Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

by Gordon Dahlquist

  The woman was not Lydia Vandaariff, but someone with brown hair. In the glimpse of the room beyond the Prince, Svenson had been shocked to see other people—spectators?—and something else beyond them—an open door? a window?—but he let it be and with more effort than he expected wrenched his gaze from the card. What was he looking at? He looked down at himself with a spasm of shame—he had become quite aroused. What’s more—he forced his mind to think clearly—he had been aware of moments within the interaction that he had not actually seen…the woman touching herself, both for pleasure and to gauge her lubrication, Karl-Horst fumbling with his trousers, and the moment of penetration itself…all of these, he realized, came from the point of view, the experiential point of view, of the woman—though the moments themselves had not been seen at all. With a breath of preparation he fixed his eyes again on the glass card, sinking into it as if he was entering a deep pool: first the bare sofa, then the woman pulling up her dress, then the Prince stepping between her legs, the coupling itself, the woman turning her head, the mirror, the reflection, and then, a moment later, the view was again the bare sofa—and then the entire scene was repeated…and then repeated again.

  Svenson put down the card. His breath was rapid. What was he holding? It was as if the essence of this woman’s feeling had been captured and somehow infused into this tiny window. And who was the woman? Who were the spectators? When had this happened? And who had instructed the Prince on where and how to hide it? He watched it again and found that he was able, with intense concentration, to slow the progress of movement, to dwell in a particular instant, with almost unbearably delicious results. With a firm resolve he pushed himself on to the moment with the mirror, studying the reflection closely. He was able to discern that the figures—perhaps ten men and women—were also masked, but he recognized none of them. He nudged himself onward and saw, in the last instants, an open doorway—someone must have been leaving the room—and through it a window, perhaps distant, with something written on it, in reverse, the letters E-L-A. At first, this made him think he was looking out from a tavern—the word “ale” being an advertisement—but the more he thought of the luxury of the room, and the elegance of the party, and the distance between the door and the lettered window the less a tavern or even restaurant seemed likely.

  His thinking stalled for a moment and then he suddenly had it. A hotel. The St. Royale.

  Within five minutes Svenson was in a coach, wheeling toward what was perhaps the most esteemed hotel in the city, in the heart of the Circus Garden, the card and his revolver in separate pockets of his coat. He was no creature of luxury or privilege—he could only adopt the haughty manner of those he knew from the Macklenburg court and hope he found people able to help, either through natural sympathy or by intimidation. His initial intention was merely to locate the Prince and assure himself of the fool’s safety. Beyond this, if he could gain any insight into the origin and construction of the glass card, he would be very interested, for it confirmed how yet again Karl-Horst was mixing with figures whose ambitions he did not comprehend. While Svenson had an immediate carnal appreciation for the lurid possibilities of such an invention, he knew the true import was more far-reaching, well beyond his own too deliberate imagination.

  He entered the St. Royale’s bright lobby and casually glanced at the front windows, locating the letters he had seen reflected. They were to his left, and as he walked toward them he attempted to place the doorway through which the window had been seen. He could not. The wall where it ought to have been was flush and apparently seamless. He crossed to it, leaned against the wall, and took his time digging out a cigarette and lighting it, looking closely but to no avail. Hanging on the wall near him was a large mirror in a heavy gold frame. He stood in front of it, seeing his own frustration. The mirror itself was large, but it did not reach closer than three feet to the floor—it could hardly conceal an entrance. Svenson sighed and looked around him in the lobby—guests walked in and out or sat on the various leather banquettes. Not knowing what else to do, he crossed toward the main desk. As he passed the large stairwell to the upper stories he stepped out of his way to allow two women to more easily descend, nodding to them politely. As he did so his mind suddenly reeled with the fragrance of sandalwood. He looked up in shock, taking in one woman’s light brown hair, the delicate nape of her neck as she passed. It was the woman from the glass card—he was sure of it—so strong was the resonance of her perfume, despite the fact that Svenson knew he had never smelled it before, and certainly did not smell it within the card. Nevertheless, the precise interaction of that perfume and this woman’s body was something he was as intimately familiar with—he could not say how—as the woman must be herself.

  The two women had continued toward the hotel’s restaurant. Doctor Svenson darted after them, catching up just before they reached the entrance, and cleared his throat. They turned. He was taken aback to see the woman with brown hair’s face was disfigured by a thin looping burn that wrapped around both of her eyes and onto each temple. She wore an elegant dress of pale blue, her skin was quite fair and otherwise unblemished, her lips were painted red. Her companion was shorter than she, hair a darker brown, face a trifle more round; in her own way equally appealing, yet bearing the same distressing scars. She wore a striped dress of imperial yellow and pale green, with a high lace collar. Under the full beam of their attention, Svenson abruptly began to grope for his words. He had never been married, he had never lived around women at all—it was a sad fact that Doctor Svenson was more comfortable at the side of a corpse than a living female.

  “I beg your pardon, ladies—if I might intrude upon a moment of your time?”

  They stared at him without speaking. He plunged on. “My name is Abelard Svenson—I am hoping you may assist me. I am a doctor. I am presently searching for a person under my care—a very important person, about whom, you will understand, all inquiries must be discreet.”

  They persisted in staring. The woman from the card smiled slightly, a brief flicker of interest at the corner of her mouth. Her gaze dropped to his greatcoat, the epaulettes and high collar.

  “Are you a soldier?” she asked.

  “I am a doctor, as I say, though I am an officer in the Macklenburg Navy—Captain-Surgeon Svenson, if you insist—detailed to special duties for”—his voice lowered—“diplomatic reasons.”

  “Macklenburg?” asked the other woman.

  “Indeed. It is a German principality on the Baltic coast.”

  “You do have an accent,” she said, and then giggled. “Is there not such a thing as Macklenburg Pudding?”

  “Is there?” asked the Doctor.

  “Of course there is,” the first woman said. “It has raisins, and cream, and a particular blend of spice—aniseed and cloves—”

  “And ground-up hazelnuts,” said the other. “Sprinkled on the top.”

  The Doctor nodded at them, at a loss. “I’m afraid I do not know it.”

  “I should not worry,” said the first woman, indulgently patting his arm. “Doesn’t your eye get tired?”

  They were looking at his monocle. He smiled quickly and adjusted it. “I suppose it must,” he said. “I am so used to the thing, I no longer notice.” They were still smiling, though Lord knows he had not been witty or charming—for some reason they had decided to accept him—he did his best to seize the opportunity. He nodded to the restaurant. “I presume you were about to dine. If I might share a glass of wine with you, it would be more than enough time to aid me on my quest.”

  “A quest?” said the woman from the card. “How diverting. I am Mrs. Marchmoor, my companion is Miss Poole.”

  Svenson offered an arm to each of the ladies and stepped between them—despite himself enjoying the feelings of physical contact, shifting his step slightly so the pistol in his pocket did not grind against Miss Poole. “I am most grateful for your kindness,” he said, and led them forward.

  Once inside, however, the women guide
d him past several available tables to the far side of the restaurant, where a line of discreet doors concealed private dining rooms. A waiter opened a door for them, the women disengaging themselves from Svenson’s arms and entering one after the other. Svenson nodded to the waiter and followed. As the door clicked shut behind him he realized that the room was already occupied. At the far end of a table elegantly laid with linen, china, silver, crystal, and flowers sat—or more accurately presided—a tall woman with black hair and piercing violet eyes. She wore a small black jacket over a red silk dress, subtly embroidered in yellow thread with Chinese scenes. She looked up at Svenson with a smile he recognized as neutrally polite but which nevertheless caused his breath to catch. He met her gaze and nodded respectfully. She took a sip of wine, still gazing at him. The two others had moved to either side of the table to sit adjacent to the woman in red. Svenson stood awkwardly at his end—the table was large enough for at least three people on each side—until Mrs. Marchmoor leaned forward to whisper into the woman in red’s ear. The woman nodded and smiled at him more broadly. Svenson felt himself blushing.

  “Doctor Svenson, please sit, and avail yourself of a glass of wine. It is very good, I find. I am Madame Lacquer-Sforza. Mrs. Marchmoor tells me you are on a quest.”

  Miss Poole passed a bottle of wine on a silver dish to Svenson. He took the bottle and poured for himself and the other ladies.

  “I am very sorry to intrude—as I was about to explain to these two ladies—”

  “It is very strange,” wondered Madame Lacquer-Sforza, “that you should choose to ask them. Was there a reason? Are you acquainted?”

  The ladies giggled at the thought. Svenson was quick to speak. “Of course not—you will understand that in asking them for help I am revealing the desperate nature of my search. In brief—as I have said—I am in the diplomatic service of the Duchy of Macklenburg, specifically to my Duke’s son and heir, Prince Karl-Horst von Maasmärck. He is known to have patronized this hotel. I am looking for him. It is perhaps foolish, but if any of you ladies—for I know the Prince has a great appreciation for such beauty—had perhaps seen him, or heard of his passage, and could direct me toward his present location, I should be very much obliged.”

  They smiled at him, sipping their wine. His face was flushed, he felt hot, and took a drink himself, gulping too much at once and coughing. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and cleared his throat, feeling like a twelve-year-old.

  “Doctor, please, sit down.” He’d no idea he was still standing. Madame Lacquer-Sforza smiled at him as he did, stopping half-way to stand again and remove his coat, laying it over the chair to his right. He raised his glass again. “Thank you once more for your kindness. I have no wish to intrude any more than necessary into your evening—”

  “Tell me, Doctor,” asked Mrs. Marchmoor, “is it often that you lose the Prince? Or is he such a man who needs…minding? And is such an office fitting for an officer and a surgeon?”

  The women chuckled. Svenson waved his hand, drinking more wine to steady himself—his palms were slick, his collar hot against his neck. “No, no, it is an extraordinary circumstance, we have received a particular communication from the Duke himself, and at this moment neither the Mission Envoy nor our military attaché happens to be present—nor, of course, is the Prince. With no other knowledge of his agenda, I have taken it upon myself to search—as the message requires swift reply.” He wanted urgently to mop his face but did not. “May I ask if you know of the Prince? He has spoken often of dining at the St. Royale, so you may have seen him—or you may have become acquainted with him yourselves; indeed, he is—if I may be so bold—a man for—excuse me—lovely women.”

  He took another drink. They did not answer. Miss Poole had leaned over and was whispering into Madame Lacquer-Sforza’s ear. She nodded. Miss Poole sat back and took another sip of wine. Mrs. Marchmoor was watching him. He could not help it—as he looked into her eyes he felt a flicker of pleasure, recalling—from his own memory!—the inside of her thighs. He swallowed and cleared his throat. “Mrs. Marchmoor, do you know the Prince?”

  Before she could answer, the door behind them opened and two men entered. Svenson shot to his feet, turning to face them, though neither spared him a glance. The first was a tall, lean man with a high forehead and close-cropped hair in a red uniform with yellow facing and black boots, the rank of a colonel marked by his epaulettes sewn into his collar. He had handed the waiter his coat and brass helmet and crossed directly to Madame Lacquer-Sforza, taking her hand and bending over to kiss it. He nodded to each of the other women and took a seat next to Mrs. Marchmoor, who was already pouring him a glass of wine. The second man walked to the other side of the table, past Svenson, to sit next to Miss Poole. He took Madame Lacquer-Sforza’s hand after the Colonel, but with less self-importance, and sat. He poured his own glass and took a healthy swig without ceremony. His hair was pale but streaked with grey, long and greasy, combed back behind his ears. His coat was fine enough but unkempt—in fact the man’s whole appearance gave the impression of a once-cherished article—a sofa, for example—that had been left in the rain and partially ruined. Svenson had seen men like him at his university, and wondered if this man was some kind of scholar, and if so what he was possibly doing among this party.

  Madame Lacquer-Sforza spoke. “Colonel Aspiche and Doctor Lorenz, I am pleased to introduce you to Doctor Svenson, from the Duchy of Macklenburg, part of Prince Karl-Horst von Maasmärck’s diplomatic party. Doctor Svenson, Colonel Aspiche is the new commander of the 4th regiment of Dragoons, recently made the Prince’s Own—it is quite a promotion—and Doctor Lorenz is an august member of the Royal Institute of Science and Exploration.”

  Svenson nodded to them both and raised his glass. Lorenz took it as another opportunity to drink deeply, finishing his glass and pouring another. Aspiche fixed Svenson with a particularly searching eye. Svenson knew he was looking at Trapping’s replacement—he had recognized the uniform at once—and knew the man must feel self-conscious for the circumstances of his promotion—if not, considering the missing body, for other more telling reasons as well. Svenson decided to probe the wound.

  “I have had the honor of meeting Colonel Aspiche’s unfortunate predecessor, Colonel Trapping, in the company of my Prince—on the very evening the Colonel seems to have vanished. I do hope for the sake of his family—if not a grateful nation as well—that the mystery of his disappearance will soon be solved.”

  “We are all quite grieved by the loss,” muttered Aspiche.

  “It must be difficult assuming command in such circumstances.”

  Aspiche glared at him. “A soldier does what is necessary.”

  “Doctor Lorenz,” interrupted Madame Lacquer-Sforza easily, “I believe you have visited Macklenburg.”

  “I have,” he answered—his voice was sullen and proud, like a once-whipped dog caught between rebellion and fear of another lashing. “It was winter. Cold and dark is all I can say for it.”

  “What brought you there?” asked Svenson, politely.

  “I’m sure I don’t remember,” answered Lorenz, speaking into his glass.

  “They have excellent puddings,” giggled Miss Poole, her laugh echoed across the table by Mrs. Marchmoor. Svenson took the moment to study that woman’s face. What had seemed at first to be burns struck him now as something else—the skin was not taut like a scar, but instead strangely discolored, as if eaten by a delicate acid perhaps, or scorched by a particularly harsh sunburn, or even a kind of impermanent tattoo—something with diluted henna? But it could not have been intentional—it was quite disfiguring—and he immediately pulled his eyes away, not wishing to stare. He met the gaze of Madame Lacquer-Sforza, who had been watching him.

  “Doctor Svenson,” she called. “Are you a man who likes games?”

  “That would depend entirely on the game, Madame. I am not one for gambling, if that is what you mean.”

  “Perhaps it is. What of you others—C
olonel Aspiche?”

  Aspiche looked up, he had not been listening. With shock, Svenson realized that Mrs. Marchmoor’s right hand was not visible, but that the angle of her arm placed it squarely in the Colonel’s lap. Aspiche cleared his throat and frowned with concentration. Mrs. Marchmoor—and for that matter, Madame Lacquer-Sforza—watched him with a blithely innocent interest.

  “Gambling is part of a man’s true blood,” he announced. “Or at least a soldier’s. Nothing can be gained without the willingness to lose—all or part. Even in the greatest victory lives will be spent. At a certain level of practice, refusal to gamble becomes one with cowardice.” He took a sip of wine, shifted in his seat—pointedly not looking at Mrs. Marchmoor, whose hand had not returned above the table top—and turned to Svenson. “I do not cast aspersions on you, Doctor, for your point of emphasis must be the saving of life—on preservation.”

  Madame Lacquer-Sforza nodded gravely and turned to the other man. “Doctor Lorenz?”

  Lorenz was attempting to see through the table top, staring at the point above Aspiche’s lap, as if by concentration he might remove the barrier. Without averting his gaze the savant took another drink—Svenson was impressed by the man’s self-absorption—and muttered, “In truth, games are an illusion, for there are only percentages of chance, quite predictable if one has the patience, the mathematics. Indeed there may be risk, for possibility allows for different results, but the probabilities are easily known, and over time the intelligent game player will accrue winnings exactly to the degree that he—or indeed, she”—and here he cast a glance at Madame Lacquer-Sforza—“acts in conjunction with rational knowledge.”