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.
A CURSED PLACE
From the profile “The Theater of the Grand Darkness” in Ihre Skandale
It seems entirely appropriate that the land where the Grand Dark sits was once known to the area’s residents as “Ein Verfluchter Ort”: a cursed place.
A boardinghouse once stood where the theater is now. Among the house’s long-term residents was Otto Kreizler, the serial killer better known as the Brimstone Devil for his habit of burning his victims alive. In the year it took the authorities to track Kreizler down, he murdered at least thirteen people. After a short trial, he was hanged and his body was buried in an unmarked prison grave. Still, it seemed that the Brimstone Devil hadn’t finished his work, since soon after his death the boardinghouse where he’d once lived burned to the ground, killing three people.
After the boardinghouse burned, the land stood vacant for some time. Since the area was known as an entertainment district for the lower classes, the first building to occupy the spot was Kammer des Schreckens, a wax museum of horrors depicting famous historical murders. This was later expanded to include a small cinema specializing in illicit erotica, thus adding to the area’s already dire reputation. Still, the Kammer drew steady business, so local cafés and merchants didn’t complain.
During the Great War, stray bombs leveled every building on the street—except for the Kammer. However, during those years of social repression and heavy censorship, the authorities eventually forced the theater to close.
Una Herzog, along with her business partner and lover, Horst Wehner, purchased the Kammer just a few weeks before the armistice was signed. Wehner is acknowledged to be the Dr. Krokodil in the theater’s name, but little else is known about him, as he disappeared soon after the site was rechristened the Theater of the Grand Darkness.
Like Wehner’s, Una Herzog’s past is shrouded in mystery. It is rumored that Wehner had been a spy during the war and might have been killed on one of his assignments. It’s further rumored that Una was credited with seducing one, and perhaps more, enemy officers and obtaining vital war plans. A darker version of the story goes on to say that, having grown weary of Wehner’s secrecy and possessiveness, Una convinced one of those officers to arrange for his murder.
Of course, this remains mere conjecture.
Una has stated publicly that the Brimstone Devil’s murders were her original inspiration for the Grand Dark. She’d already seen Schöner Mord—short one-act plays of murder and depravity—while abroad and believed strongly that she could bring the form home to Lower Proszawa.
While the theater went through renovations, Una’s theater troupe performed in the nearby ruins of bombed-out buildings, giving the productions a level of verisimilitude never before seen in the city. Even with the area’s unsavory reputation, the plays brought in viewers from all over Lower Proszawa, and the theater was a success from its early days.
There is one question that certain critics and conspiracy theorists always come back to when discussing Una Herzog: Where did her puppets originate? No other theater in the city had them and few people had seen similar appliances outside of the military and large corporations such as Schöne Maschinen. Whatever the truth, the strange stories swirling around Una have only enhanced her enigmatic reputation and added to the otherworldly luster of the Theater of the Grand Darkness.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Mara cruised them past bright cafés, restaurants, and dance halls. The music was frantic, the crowds laughing and boisterous. Though they were moving through Kromium, Largo knew that the streets in Little Shambles were just as wild. It had been this way since soon after the armistice was signed, an endless frantic party.
Largo frowned when he saw Petersen’s home. It was nothing more than a large but old-fashioned Imperial mansion—a great granite-and-marble box meant to show off old money. He expected more from an art patron.
Remy paid for the cab and Largo held the door for her. He could hear music, and shadows flitted by the bright windows. “What a mausoleum,” he said.
“What?” said Remy, adjusting her hair in the cab’s side mirror.
“The house. I didn’t expect your friend to live in such a dull old place. It’s not a home. It’s a bank vault.”
“If it were a bank vault he might have made it himself. His family supplies most of the steel to the government so they can make the little bombs and tanks they’re so fond of.”
“I suppose rich codgers like that have to keep up appearances,” Largo said. He turned to Remy. “Which makes you and your friends his attempt at radicalism. At least he has good taste in vices.”
Remy kissed her index finger and pressed it to Largo’s lips. “I’m your vice, dear. As for Petersen, I’m here to drink his champagne and smile prettily so he’ll shower more of those lovely war profits on us poor, deluded artists.”
She looped her arm around Largo’s as they went up the long walkway to the mansion. Maybe it was the morphia wearing off, but Largo’s self-consciousness returned. He held his free arm straight at his side, hoping that the holes in the elbow wouldn’t show. This would be so much easier, he thought, if he really were a failed poet or an aspiring musician. He wasn’t even sure he could lie well enough to pass himself off as either to justify his shabby clothes. The best he could hope for was that everyone would already be so drunk and drugged that it wouldn’t matter what he said.
A tall servant Mara, like the one in Empyrean, greeted them at the door.
“Lovely to see you,” it said, and ushered them inside. Seeing the automaton did nothing to improve Largo’s mood. Still, he forced himself to smile. The last thing he wanted to do was let Remy down in front of these people.
A large Proszawan flag on the wall directly across from the front door caught Largo’s eye. He supposed it was there to signal patriotism during uncertain times, but festooned as it was with balloons and tinsel, the flag looked more like something that would be up in the back of the Grand Dark as a joke. Next to the flag was a winding marble staircase lined with ancient tapestries and flowers in golden pots. Below that was a white grand piano. A man in a tuxedo played something light and fast, but Largo couldn’t pick out a melody over the sound of an amplified gramophone in the next room. Remy took his hand and led him inside.
The living room was enormous, the largest Largo had ever seen. The ceiling was two stories high and the large windows overlooking Heldenblut Bay were each a single pane of flawless glass. Almost everything in the room was white, except for the sofa and chairs, which were a vivid crimson.
The room was crowded with guests and heavy with smoke. Young couples in tuxedos and evening gowns and older men with waxed mustaches mixed easily with artists in clothes that were no better than Largo’s. However, he noted that the artists were comfortable and wore their garb stylishly. Seeing the shabby artists made Largo feel better and more determined to relax and at least appear at home in his rags.
Remy waved to a group of about eight people across the room. She tugged Largo to an oversize chaise longue where Lucie, another performer from the Grand Dark, had fallen asleep on her side holding a full flute of champagne that, miraculously, hadn’t spilled. Remy sat down next to Lucie and pulled Largo down beside her. She reached across the sleeping woman and gently plucked the champagne from her hand. “Lucie won’t mind,” Remy said, and downed the whole glass.
Her artist friends, reclining on the floor atop pillows and draped on the sofa, laughed. Largo recognized Enki Helm, the blind painter who worked in the absurdist Xuxu style more, Largo suspected, out of luck than talent. There was Bianca, an aspiring opera singer whom Largo liked and who—famously—was discovered while singing for pennies in the streets. Baumann was there too. Of course he’s here. He was a young up-and-coming film actor so handsome that Largo wanted to slap him. Instead, he smiled at them all and they raised glasses or nodded in response.
“Where have you been, Remy?” said Baumann, not even acknowledging Largo sitting beside her. “The evening couldn’t properly start without you.”
Remy said, “I could say that I was working, but really I was waiting until you were done with your boring stories about which society ladies you’re sleeping with.”
Baumann sat up in feigned indignation. “My affairs are never boring, and my stories even less so.”
“That depends on how many times you’ve heard them,” said Bianca. “Really, you must bed either more of these old fraus or fewer more-interesting ones.”
“Does anyone else have love advice for me?” said Baumann. “How about you, Largo? You’ve charmed lovely Remy here. What’s your secret?”
Largo froze. He couldn’t think of a thing to say to the bright and witty group. Luckily, before his silence became awkward, he was saved by a Mara that approached the group with more champagne. During the minute or so it took for everyone to get a glass, Largo had time to think. “I’m just the right size,” he said.
“What does that mean?” said Enki.
“For her to dress.”
Remy laughed, spilling champagne onto her lap. She took a napkin lodged under Lucie’s arm and wiped herself off, saying, “It’s true. He is the absolutely perfect size. Do you like his shirt? It belongs to Blixa Konstantin, the tragic victim in our second show.”
Bianca gave a snorting laugh and fell against Enki. Hanna, a biological artist who designed custom chimeras for Lower Proszawa’s richest families, tugged open Largo’s jacket and ran her fingers teasingly over the shirt.
“It’s lovely material,” she said. “If you were to die tonight you’d make a gorgeous cadaver.”
Remy took Hanna’s hand away from Largo’s chest and placed it on her own. “And what about me? Would you sneak a feel of my corpse?”
Hanna placed another hand on Remy’s breasts. She said, “Alive or dead, you always look good enough to eat.” Remy gave her a dainty kiss on the cheek.
“Already on to necrophilia, are we?” said Strum, the poet. “Or is it cannibalism? And barely eleven o’clock.”
Hanna sat down on a pillow at Remy’s feet. She looped an arm around one of Remy’s legs and one around one of Largo’s. He looked at Remy and she clinked her champagne flute against his. He didn’t know what that meant, but he smiled as if he did, wishing they could sneak off together and take more cocaine.
Lucie said, “Strum was telling us about his new epic poem. What was it called again?”
“The Sailor’s Call. It’s all empire and blood and sacred duty. Complete garbage.”
“Then why did you write it?” said Bianca.
“Because it paid more than my last two books combined,” he said in an attempt at a joking tone. “There’s art and there’s keeping a roof over one’s head. Sadly, in those moments, the roof always wins.”
“How sad for you,” said Hanna.
“If only you enjoyed the rain more,” said Baumann. “Then you could look at a roof as a luxury.”
“True,” said Strum. “It’s my fault for being born a poet and not a duck.”
A few of them laughed, but most smiled politely. Largo felt a pang of pity for the man. Seeing a respected artist forced to betray his gifts made him happy that he had no such ambitions. Before he could dwell on it, a shout cut into his thoughts.
“It’s Frida!” Bianca said, pointing across the room to where an elegant woman in furs and a salmon-colored gown looked this way and that. “She must have married that Baron she’s been after. Frida!” yelled Bianca. The woman waved her over. Bianca and several other members of the group got up and went to her.
The only ones left around the chaise were sleeping Lucie, Remy, Largo, Hanna, and Enki.
“A Baron,” Enki said contemptuously. “The very class that’s ruining this country. They’ll drag us into another war before any enemy does.”
“Please don’t start a tedious screed, Enki,” said Hanna. “Can’t you see I’m trying to seduce these young innocents? You’ll put them right to sleep.”
