THE SECRET FETE
From A Popular History of the Proszawan Underworld by Stefan Kreuz
Der Grandiose Kanzler had been an elegant establishment before the war, serving some of the finest food and wine in Lower Proszawa. However, it had fallen on hard times and closed for good after the owner embezzled the remaining funds and eloped with one of the serving girls. A series of lawsuits kept the place shuttered since then.
But not out of business.
Now dubbed Der Fliegende Schwanz, it was a thriving speakeasy on the edge of the Pappen district, where it served the best bootleg whiskey, cocaine, and morphia in the city. Der Fliegende Schwanz was mainly a working-class establishment, but members of the gentry would sometimes visit when they were in the mood to slum for an evening. They were always welcomed with open arms because they had better pockets to pick than the usual rabble.
The bar was a merry place most nights, fueled by drugs and the ubiquitous postwar delirium. It was a gathering spot for war veterans, workers from the armaments factory, laborers from the docks, and prostitutes to drink, tell stories, and make love in the bar’s immense but empty wine cellar. Musicians played for coins all day and night. There was dancing and laughter, but seldom any fights, which was unusual for an underground saloon, with its heady mix of alcohol, drugs, and sex. Perhaps the reason the bar sidestepped so much random violence was a special sort of entertainment it offered its patrons.
A makeshift ring stood at the center of Der Fliegende Schwanz. At the top of each hour two or more Maras—freshly stolen, their functionality modified—fought gladiatorial battles to the death. Most of the purloined Maras came from bluenose families in the city’s most expensive districts, so watching them beat each other with clubs was doubly entertaining. Bookies took bets on the battles and liquor sales always went up because the winners bought the losers a round and the losers bought even more rounds to soothe their aching egos. And the music never stopped. Neither did the laughter, the lovemaking, or the drip of morphia under happy tongues.
Around midnight each night, everything in the bar stopped and the patrons sang obscene, drunken versions of patriotic songs. Many of the men were veterans and had fought in High Proszawa, so after the singing they played a game in which they spat streams of alcohol at photochromes of the Chancellor and the Minister of War nailed to the wall. The players stood behind a line on the floor and the one who came closest or hit the chromes the longest drank free for the rest of the night.
Der Fliegende Schwanz never closed. The party never stopped. The delight never ebbed. Every night was a holiday and every morning a feast. And if, on some nights, the crowds got a bit out of control during the Mara fights and started breaking bottles and glasses, who cared? Like the Maras, they were stolen. Everything was fun and nothing mattered because everyone knew that sooner or later the cannons would boom again and nothing would be fun and everything would matter.
Until then, there was always time for one more drink or one more kiss or one more drop under the tongue.
CHAPTER THREE
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.
