of Tomas.” He regarded Lucy with a mischievous expression, as if daring him to inquire further.

  “Nine months,” Lucy said.