The Stockholm Octavo

by Karen Engelmann

  “Be seated, ladies.” The Uzanne appeared pleased with their instant obedience, but not so pleased as to let her students relax. “You must learn that every movement creates a form, every form creates a meaning. To be mindful of these details is the first step toward mastery. And so, Mr. Christian Nordén and today’s lecture.”

  The word lecture made faces fall, the subtle slapping of fans and sighs created a low tide of protest that ran just above the floorboards, barely audible under the smattering of applause. A maid opened a panel door in the far wall of the salon with a sudden swoosh of air and gestured to someone inside. A fine-looking man in his prime emerged, walked to the front of the room, and placed a stack of papers on the seat of a nearby chair. I could see the back of his bottle green jacket was splotched with sweat. He waited for Madame to give the signal to begin. Instead, she turned to him with a frown.

  “I was just engaged in a heated conversation, Mr. Nordén, and was hoping you might arbitrate the dispute.” Christian bowed and waited. “I believe the use of a fan requires knowledge and rigorous study. Even the basic language of the fan consists of strictly established movements, so both ladies and gentlemen might understand it. But my friend Mrs. Beech suggests that one might just as easily wield a fan using the fluid principles of inspiration. What is your opinion?”

  I leaned over to Master Fredrik. “Who is Mrs. Beech?”

  “She serves in the household of the Little Duchess, Duke Karl’s wife,” he whispered knowingly. “That is Mrs. Beech’s daughter, the pimply one in lavender.”

  “Clearly the Beeches have some purpose other than adding grace and beauty.”

  “Beech is a linchpin in the machinery of love. Keeps the Little Duchess out of the way,” he said winking. “Watch how Madame greases the wheel.”

  I looked back at the delicate politics in play before us. The muscles in Christian’s face twitched as he struggled with his thoughts; his answer might mean his advancement to purveyor to aristocrats, or his descent to the market stall trade. “I am afraid I must agree with you both,” he said. Madame closed her fan. Mrs. Beech wrinkled her nose. The garden of lovelies sat as still as a bed of roses on a hot summer night before a violent storm. “I think of the proper handling of a fan as a branch of mathematics. Geometry, to be precise,” Christian continued. The Uzanne slowly raised her fan and rested it gently upon her right cheek: yes. Christian’s expression transformed from that of a nervous schoolboy’s to the calm and solemn mask of the master craftsman he was. “Geometry is a course of mathematical study that has rules that must be adhered to”—he nodded to Madame—“but requires leaps of imagination.” Christian nodded to Mrs. Beech, whose chins waggled in appreciation. There was a flutter of air as fans were released and set in attentive motion. “Two basic shapes are at the heart of the fan: the square and the circle. This is the masculine and the feminine, the material and the eternal. With the circle and square, any form is possible: rectangle, triangle, octagon, spiral, and from these, an infinity of dazzling combinations.” I thought at once of Mrs. Sparrow and her Divine Geometry, wondering if Christian was a student of this science as well. It would be interesting to question him later about the octagon and the significance of the eight.

  Christian continued. “I am fortunate to be engaged in the study of the secrets of ancient geometry. I have read the scholarly works of . . .” The girls’ expectant looks were replaced with utter blankness. “As you may know, the great puzzle of squaring the circle has been pondered through the ages. There is a theory that procreation . . .” Giggling. Tittering. Sshhhsing. Christian was sweating profusely now, and took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow.

  Only The Uzanne seemed to be truly focused on his words. “Perhaps you could explain this in a more elementary way for the young ladies?” She turned her body slowly toward her students, who quieted at once.

  Christian looked out over the vacant faces of the girls, then at Margot, his face a mask of desperation. His wife gave him such a sweet look, so full of love, that even I remembered her philosophy: the fans were to bring happiness, beauty, and romance. Christian cleared his throat and forced himself to smile. “All of this theory leads only to the finished instrument, whose sole purpose is to bring happiness, beauty, and romance. Power lies with the lady who has mastered her use”—he bowed toward The Uzanne—“for this is the geometry that will build the Temple of Eros.” With this announcement, postures improved and dresses rustled in approval. “You will easily learn the movements that make up the language of the fan, but I believe that your real instruction will go much further: this is the geometry I speak of. It is not rigid, as geometry in the pages of a textbook, but it is amazingly correct, and as fluid as the reality around us. Those who practice this geometry learn to feel a perfect circle. They can draw a straight line from any A to any B with a gesture. Triangles of all sorts are easily and often arranged. Parallels, intersections, and complex figures—all of these are possible. This is the geometry of the body.”

  “And what can this geometry make for us, Mr. Nordén?” The Uzanne asked.

  “Madame Uzanne, I am of the belief that this geometry can create anything you can imagine. Anything,” he repeated. “In short, you may build an edifice of your choosing, a palace or a prison.”

  The Uzanne smiled at him in such a way that a casual observer might think that a passionate love affair was imminent. “I plan to make one of each.” There was an awkward pause, and then the guests applauded with polite enthusiasm. Nordén seemed relieved beyond measure, bowing to every corner. But the moment of glory was fractured when one of the young ladies, a juicy apricot of a girl with flaxen hair twirled up into an impossible confection, raised her fan in the air.

  “Madame Uzanne, please, when are we to learn the language of the fan?” There was a murmur of urgent assent from the girls.

  Madame Uzanne closed her fan and drew it through her hand, causing several of the older ladies to gasp. This gesture was obviously not a compliment. “Forgive me if I have assumed you to be more advanced than you are. We will need to begin at the beginning. Surely there is one young lady who has mastered these basics and can join me in a demonstration.”

  Not one of the girls moved. Then there came a stirring from the side of the room near the windows, more rustling of fabric, whispered encouragement, and then from the bench, the voice of Mother Plomgren, “Here is one to join you, Madame—a hand with a folding fan that has served the Royal Opera. Miss Anna Maria Plomgren, my daughter I am proud to say, and a treasure.” Anna Maria was already on her feet. Her face burned with excitement, her eyes bright under downcast lashes. I had underestimated her fire.

  Anna Maria joined The Uzanne, curtsied, and waited, anticipation causing her to rock up and down on her toes until she caught the disapproving glance from The Uzanne. She became still as a frozen lake—still but for her fingers, eagerly squeezing the smooth guards of her fan.

  “Miss Plomgren, I would like to see you open your fan, and then indicate to me that you are ready to receive my message,” The Uzanne instructed. It was the simplest of requests, a basic maneuver that would tell her everything. Anna Maria flicked open her fan with an expert snap, then shifted it into her left hand, holding it open and still exactly over her heart. Every gentleman in the room had suddenly become as rapt with the lesson as the girls, but there was no need for an interpreter. Anna Maria was her own language. I pushed forward, scraping the floor with the chair in the hope that she would look my way, but Anna Maria was intent upon the face of The Uzanne.

  “At what time do you anticipate that refreshments will be served?” Anna Maria closed the fan until only three sticks were showing. She did not once glance down at her fan, but looked directly into the eyes of The Uzanne, a faint smile hovering on her lips.

  “And how might you indicate that you would like to be seated next to me?” The Uzanne asked.

  Anna Maria raised the partially open fan, still held in her left hand, to cover the lower half of h
er face, her smile still visible in her eyes.

  “Now I should like you to say good-bye,” The Uzanne said. Anna Maria slowly closed the fan, held it by the blade end, and touched the rivet to her lips. It was not a gesture The Uzanne expected, nor was it one she had ever received from a woman: kiss me. The Uzanne’s eyes widened ever so slightly, and a faint pink bloomed beneath the powder on her cheeks. She seemed frozen to the floor. The salon burst into appreciative applause, not the least of which was Lars calling brava. The Uzanne returned to her senses. “Young ladies, note the rewards of diligent practice and the effect of a disarming blow. Miss Plomgren, please demonstrate further while I observe,” The Uzanne said.

  The girls shifted their chairs and craned their necks to better follow Anna Maria’s every move. She walked serenely among them, answering queries with a hint of disdain, adjusting fingers with just a hint of force. Lars trailed her like a footman, ready to serve. Soon the students were on their feet, practicing, chattering, aiming their messages at various men. Johanna appeared in this mix, a wary look on her face and fan clutched like a cudgel; she knew a rival when she saw one, even if said rival came from common stock. The Uzanne watched Anna Maria closely. “Miss Plomgren, you belong at Gullenborg. I would like to engage your services as my assistant for the weekly practice sessions that will be held between our formal lectures,” The Uzanne said, extending her hand. Anna Maria dropped into a stage curtsy worthy of an encore. I could hear Mother Plomgren, from her perch on the bench, cooing at this unexpected advance of her daughter, an advancement she herself would ride. “Carry on,” The Uzanne said, and the statement was followed by a whoosh of fans and excited chatter.

  I turned my attentions to Christian; I had a favor to ask in light of my emerging eight. With the lecture concluded, Christian assumed that he was dismissed and was gathering his extravagant letters of introduction. The Uzanne approached him, took a page, and read it. He waited stiffly for her response.

  “I am pleased that you honored King Gustav’s mother, the late Queen Louisa. There was a regent who learned her role properly in the end: beacon of culture, servant of the nobility, symbolic ruler. Her time was called the Era of Freedom, Mr. Nordén. The Era of Freedom. She despised her son Gustav,” she said.

  Margot had warned Christian to leave politics aside. He nodded politely. “I am afraid I do not know, Madame. I have been so many years in France.”

  The Uzanne obliged this dodge and took his arm. “I am intrigued with your theories, Mr. Nordén. Both alchemists and philosophers have called geometry the juncture of art and science, and that is the fan in a word, is it not?” Christian agreed enthusiastically. “Tell me, do you think that the power of the fan lies in the instrument or the hand that wields her?”

  “A woman with your skills and the perfect fan would be the combined ideal.”

  She gave an artful sigh, and released his arm. “My perfect fan was lost.” She watched his face for the slightest twitch of the mouth, the minute furrow of the brow. Master Fredrik’s inquiries in the fan shops had come up blank, but she might press a place where he could not. “On her face was a sunset scene of a black coach, so enticing it moved a king from his own queen’s bed. I would give anything to have her back.”

  “I quite understand your passion, Madame,” Christian said with the utmost sincerity. “Every fan that leaves the shop is like a death to me. It is a terrible philosophy for business, I am afraid.” Christian gazed up at the ceiling thinking, and bumped into a table. “What was it about your fan that causes you such longing?”

  “You speak of my fan in the past tense, but she is merely missing, and I will find her. Her name is Cassiopeia and once belonged to a woman of great influence, a woman whose path I plan to emulate.” Christian gave her a quizzical look. “Madame de Montespan, First Mistress to the Sun King. She gave him several children, if I remember, but some say Montespan’s real powers were of a darker nature.”

  “Darkness could never be an aspect of your nature, Madame.”

  “Sometimes we are forced to darkness, Mr. Nordén.” The Uzanne stopped and held out her hand, this time allowing Nordén’s lips to linger on her skin. “It is crucial that my fan maker have a perfect understanding of my desires. I look forward to a long and meaningful association.” The Uzanne turned and walked toward the Russian ambassador, deep in conversation with General Pechlin.

  Christian sat upon one of the unoccupied chairs and closed his eyes for a moment to keep joyous tears from spilling out. I approached him, but he was quite distracted, looking about the room. “May I be of some assistance?” I asked. “We have not met, but I am a customer of your shop and met Mrs. Nordén there. I am Sekretaire Larsson.”

  “Thank you, Sekretaire, for your custom and your concern. I am pleased to meet you,” he said, taking my hand in a warm grasp, “and excuse my behavior. I am eager to share some good news with Mrs. Nordén.”

  “We have several things in common, sir. We are in the same lodge, and I am acquainted with Master Fredrik as well. I also know a certain Mrs. S.” His face became wary; I knew his strict rule of confidentiality. “I was wondering if you might give me the gift of an introduction. To another client of yours. Miss Plomgren.” Before he could reply, The Uzanne gave the signal for attention, her form dark against the brilliance of the snow beyond the glass of the French doors. The room quieted, guests crept back to their seats. “I will speak to you when the class is done,” I whispered.

  “We appreciate Miss Plomgren’s demonstration of the language of the fan,” The Uzanne said. There was scattered applause. “She will be sharing her skill and knowledge with you all in the coming months. When your time at Gullenborg is complete, you will have mastered the language completely. But this is a child’s simple speech compared to what follows. You are here to learn so much more.” She leaned forward on these words, as if sharing a secret. “I am speaking of Engagement.” The young ladies nodded, as if they knew already. The men could only hold their breath and stare.

  The Uzanne stood still, fan fluttering at the level of her rib cage. “Engagement is the first phase of battle, and in your hands, young ladies, lies one of the most useful weapons at your disposal. And one of the few.” She walked toward a gentlemen’s table on my right. Pechlin and three other men leaned in toward each other, voices hushed and insistent, deep in a passionate argument that they could not release. “Engagement is a skill that transcends any language, harnessing the power of attraction. True mastery of engagement may seem inconsequential, but if you wish to triumph, you must command attention from those you wish to conquer.”

  Now Pechlin’s table came under her spell, except for a striking young man in a black and white waistcoat who continued to talk. Master Fredrik leaned in, ever the source of learning. “That is Adolph Ribbing, a hotheaded enemy of the king who is courted by Pechlin. Ribbing shot Gustav’s equerry in a duel over a woman, and Madame wants him in her camp.”

  The Uzanne closed her fan and placed it against Ribbing’s cheek, gently turning his head toward her. He fell silent. “Attention cannot be forced, but it can be encouraged.” His face was level with the low curve of her belly, and he raised his eyes to hers. “Captivation is the first step in communication.” She did not blink and drew her fan down the side of his neck, then leaned over him, breasts pushing up against lace. “Offer something of interest, and you will get something in return.” She pulled the fan away and began a rhythmic, vertical stroke, fanning his face. Her cheeks and lips grew flushed. A curl of hair came loose and fell tumbling against the perfect skin of her neck.

  “What service may I offer, Madame?” he asked.

  “One should always speak of that in private,” she said, “but for the sake of my students I will say it. Engagement.”

  There were sighs from the young ladies. The young man tugged at his coat. “Marriage is serious business, Madame,” he said stiffly.

  “Then we will engage in something besides matrimony,” she replied, fanning his
face in languorous figure eights. She bent her lips to his ear and filled it with some private message. The room was spellbound, only the faint ticking of the mantel clock pulled us forward in time. The Uzanne turned her head and nodded to her students. The young ladies bit their lips, frustrated with their lack of knowledge and experience. They took up their fans nonetheless, casting looks and the most basic of messages at the officers and gentlemen. The mothers and chaperones added their approval, gesturing for bolder actions from their charges. The girls leaned into the challenge, turning to show their figures to advantage, allowing a bare forearm to touch their bosoms, fingers arched just so over the guards of their fans. The murmurs and whispers of messengers, recipients, and observers were underscored by throaty laughter. Fragments of bawdy songs were added, moans and sighs were heard. Fans were slapped and dropped and thrust. This increased in volume and tempo until the room was filled with a hum, a buzz, out of which no single word could be taken. There was only the sound of desire.

  “Madame, what service may I offer?” Master Fredrik moaned softly and began to hum a bawdy song in his low baritone. Christian went in search of Margot. Lars hung on Anna Maria like a shadow, Mother Plomgren grinning madly. Johanna pressed herself against the wall, a look of near panic on her face. I was glad to be seated at a table, for my trousers were bulging and I was sweating profusely.

  Louisa stood waiting by the servants’ door for the word. “My guests are clearly ravenous. I think it is time for refreshments,” The Uzanne said. As the servants entered with laden silver trays, hunger overtook the crowd. They called for Champagne and crushed strawberries, ices, and whipped chocolate. Waiters rushed in to fulfill their wishes, bearing platters of moist cakes, ripe fruit, lemon tarts, and chocolate truffles. The kitchen girls snuck up from the cellar to add their heat. Even Old Cook peered through the portal to view this voracious crowd, giddy at their pleasure. The Uzanne, one hand resting lightly on Ribbing’s shoulder, watched the proceedings with the gaze of a scientist and the smile of a successful courtesan.