Anna Maria nodded and rose to fetch the buckets from the back garden. Out in the brilliant day, her eyes squeezed shut from the hours in the dark rooms. The hens were squawking over a cat, and she could see one or two neighbors spying at her from behind their curtains. She stared defiantly up at them, fists clenched, as if she would pummel them in a word.
She took up the yoke and buckets and made the short walk to Merchant’s Square, where life went on all the same. A group of military men were drinking beer at outdoor tables. They laughed and sang, glad to be home, until one of them caught sight of her. “Mrs. Wallander?” he called in her direction. She shuffled on, head down, and filled her buckets at the water wagon. “Mrs. Wallander?” Louder this time.
It was useless to pretend. She felt the burning anger rise but willed herself as cool as the stones at her feet. “If you call to me, it is Miss Plomgren now. I am no longer Mrs. Wallander. But I knew her. And she says that you should tell the man of that name that he is a squirming spawn of the devil and his pox-covered cock the pestilent staff of Satan. May he rot in hell, with his head bashed in, over and over and over again.” She spat, and waited, for these were men who would defend Lucifer himself if he wore the regiment’s colors. The only reply was a breeze that flapped the clothes hanging across the alley and a gull calling overhead. Anna Maria felt sweat on her brow, felt alive for the first time in days.
One man stood, a fleshy captain, his uniform wet with beer. He gave an awkward half-bow. “You would do best not to speak of him so, Mrs., Miss Wall . . . gren. He is gone, Captain Wallander, but as a hero. The king has awarded him the title of major. We drink to him now, and then we meant to come to you with the news and the insignia he won at such great cost.”
“All I care to have is his pension.”
The captain looked at his boots. “When pensions are reinstated, perhaps. Money for those luxuries is gone to the bottom of the Gulf of Finland, where your hero lies.”
“And not a shilling for me? Not even his buttons?” The sun and heat and news and the gull cawing and cawing, the fir trees chopped in two and the saffron kringlor, snaking shapes that doubled back on themselves like sideways eights, the porcelain, the brandy that she had drunk at breakfast, all combined to make Anna Maria laugh. The laugh of a nightmare hag or a troll disguised as a beauty, the laugh of those at the world’s end. “Hero, you say? Hero? Pus-filled boils on an asshole hero!” Anna Maria dropped the buckets and ran to the drunken captain, grabbing his hands and pulling him after her. “You must all come at once to his house, bearing this great news. We await you with refreshments and welcome, a cool and shady space to rest and tell of his bravery in the war. Then I will tell tales of his exploits here in the bosom of his family.” The men rose and followed, somber and wary. One of them picked up the buckets. Anna Maria rounded the corner at the head of this parade and stopped before the drooping fir trees, the doorway crowded with mourners. “Here is Captain Wallander’s handiwork,” she said, gesturing to the upper floor of the house with a flourish. “His four-month-old girl, skull smashed by his raging hand and left with me to nurse into heaven.” She turned to the soldiers at the door. “If he were not dead already, he would be lashed at Iron Square, roasted on a spit in the King’s Garden, then thrown into the unmarked pit on Rullbacken with the other scum of the earth. Hero. I spit on the word, and I spit on the demented king who would name him this and leave nothing for the widow. May His Demon Fucking Sodomite Majesty hasten to join his hero, first in the dead black water of the ocean and then in the bottomless choking fiery pits of hell.” She spit at the boots of the captain, then turned and stepped over the threshold to climb the stairs, brushing the spittle from her cheek. “Come in, sirs, and look the heroism of your comrade in the face. She was a pretty baby, my Annika, at least she was before your hero dropped her to the floor because I would not suck his cock.”
The men filed by the white box decorated with gold stars to gaze at the tiny form, face covered with a white linen cloth and surrounded by myrtle and boxwood branches. They took no refreshment, and left in silence.
Anna Maria went and sat on the front stoop, holding her head in her hands and singing to herself until Mrs. Plomgren brought her in for the farewell, for no women went to the churchyard. The baby was to be buried at Jakob’s Church, where they bought a quarter plot from a family that had also lost a child, and they were lucky to get it.
Mr. Plomgren nailed the top of the white box shut and placed a myrtle wreath on the lid. Anna Maria rose and stood beside him. “Her legs, they were bound?” Mr. Plomgren nodded; no one wanted the dead to walk again, even one who had never crawled. “And which way was she lying, Father? Where lies her head?” Her father pointed to the end closest to himself, and Anna Maria closed her eyes in relief that he was so certain. “Make sure she leaves feet first from the house, Father, else she’ll come back. Feet first.” He nodded, for he knew very well the hauntings that waited a house whose dead left face-first. They would have no rest, and there was trouble enough in this house without the specter of a baby, broken by violence. Enough had been broken already.
Mother Plomgren held her daughter close. “You will mend, my plum. I will see to it that you have happiness again.”
And so Mr. Plomgren and a tailor from the Opera carried the coffin, lighter than dust, white as milk, lifted on their shoulders into the brilliant blue of the day. They walked slowly past the castle, across Holy Spirit Isle, over the bridge and past the Opera to Jakob’s Church, where they laid her in the ground. The air was rank with the vapors of the rotting, and the men held small sprays of juniper to their noses as the priest said the burial prayers. That was two years ago. Now there was a future to consider.
ON THE SECOND FLOOR of the Opera atelier, Anna Maria sat at a dressing table with a small mirror, took a round etui from her pocket, extracted the reddened cotton wad, spit on it, and blotted her lips. She practiced several faces in the glass until she saw a gentleman standing in the doorway behind her, holding a midnight blue box, intent on her reflection. She studied Lars for a moment in the mirror. Well-formed body, handsome face. His hair was worn in the newest style, his clothing was elegant and well made: blue wool coat and trousers, cream-colored stockings whole and without a tear, and a fine fur hat under his arm. She rose slowly from her chair and turned. “May I offer you some assistance?” she said, tilting her head with a smile.
Lars bowed with a flourish, set the box on a nearby table, and took her hand to kiss it. “A delivery, lovely miss. From the Nordén Atelier.”
“Mr. Nordén? Is that you?” she said coyly, leaving her hand for just a few extra seconds.
“I am,” he said bowing, “the ugly one.”
“I should like to meet the handsome one, then, as you are pleasing to look at yourself.”
“The handsome one is married, and happily, I’m afraid. But a toad and a princess are a fine match, too.”
“I am no princess, and have had a toad already,” Anna Maria said. “The venom has just gone out of me. I am looking for a prince, but as a courtesy, Mr. Toad, you might tell me your Christian name.”
“No no, dear miss, Christian is my brother’s name—the handsome one. I am called Lars.”
Anna Maria felt a warm flush rise up her neck and into her cheeks, and though she tried to will herself pale she could not. “Enchanté,” she said. She held out her hand to take the package, and Lars took hold of her hand.
“And you have yet to say your given name, which is most unfair.”
Mother Plomgren came bustling over, looking pleasantly alarmed. “What have we here, my dear girl, sir, what is it we might be of assistance with here? Oh! Mr. Nordén!”
Lars reluctantly released Anna Maria’s hand and took up the mother’s to kiss. “It is to your expert hand I am instructed to deliver my package, Mrs. Plomgren.” Mother Plomgren’s lips pursed and released a squeak. She pulled her hand away and clasped it with the other. “The package then, the package, yes! Rarities aw
ait inside.” She pressed the package to her bosom like a doll and led Lars and Anna Maria to a worktable by the window, where they would have adequate light.
“We have been eagerly anticipating the arrival of these beauties, haven’t we, plum, haven’t we? Ordered special by Duke Karl himself for the performance. On recommendation from a very fine lady who knows everything about folding fans,” she whispered, carefully removing the lid and peering inside. A perfume of lemon verbena rose subtly into the air. There were three identical blue boxes resting on the blue velvet lining, each with a tiny crystal stone that winked up at them. Mother Plomgren winked at her daughter. “Come, darling, and show Mr. Nordén your art.”
Anna Maria chose one box and removed the fan inside, warming it in her hand. It was delightfully sinister. Closed, it resembled a small scimitar, for the guards were curved and came to a point, and were covered with polished silver leaf. The pivot stop was mounted with a garnet. “I forget, Mother, is there a murder in this opera?”
“They all have a murder in them, silly, all of them,” she scolded.
Anna Maria opened the fan soundlessly, pleat by pleat, a trick that she had practiced for months before mastering. When she had pulled the last fold open with the force of her little finger, she held the fan face out so that her mother could see. Anna Maria kept her eyes on her mother’s expression, aware that Lars’ eyes were on her. Mother Plomgren leaned in toward the fan, a smile forming on her lips. She was in the presence of something so well wrought, her eyes narrowed for focus, and became shiny with a hint of tears. “Exactly what we had hoped for, Mr. Nordén, exactly,” Mother Plomgren said. “What do you say, my plum?”
Anna Maria brought the fan up to eye level. It had been made to appear old, opening a full 180 degrees. The sticks were ivory, set tight to one another, and visible for only a quarter of the length. The focus of the fan was the leaf. It had a double face, and the verso was painted to resemble a sheet of music, silver sequins marking the notes. She turned the fan over to study the recto, painted with a grotesque mask of weathered stone. The mouth was open in horror and the eyes were pierced with oval openings and lined with black mesh, peepholes through which one might observe in anonymity.
“Her face is that of a monster, Mr. Nordén,” Anna Maria said, and for a moment she lost her flirtatious charm.
“It’s Orfeo, my dear. She is one of three Furies that guard the gates of Hades,” Mother Plomgren said. “Let’s have the trio shall we?”
Anna Maria opened the twin, and then the triplet, and placed them on the tabletop. She picked them up one at a time, pulling each fan open without appearing to move her hand at all, poking at the pleats, twisting the rivet. “One is weighted slightly off center, and the pin is set too tight, so the movement is not what I would wish. But other than that, they are lovely to hold and a fine size.” Lars’s mouth opened slightly at this exhibition of expertise. “Tell your handsome brother that he is a great artist, and the ladies of the Royal Opera Atelier applaud him.”
“And what of the artists’ ugly brother? May he have a smattering of applause for a fine delivery?”
Anna Maria and her mother dutifully clapped, then Mother Plomgren turned to the fans once again. “Let’s put these sweet girls to bed where we shall keep them sealed and safe.” Mother Plomgren took the last fan and expertly closed it with a snap. She placed all three in their boxes and wrapped the case in a cloth.
“Mind, Mr. Nordén, we’ll have a lengthy look at all three later, and bring them personally if they require adjustment,” Anna Maria said to Lars, her lips forming a smile that was her mother’s double, but much younger, much moister, and much, much redder.
“The Nordén shop is just a pleasant stroll from here. We would be honored if you would call.”
“Next Monday, then, for tea,” Mother Plomgren blurted out.
Lars bowed to both ladies and left, stopping at the door for one last look.
“A second act, my dear, and a handsome one as well,” Mother Plomgren said, nudging her daughter in the ribs.
Chapter Twenty-Three
En Garde
Sources: M. Nordén, L. Nordén, Mother Plomgren (inebriated)
THE PLOMGREN LADIES made their way up Government Street, clutching at each other’s sleeves and hugging the buildings, desperately trying to maneuver over the layer of ice that had formed during the night. When they reached the Nordén shop, candles illuminated a window display of silk fans in red and gold, embellished with tiny feathers tucked inside the pleats. Mother Plomgren squeezed her daughter’s arm. “He has the beeswax out for you, he does. Be sweet, now, be sweet.”
“Are my lips too rouged?” she asked. “I don’t want to look like a tart.”
“A delicious plum tart you are, my dear, delicious, and nothing wrong with that. You smell nice as well. Lily of the valley. Very innocent,” Mother Plomgren added, and knocked discreetly on the glass pane of the entrance door. Lars welcomed them with bows and flowery greetings, and the scent of lemon and baking on the warm air of the shop. He ushered them in and took their wraps and hats, careful to shake off the snow. The striped yellow room was dim at this hour, and the ceiling was lost in the gloom. Their shadows leapt up the wall as the lamps fluttered from the draft of an interior door opening and closing silently, and there stood Margot and Christian, laden tea trays in hand.
“You are here already?” Christian asked.
“Ah, but of course he means to say, you are so welcome in our shop, ladies, and we apologize that we are delinquent in our preparations for your visit. We are enchanted,” said Margot in French. The faces of the Plomgren ladies held frozen smiles.
“Would you mind terribly if we conversed in Swedish, ladies? Mrs. Nordén needs to practice. Is that not so, my love?” Christian said, setting down the tea tray and wiping his hands on his trousers. “As Mrs. Nordén said, we apologize, for we are late.” He went to Mother Plomgren, kissed her hand, and introduced himself.
“So you are the maestro?” she asked.
“Yes, yes and this is Mrs. Nordén,” Christian said. “We have been in France for some time and so are not always sure what manners or language we should use. I hope that we have not offended you.”
“Oh no, we work in the theater so we are well used to manners and language of the most outrageous sort, aren’t we, my plum?” Mother Plomgren said cheerfully.
“We are great admirers of your fans, Mr. Nordén,” Anna Maria said. “We wanted to see for ourselves the source of their magic.” Christian and Lars bowed at this compliment, much to Margot’s shock, and she spilled a drop of cream as she prepared the tea.
Lars went to take Anna Maria’s hand. “I have already told my brother of your magic, Miss Plomgren. We don’t often see our fans manipulated with such skill, and it hurts when our art lies dead in the hand. Perhaps you would give my brother and his wife a demonstration.”
Mother Plomgren cooed her approval. Christian took a fan from the case and handed it to Anna Maria. “She is called Diana. She is made for swiftness.”
Anna Maria opened her slowly, noting the heft of the guards and the parchment blade with lace inserts. The face was painted with a hunting scene, a female archer poised to shoot. She closed the fan to half, then a quarter, then an eighth. Her audience waited for the final snap shut, but instead she opened her wide, with a sigh of air, like a bird unfurling its wings. Then Anna Maria fanned with dizzying speed, creating a breeze that fluttered the lamplight, stopped, and handed the fan to Margot. “Lace is an unfortunate choice for a huntress,” she said, “but Diana can take down any stag, even surrounded by nets.” Mother Plomgren and Lars applauded, but Christian stood, looking up at the ceiling.
“Who is your teacher,” Christian said finally.
“I am self-taught,” Anna Maria said.
“Opera taught,” Mother Plomgren corrected, sitting down with a thump and helping herself to a petit four.
“There is a renowned teacher here in the Town. Madame Uza
nne.” Christian continued to study the chandelier. “I am engaged to give a lecture at her home in mid-December.”
“I have had the exact same thought, Christian!” Lars stood next to his brother, turning his gaze to the chandelier as well. “I imagine Madame Uzanne would be interested in someone with Miss Plomgren’s abilities. I imagine Miss Plomgren would give your lecture some dramatic flair that would further engage the young ladies.” Margot turned to Lars in disbelief.
“We don’t have the same thought.” Christian looked perplexed. “I will speak on the geometry of the fan and meant to ask Miss Plomgren her theories on it.”
“Pfffft!” Mother Plomgren waved her hand in the air, dismissing his plan. “Young girls want Venus not Apollo.”
“Perhaps Miss Plomgren might accompany you, as such?” Lars suggested.
Mother Plomgren’s eyes opened wide, as if the doors of the future had been unlocked by these words. “Yes,” she whispered. “My plum will make a wonderful addition. She will do whatever she is told.”
Anna Maria turned to Lars. “If it would benefit the Nordén Atelier . . .”
Margot watched the two of them with narrowed eyes. “I am not certain of the etiquette in this invitation. Only Christian was invited.”
“The Town resembles Paris in that artists are encouraged, Mrs. Nordén,” Anna Maria said. “An entourage would be welcomed. Expected, even. We have égalité without the rioting and blood.”
“Is this so, Christian?” Margot asked.
“Believe her, Mrs. Nordén. My plum is well versed in the ways of the Town,” Mother Plomgren said, then frowned. “Oh my dear, we will have the expense of a sled.”
“Of course the ladies Plomgren will travel with us,” Lars said.
“You are going as well?” Margot asked.
The Stockholm Octavo Page 16
