Undermajordomo Minor

  Lucy stared at his stew, waiting for the painful moment to pass. Quietly, he told Memel, “It’s something private between them, I suppose.” Klara sat up alertly when he said this, as if she’d been stuck with a pin, and now she scrutinized Lucy for such a length of time that he thought nothing else would do but to face her.

  When their eyes met, and held, he felt once again the instance of import, only more powerfully than before. There was in him an actual reverberation, and his blood hurried every which way. He could not intuit what Klara was experiencing, if anything, but there was something in his expression which alarmed her, and she suddenly looked away. When she did this, his heart caught, and he wished to reach out to her, to take up her hand in his own. Now it was her turn to blush, he noticed.

  Lucy settled into his supper. The stew was deliciously spicy, so that sweat beaded at his temples under his cap, and his tongue was singed with a pulsing heat. Memel poured him a glass of water but Lucy, recalling what lay at the bottom of the barrel, opted for wine. He only rarely drank alcohol, and it birthed in him a feeling of jauntiness, and he decided he might have some small celebration with himself. By the time he had finished his stew he was working on his third glass, and a confidence or sense of ease settled over him. Mewe and Klara carried on with their private whisperings and gigglings, but Lucy wasn’t embarrassed by this; in fact he thought it just that they were devoting these attentions to him. Was he not a funny one, after all? This pale and underfed young stranger with a puppy in his pocket? He made no protest, he took no offense, but began to prepare his pipe, for now he finally had his audience, and they would witness his smoking and wonder at the complexity of his thoughts. Alas, when the sharp smoke jabbed at his naked throat he emitted a single cough which blasted the pipe’s contents fully over his head. Memel, Mewe, and Klara found this a glad event; the three of them laughed frankly, loudly, and for a lengthy period of time. Lucy knew, even while the tobacco was hurtling through the air, that he could never recover from this social blunder; he solemnly returned his pipe to his coat pocket, drained his wine, and poured himself another.

  The room was in motion, slowly wheeling, bringing to mind the dizziness he’d experienced when climbing the stairwell to his quarters in the castle—a moderately unsettling yet not entirely displeasing sensation. He removed the puppy from his pocket and laid her on the table, tickling and teasing her. She reared and bit his hand, but she was so slight that this caused no pain, and he laughed at the futility of it. Klara’s features were blurred in the woozy candlelight; she was watching Lucy with seeming indifference. And yet she didn’t look away, either.

  The wine was going down like water, and Lucy had arrived at the point of drunkenness where he couldn’t hold a thought. His lips became lazy and his words were slurred; this amused the others, who put any number of questions to him, that they might expose and celebrate his state.

  An ugliness took shape in Lucy’s mind. It was obvious to him that these people would never welcome him into their society, and that they wanted him around only to make sport of him. When he saw the white-booted puppy peering out from behind the water barrel, he knew he had been tricked by Memel, and this was the final insult. He stood and lurched toward the door, with the others calling after him, their voices choked with cackling, gasping laughter. Memel crossed over, clinging to Lucy’s coat and imploring him to stay; Lucy pulled away, stepping clear of the shanty and into an oceanic windstorm which instantly plucked his cap from his head and gobbled it up. Realizing the puppy still was clutched in his hand, Lucy turned, thinking to return it to Memel, but Klara was standing in the doorway with a repentant look on her face and Lucy felt he couldn’t meet her again. He tucked the puppy away in his pocket and resumed his uneven snow-marching toward the looming, blacker-than-night castle.

  His mood was profoundly resentful as he caromed off the walls of the spiral staircase, bumbling in the dark, hands outstretched like a blind beggar. He had had it in his mind that once he left Bury he would become a second man, and this man would command, if not respect, then at least civility. But here it was much the same, it seemed: he was derided and made to look the fool; the villagers had identified him on the spot as one who could not be considered a serious person. In remembering his departure from the shanty, it occurred to him that Memel had stolen his pipe again. Checking his pocket, he found this to be so, and he paused at the top of the stairs to issue a hissing sound.

  He fell into bed, not bothering to undress. The puppy crawled from his pocket and began nosing about under the blankets; Lucy watched the lump creeping toward this and that cavern and crevice. He drifted into uneasy slumber, his dreams descriptive of impossible frustrations, a vanishing doorway here, a never-ending staircase there. This marked the completion of his first day at the castle.

  IV

  THE CASTLE VON AUX

  1

  In the morning there stood at the foot of Lucy’s bed a small round human woman wearing an exceedingly white smock and a look of displeasure. She had short gray hair and her face was also gray. Actually her hair and face were similar in color to the point of being confusing, even jarring to Lucy. Her hands, resting atop her stomach, were so deeply red as to appear scalded. This was Agnes, the cook.

  “Were you not told to lock the door?” she said.

  “Hello. Yes. Good morning, ma’am. I was.” Lucy’s head was throbbing, and his throat was so dry that it was difficult to speak. His boots were peering out from beneath the blankets and Agnes, pointing, asked,

  “Is this the custom, where you come from?”

  “I fell asleep,” Lucy explained, sitting up.

  “That’s to be expected, when one is in bed. But why did you not take the boots off before sleep came, is my question.” Agnes drew back the blanket; the sheets were stained with earth and snow. When the puppy clambered out, Agnes gasped. “Goodness! I thought it was a rat.”

  “It’s not a rat, ma’am.”

  “That’s clear now.” She reached down and scratched the puppy’s chin. “Does Mr. Olderglough know you keep an animal?”

  “No.”

  “And how long were you planning on hiding it from him?”

  “It’s nothing I’ve been hiding, ma’am. That is, it’s only just come to pass.”

  “It’s something he will want to hear about.”

  “I will be sure to tell him.”

  “Very good. And when will you be rising, I wonder? Mr. Olderglough has had to fetch his own breakfast, and yours is getting colder all the while.”

  “I’m sorry about that, ma’am; it won’t happen again. I’m getting up now.”

  Agnes nodded, and crossed the room to go. Pausing at the door, she said, “You will remember to lock up?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “It’s not something to be forgotten.” She looked over her shoulder at Lucy. “Or possibly you don’t understand how important this is.”

  Lucy swung his boots from the bed, and to the floor. “I suppose I do.” He scooped the puppy up and deposited her in his pocket. “Actually, I don’t,” he said. “Why exactly must I lock my door, please?”

  “We all must lock our doors.”

  “But what is the reason?”

  She measured her words. “It’s not for nothing, and that’s all you need to know.”

  Agnes took her leave, and Lucy sat awhile, pondering. “I should like to know quite a lot more than that,” he said at last. Later, he would wish to know less.

  He moved to the window, telescope in hand.

  2

  Mr. Olderglough was sitting in the servants’ dining quarters, a cramped and cheerless room annexed to the scullery. His hand was free from its sling, apparently on the mend, and he was poring over a large leather ledger, to the side of which sat his breakfast, consisting of a bowl of porridge, a thin slice of dry bread, and a cup of tea. An identical setting had been laid out for Lucy; he sat, sampled the porridge, and was not in any way impressed by its flavor, texture, or
temperature. His tea was likewise cold, in addition to being bitter, but it washed away the taste of wood shavings the porridge imparted, and so he drank it down in a gulp.

  “Good morning, sir,” he said, gasping.

  Mr. Olderglough nodded but did not respond verbally, distracted now by the sawing of his bread, three cuts lengthwise and three on the height, making for nine squares in total. Once this was accomplished, he stuck out his tongue and laid a square on the fleshy pink appendage. Withdrawing his tongue, he chewed, proffering a look which dared Lucy to comment. Lucy did not comment. He said,

  “I find myself wondering, sir, if I might keep an animal.”

  Mr. Olderglough swallowed. He was moderately alarmed. “An animal?” he said.

  “A dog, sir, yes. A puppy.”

  “Where in the world did you get a puppy?”

  “From Memel, sir. His dog gave birth to a litter.”

  “I see. Sloughed the burden off on you, then, did he?”

  “I wouldn’t say sloughed.”

  “Every man for himself?”

  “Not exactly, sir. In point of fact I’m happy to have the puppy. If you’ll allow me to keep it, that is.”

  A look of confusion had affixed itself to Mr. Olderglough. “When did all this happen, may I ask?”

  “Only recently, sir.”

  “Clearly.” Staring into space, now, Mr. Olderglough said, “Do you ever get the feeling the world is passing you by?”

  “I don’t know about that, sir.”

  “An occasional rapidity of time? Things occurring in an instant?”

  “I’m not sure, sir.”

  “A speediness of events? And then, once the speedy event has happened, it cannot unhappen?”

  “I suppose that’s true, sir.”

  “Yes. Well, at any rate, if you desire a companion, then who am I to stand in the way of your happiness?”

  “So I may keep the puppy, sir?”

  “And why not? It’s none of my affair what you get up to of a Sunday. I’m a proponent of individual freedom.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “One should search out his heart’s desire, wouldn’t you agree with me?”

  “Oh, yes, sir.”

  “We’ve only got one go-round, eh, Lucy?”

  “One go, sir.”

  “Once around the park?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Let’s make it count, why don’t we?”

  “Let’s do that, sir.”

  Mr. Olderglough pointed. “Why aren’t you eating your porridge?”

  “Because of the taste of it, sir.”

  Mr. Olderglough looked about the room, then leaned in and whispered, “Dump it in the fireplace, why don’t you. And mine as well. Agnes stomps and clomps if the plates aren’t licked clean.”

  Lucy did as he was told, then returned to his chair.

  “Is it a he or a she?” Mr. Olderglough asked.

  “A she, sir. I hope that’s all right.”

  “I have no preference. I’m just making conversation at this point. Would you like another cup of tea?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “I believe I’ll go again.” Mr. Olderglough poured himself a second cup and took a dainty sip. He said, “Did you know that I myself keep a bird?” This last was spoken as though he’d forgotten it to be so, and only just remembered, and was surprised by the fact of it.

  “I didn’t know, sir, no,” said Lucy.

  “A mynah bird,” said Mr. Olderglough, “named Peter. I had thought he might brighten my room with his chirping song. Alas, not a peep.”

  “I’d thought the mynah was the chatty one.”

  “That’s what I’d been led to believe as well. Consider my displeasure, then.”

  “Yes.”

  “Study on it.”

  “I surely will. I wonder if there’s something the matter with him.”

  “Or else the showman’s desire is absent. Anyway, Peter is mute as a stone.” Mr. Olderglough sighed. “I could do with a bit of music, to tell you the truth, Lucy. I could do with a bit of cheer.” He propped his head against the back of the chair. “I’ve always liked the name: Peter. That’s what I’d have named my son, if I’d had one. Well, it wasn’t for the lack of trying. If I had a penny for every barn dance I attended in my youth.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Some of us are fated to roam the earth alone, it would seem.”

  “Sadly true, sir.”

  Mr. Olderglough pushed his plate away. “Would you like to meet him? Peter?”

  Lucy did not particularly care to, but it seemed to be expected of him, and so he said that he would. Mr. Olderglough clapped and stood and began expediently buttoning his coat.

  3

  Peter was a deeply antisocial bird. A passerine of middling size with drab brown plumage and a sharp orange-yellow beak, he squatted sullenly on his perch, looking not at but through his visitors. Actually, Lucy thought his expression, if a bird can have an expression, denoted legitimate hatred.

  “This is Peter,” Mr. Olderglough said.

  “Hello, Peter.”

  “Say hello, Peter.”

  Peter did not say hello, but burrowed his face in his breast and pulled up a leg, standing motionless, and it seemed he would be thus forever.

  “Closed up shop,” said Mr. Olderglough. “You see how it is, then?”

  “Yes, sir, I think I do. And you say he’s never made any sound whatsoever?”

  “None.”

  “Something which will make him sing, sir.”

  “Nothing will.”

  Mr. Olderglough moved to rest upon a faded fainting couch in the corner of his parlor. Muttering to himself, the man was lost for a time to his reveries, and Lucy took advantage of this to survey his superior’s quarters: at once tasteful and dire, formerly grand, utterly dated, and coated uniformly in dust. It was a room in which time hung more heavily than was the norm, and Lucy had the feeling he was the first to pay a social call in a long while.

  A wall clock chimed, and Mr. Olderglough said, “You’ll be wanting to meet the train, now, Lucy. In the entryway you’ll find the Baron’s letter on the side table, as well as a list of what’s needed from the village.”

  “And with what shall I pay for the goods?”

  Mr. Olderglough stood, patting his pockets but turning up nothing. “Do me a favor, boy, and pay for them yourself. I’ll get it back to you soon enough.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir.”

  A twinge of panic struck Mr. Olderglough. “Haven’t you any money handy at all?”

  “None.” Lucy paused. “Perhaps, sir, if you were to give me an advance on my wage?”

  “Hmm,” said Mr. Olderglough. “No, I don’t believe I’ll do that.”

  “I was wondering when I might be paid,” Lucy admitted.

  “You will be paid on payday, naturally. For now, you will wait in the entryway, please.”

  As Lucy traveled from Mr. Olderglough’s room to the castle’s entrance, he was struck by the fact of his enjoying the position, enjoying being told what to do, the marvelous simplicity of it. He had always sensed in his mother and father a desire for him to do something, to do anything, but they were remiss in sharing particular instructions and so, being unambitious himself, he accomplished nothing, and only continued to disappoint them. But now, all at once, he was useful, was being used, and this filled him with a sense of dignity. Arriving at the entryway, he stood by the side table awaiting Mr. Olderglough and basking in this feeling. Alas, as the minutes passed by, Lucy’s buoyant attitude turned to restlessness, which then evolved to candid boredom. He scanned the shopping list but this offered nothing in the way of entertainment, and so he found himself wishing to steal a glance at the mysterious Baron’s letter. He knew he must not do this, that it was in direct opposition to what Mr. Olderglough had told him, but the desire grew and grew further, and soon he gave in to it. Edging a fingernail under the wax seal, he open
ed the envelope and unfolded the paper.

  My Darling,

  What news have you? Will you tell me you no longer love me? Whether or not I would prefer this to the damning silence, I won’t say. The truth is that I am no longer steering this devastated ship. I took my hand off the wheel long ago, and have no concerns or thoughts for a destination. May we be dashed over merciful rocks!

  Why do the happy times dim in my memory, while the evil ones grow ever more vivid? And furthermore: why do I bother asking you anything anymore? A marvel: how can the days be so full of someone wholly absent? The scope of your void humbles me. It is vast to the point that part of me hopes you have died. This at least would explain your nonappearance, and so would afford me some slight comfort. Also it would make it simpler for me to die. And yet I love you still and more, with every day that floats past.

  I am yours alone,

  Baron Von Aux

  Lucy read this in a rush, and then again, more slowly. It seemed there was a dim rumble or vibration emanating from the words, and it caused him to bend his ear nearer the page so as to drink it in. He recognized something of himself in the letter; but also he found himself feeling envious of the Baron’s heartsickness, which was surely superior to any he had experienced. This jealousy struck him as childish, and yet he wasn’t in any way ashamed of it. He returned the letter to the envelope and had just set it back on the side table when Mr. Olderglough arrived. “You’ll have to make this stretch, boy,” he said, pressing some coins into Lucy’s hand. Calculating their worth, Lucy thought it impossible, and said as much to Mr. Olderglough, who in turn espoused the merits of a credit-based society. It was at this point that Agnes came around the corner. Her red fists stabbed and jabbed at the air as she walked, punctuating her evident rage.

  “Which of you dumped his porridge in the fireplace!”

  “It was Lucy,” said Mr. Olderglough, quickly quitting the room. Agnes did not notice his leaving; she moved toward Lucy as if on oiled wheels.