Undermajordomo Minor

  4

  Lucy received his reprimand with what he hoped was something approaching grace. He wiped away the traces of spittle adorning his face and stepped outside, lamenting having lost his cap, as the cold set upon him at once, clinging to his neck, ears, and scalp. He turned up his collar and pushed on; he could hear the train but could not yet see it. Walking toward the tracks, he peered sideward at the village. There was a trickle of smoke seeping from Memel and Klara’s chimney, and Lucy wondered if it was she who had made the fire. He decided she had; and he thought of her crouched before the stove, the flame drawing across the wood. He imagined the smoke spinning in cresting coils before the draft from the flue pulled it taut, encouraging it upward, and to the open spaces. Lucy felt an aching in his chest. He wanted to know just what Klara’s days looked like.

  Arriving at the station, he found Memel and Mewe on the platform, standing toe to toe, engaged in another argument. Memel held a dead hare in his hand, which Mewe lunged for once, twice, three times. Memel yanked it just out of reach; Mewe was fuming. “Hand it over,” he said.

  “I will not,” Memel answered.

  “But you know that it was in my snare.”

  “If it was in your snare you’d be holding the hare, for I would never claim an animal that was not my own.”

  “But that’s precisely what you are doing!” Mewe lunged again, and again Memel held the hare at arm’s length. “The most disturbing part of all this,” Mewe said, “is that you’re actually starting to believe your own lies.”

  “God Himself only knows what the most disturbing part of it is.”

  Mewe wagged a finger. “You always bring God into arguments you know you’re losing, for the liar is lonely, and welcomes all manner of company. Now, I’ll ask you one last time: will you hand over the hare or won’t you?”

  “You know that I won’t.”

  “Very well.” Mewe brought his boot heel down on Memel’s toe. The old man bellowed, and the hare was flung into the air, with Mewe dashing after. At the same moment he caught the somersaulting thing, Memel tackled him, and now the pair wrestled about in the snow, pulling at the hare and gritting their teeth and damning each other in the most base and common manner. Lucy found this spectacle more than a little intriguing and was curious to see who would emerge hare in hand; but now the train was approaching the station, and so he was forced to turn away.

  Stepping to the edge of the platform, he held the letter high in the air. As the train bore down upon him he studied the darkened cockpit for a sign of the engineer; seeing no movement there he grew fearful something had gone amiss, when at the last moment there emerged a meaty hand, fingers splayed, poised to pounce. Lucy held his breath, and as the train hurtled past he was engulfed in a frigid wind, this of such force that he couldn’t tell if the letter had remained in his grip or not. Peering up, he saw that it hadn’t; he spun about to witness the blue envelope flapping in the engineer’s fist. Now the fist was withdrawn. The letter had been posted.

  Lucy felt a sense of dizzy satisfaction, an amusement at the strangeness of the event. Being lost to the novelty of this occurrence, he stepped too near the train, so that he felt his body shudder, as though he would be jerked from the platform and into the grinding metal wheels and shrill mechanisms. All at once he understood the train’s unknowable weight and power, and he stepped cautiously backward as it passed. He didn’t like to think of anyone’s death, least of all his own.

  When he turned he saw that Memel and Mewe had ceased their fighting and were standing before him, panting and snow-coated, each of them clinging to opposite ends of the hare. They were smiling. Behind them, at the apex of the looming mountain, Lucy could make out the pops and puffs of the area war, the soldiers scrabbling about, insects swarming cream.

  To Memel, he said, “You have taken my pipe again.”

  “Yes, that’s true,” said Memel. “Did you want it back?”

  Lucy said that he did, and so the pipe was returned to him. He found the mouthpiece was scored with teeth marks, and that the basin smelled of Memel’s rank, inferior tobacco. In a stern tone, he said, “I want you to stop taking it from me, do you understand?”

  Memel raised his eyebrows, his head bobbing side to side, as though the notion were a fascination to him.

  “Will you stop it or won’t you?” Lucy asked.

  “Oh, all right.”

  Lucy struck out for the village. That he had no use for company was clear, but Memel and Mewe were blind to this, and they hurried after, that they might walk alongside him. “We’re happy to see you, do you know?” said Memel. “You left in such a rush last night, we weren’t sure what to think.”

  “Just that it was time for me to go, I suppose.”

  “Clearly it was that. But will you come by this evening, I wonder? I’ve bagged a fine hare this morning, and Klara will prepare us a stew.”

  “Actually,” said Mewe, “it was I who bagged the hare.”

  “A hare was bagged, is all he needs to know.”

  “I should think he would want to know the truth.”

  “Yes, and how will he hit upon it with you spouting untruths?”

  Lucy interrupted them. “I don’t think I will visit you tonight,” he said.

  Memel and Mewe were taken aback by this. “And why not?” asked the former.

  Recalling their leering, mocking faces in the candlelit shanty, Lucy told them, “I would rather not come, is all.”

  Now the pair shared a solemn look, and Memel said, “Do you know something, Mewe? I don’t believe Lucy likes us.”

  “I think you may be right,” said Mewe.

  Memel meditated on it. “But why doesn’t he?”

  “I don’t know why.”

  “Well,” said Memel. “It doesn’t feel very good, does it? Being disliked?”

  “No, it certainly doesn’t.”

  Memel meditated further. “Do you think that perhaps he likes us a little bit, though?”

  “Perhaps. But not enough to dine with us, it would seem.”

  “It’s a pale flame, is that what you’re saying?”

  “He likes us, but barely,” Mewe said, nodding.

  “A pale flame indeed. Well, what can we do about it, eh?”

  “Yes.”

  “If he thinks we’ll beg after his friendship, he might think again.”

  “Yes.”

  “And, who’s to say? Perhaps he’ll acquire a taste for our company in time.”

  “That’s quite possible.”

  “I suppose there’s nothing but to wait and see, then.”

  “That’s all, yes.”

  “Wait and see and hope for the best.”

  “That’s all.”

  Chatting in this breezy manner, Memel and Mewe stepped away from Lucy. Memel was twirling the hare in a carefree fashion; he tossed it to Mewe, who caught it, and tossed it back. Lucy had fallen back to watch them go but now resumed walking, following them at a distance. He had his shopping to do.

  5

  Regarding the vegetables, Lucy fared moderately but not particularly well. The grocer, a grimly lipless woman in her later middle years, sold only potatoes, squash, carrots, and onions, and those available were not all that fresh. Upon inspecting the goods, Lucy requested superior merchandise, and was confident superior merchandise existed on the premises, but the grocer was disinclined to do a stranger favors, and made no attempt to mask this. Thinking in the long term, Lucy accepted the partial defeat with a brave face, wishing the woman a happy day as he stepped away from her stall. But he knew he must not falter in respect to the meat, for if this came to pass, then his maiden outing would surely be considered a failure.

  As he entered the neighboring stall he took on the posture of a man who could not conceivably be taken advantage of. He was confronted by a blood-streaked brute of a fundamentally dissatisfied man: the wily butcher, who might have said a hundred things in response to Lucy’s greeting, but who chose to say nothing, he mer
ely stared, with a look in his eye that somehow imparted both malice and indifference. When Lucy pointed out the fact of his being newly installed at the castle, the wily butcher said, “No more credit.”

  “Oh, I’ve got money, sir,” said Lucy, passing over the coin he’d received as change from the grocer. The wily butcher held the coin in his palm, studying it for a time. “What do you want,” he asked, and Lucy began to read aloud the list Mr. Olderglough had made out for him. Halfway through this, the wily butcher said, “Stop.”

  “But I’m not done with the list yet, sir.”

  “That’s all you’re going to get for the coin.”

  “Mightn’t you extend our credit just the once more?”

  “I might not.”

  “May I ask how much is owed you?”

  The wily butcher named a figure which was much higher than Lucy would have thought. It was so much more than he’d have guessed that he could think of no words to say in reply, and he wished he’d never requested the information in the first place. The very naming of this numeral set the wily butcher off; his breathing quickened, and his face became increasingly red. “I’d be within my rights to take this coin and give you nothing, what with the amount due me. Is that what you want?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then you’ll get what the coin allows, and go away happy.” Now he took out his long knife and began sharpening it, his back to Lucy, who stood considering what he might have done differently to have won the unpleasant man’s approval. But he could think of nothing, for he had done nothing wrong; the animus belonged to someone else. And yet, it occurred to him, if he came away with faulty goods, who would receive the blame? He alone. His reputation thus imperiled, he called out, “No gristle, now.” When he said it, the wily butcher became statue-still.

  “What did you say to me?” he asked.

  There was in his voice a just-contained fury, and on hearing this, then did Lucy become aware of the magnitude of his error. When the wily butcher turned to face him, the man’s expression was so grotesque that Lucy became fearful of physical violence.

  “I meant no offense, sir,” Lucy told him.

  “But what did you say,” asked the wily butcher, long knife gripped in his fist.

  Lucy was considering retreat when a voice sounded behind him: “You heard perfectly well what he said.” He turned to find Klara standing there, a look of mischief on her face. “Now give him what he asked for already, you mean old bull.”

  “Oh, hello, Klara,” said the wily butcher, his eyes dropping shyly to the ground. With her arrival, all the nastiness had left the man, and now he resumed the sharpening of his knife. Klara stepped closer to Lucy. “Hello,” she said.

  “Oh, hello.”

  “Father says you won’t visit us again. Is it true?”

  “I suppose it is,” he said.

  She peered searchingly into Lucy’s left, then right eye, as one trying to locate something in a dark room. “But why won’t you?”

  “Well, I’m very busy, is all.”

  “What is it you’re so busy with, can I ask?”

  “There are many tasks befallen me.”

  “And will you name some of these tasks?”

  “I suffer through any number of time-consuming endeavors.”

  She said, “I noticed you watching us from your window.” Lucy hadn’t thought anyone could see him spying, and he blushed terribly to learn that it was so. Surely Klara noticed his embarrassment, but she had no reaction to it, which exhibited a kindness, he thought. Was there anything crueler than a body commenting on another body’s shame?

  “What do you see, when you look at us?” she asked.

  Bowing his head, he said, “Just, people.”

  “No one special?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  In a tight voice, she said, “But Father claims that you don’t like us.”

  “No,” he told her. “That’s not what it is.”

  “Well, what is it, then?”

  “Just that I don’t enjoy being made to feel foolish.”

  “And who is it that makes you feel foolish?”

  “You do, for one. And Mewe, and your father.”

  “But we were only teasing you.” She was picking at her sleeve, and Lucy noticed again how mangy the coat was, how worn and homely and unbefitting such a person as Klara. She’d got hold of a thread, and as she pulled on it the sleeve became ever more sorry-looking, and Lucy grew rankled by her intentional worsening of the garment. “Stop it,” he said, and she did. The thread had come loose and was sticking to her fingers; she snapped her wrist and the thread slipped away on the air, and they both watched this.

  She turned back to face him. “Don’t you know why we tease you? Why I do?”

  “It’s likely you find me funny in some way,” Lucy ventured.

  Her face softened. “No, Lucy. That’s not what it is at all.”

  “What is it, then?”

  She thought a moment, then shifted her weight. She was opening her mouth to speak when the wily butcher laid Lucy’s goods on the counter with a thud. “Here,” he said. “And tell that Baron he might settle his debts one of these days.” Lucy took up his bundles, nodded to Klara, and exited without another word. As he cleared the village, his mind was teeming with notions and possibilities. It occurred to him that, much in the way one experiences a brightening when walking beneath a cherry tree in bloom, so too did Klara generate and throw light.

  6

  That night Lucy couldn’t sleep. He sat in his rocking chair before the stove, feeding twigs into its black mouth and staring out the window at the village, half-hidden in a shroud of unmoving fog. It was past midnight when, intermingled with the crackling of the fire, he became aware of an extraneous noise, a muffled bustle taking place behind him, and he turned to look, assuming it was the puppy settling in her sleep. But no, she was dozing leadenly atop his pillow, and Lucy thought he must have imagined the sound. He had resumed his window-watching when it occurred a second time, only more distinctly, and now Lucy’s attentions were drawn to the door.

  The knob was turning. This was being performed slowly, as though whoever was doing it did not wish to draw attention to the fact that he was. When the knob reached the limit of its rotation, the door swelled in its jamb; but being bolted, it couldn’t be opened, and the knob turned backward, just as cautiously as before, to its point of origin. Lucy stared, rooted by fright. When the knob began again to turn, he called out,

  “Who’s there?”

  The reply registered scarcely above a murmur. The voice was a man’s, and his tone was illustrative of one possessed by deep confusion and hurt:

  “Why are you in my room?”

  A simple enough question, and yet these six words summoned a tingling dread in Lucy. He stood away from the rocker, creeping sideways, and to the bed. Locating the heavy telescope under his pillow, he took this up in his hand, never looking away from the door. “This is not your room,” he answered, as evenly as he could. “This is my room.”

  “No,” said the voice, and again: “No.” Now the man began pacing in the hallway, pacing and whispering to himself, hissing some unknown threats or remonstrations. Suddenly he struck the door with his fist, so that Lucy jumped back, holding the telescope high in the air like a club. “No,” said the voice a third time, then shuffled away down the stairs. Lucy moved to his bed but sat up a long while afterward, regarding the doorknob with an anticipatory anguish, and he thought that if it began turning once more he would cry out from the shock of it. When he awoke in the morning, the telescope was still gripped in his cramping fist, and the puppy was sniffing at the base of the door.

  7

  Lucy entered Mr. Olderglough’s room, breakfast tray in hand. Mr. Olderglough drew himself up in his bed, patting his lap, casting back his sleeping cap, and looking pleased at the fact of being doted on. After the tray was delivered he began the artful preparations of his tea; Lucy stood by, wondering how h
e might give voice to his thoughts. At last he decided there was no other way than to simply say it, and so he did: “A man tried to enter my room last night, sir.”

  Mr. Olderglough was distracted by the cautious measuring-out of his sugar. “What’s that, my boy?” he asked. “What is it, now?”

  “A man, sir. Tried to enter my room last night.”

  “A man?”

  “Yes, and a strange man he was.”

  “Is that right?” Mr. Olderglough said wonderingly. Pouring in the cream, he stirred and sampled his tea; finding its taste satisfactory, he nodded in appreciation at life’s small but dependable comforts. “And what was so strange about him, I wonder?”

  “Well, the fact of him trying to get into my room was strange.”

  Mr. Olderglough pondered this. “I don’t know that I would call that strange, in and of itself. What are rooms for if not entering, after all. Or else exiting. Indeed, think of how many rooms we enter and exit in our span of days, boy. Room to room to room. And we call it a life.” He chuckled at the folly of it. But Lucy was in no mood for Mr. Olderglough’s wistful opining; in fact he was feeling peevish toward his superior, who was quite obviously acting the innocent when he surely knew just what Lucy was talking about with regard to the visitor of the evening prior.

  Lucy said, “I most certainly would describe it as strange, sir. For we must consider that it was not a common-use room, but my own room, and that I was abed, and that it was the middle of the night. If that isn’t strange, then I don’t know what is. To say nothing of the fact of his attitude.”

  “Oh, was his attitude strange as well,” asked Mr. Olderglough flatly.

  “It was. He seemed in a fever, and was speaking to himself—cackling and grumbling and disagreeing.”

  “As though he were two people, do you mean?”

  “Or several people, yes, sir. You are aware of this person?”