Vera began to moan. A vague fog formed behind her. Here it comes, he thought. The real stage trickery.
The fog condensed into a somewhat human form, like a smeared photochrome on the front of a wet yellowsheet. Whispers and a few cries erupted from the crowd. The fog continued to contract until it took on the unmistakable form of a woman. People began to shout.
“Mother?”
“Gertrude?”
“Christa!”
Finally, the fog took on enough features to be recognizable. It was a woman, perhaps in her thirties, thought Largo. She was dressed expensively, in a formal dress with strands of pearls around her neck. Largo squinted back toward the spotlight at the top of the theater, looking for the cinema projector they must be using to make the woman appear, but could see nothing. When the spectral woman’s features came into focus she spoke. She said, “Edgar? My dear? Are you there?”
“No!” someone shouted from one of the tables near the front of the stage. An old man in a tuxedo stood, pointing at Vera with a cigar. “This is wrong. Stop it immediately,” he yelled.
The specter continued, “Is that you, my dear? It’s been so long. I’ve missed you.”
“Stop it!” screamed the man. “Stop this right now! Karin is dead. How dare you, you charlatan!” Two of the man’s companions tried to pull the man back into his seat. Though Edgar was old, he struggled fiercely. Largo was impressed and wondered why Vera chose that particular man to hoax. Whatever the reason, it didn’t seem like a good idea. He shook off his friends and threw a glass of champagne at the stage.
“Edgar, are you there? Speak to me,” said the ghost.
The white ribbon no longer drifted from Vera’s mouth, but hung over her head and nestled in the curtains like a peculiar cloud.
Edgar screamed, “Stop it, you whore!” and threw his cigar at Vera. It tumbled through the air well above her. Before falling, however, the hot tip grazed the edge of the ribbon and it exploded into flame. The fire shot up to where the ribbon touched the curtains and the blaze spread across the fabric as quickly as if they had been doused in kerosene. It took only a few seconds for embers from the top curtain to fall onto the sides, where they began to smolder.
Just as the flame shot up from Vera’s mouth, a finger of it went down. When brightness almost reached her face, she started awake with a scream. The phantom behind her vanished instantly and she stumbled from her chair. People in the audience screamed and ran in panic for the exits. The last thing Largo saw onstage was Anita pulling Vera into the wings.
When the curtains were fully ablaze, the flames crept across the theater’s ceiling. Remy coughed as Largo grabbed her hand and shouldered his way through the crowd. She’s not getting hurt because a lunatic ruined the witch’s act. For one brief second, he wondered if the old man had been part of the con too, but as the smoke made it hard to see or breathe, he knew he’d given Vera too much credit.
It was pouring rain outside. Largo tried to drag Remy away, but she stopped in the street and gazed back at the Golden Angel. Smoke was already pouring from the roof and windows on the top floor. Screaming patrons ran out of the building and many slipped and fell in the wet street. Here and there were small piles of hysterical bodies being trampled as they tried to crawl away from the theater. As much as Largo wanted to get Remy far away, he couldn’t help running back to pull two women free from a pile. One had a deep gash on her forehead from where she’d fallen. Her companion used her scarf to stop the flow of blood, and Largo led them across the street. When he went back to help a man with what looked like a broken ankle, he found that Remy was already there. They got the man between them and helped him to a nearby tram bench. By then, no one else was coming out of the Golden Angel. The top floor was engulfed in flames.
“Do you think everybody got out all right?” said Remy.
Largo put an arm around her. “I’m sure they did. Look at all these people.”
“You’re just trying to be nice.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. And thank you.”
Largo pulled her to him as sirens drew closer. Two fire squads arrived at almost the same time. People fell back to let the trucks through. Men jumped off and began pulling hoses into the street.
“Maybe we should go,” said Largo. “We’ll only be in the way.”
Remy nodded, still staring at the flames. “You’re probably right. If we walk back the way we came, we might be able to find a cab.” Then she looked at Largo. “Do you think Anita got out all right?”
He gave her a thin smile. “I’m sure. Did you see her grab Baal back there? They were probably the first ones out of the building.”
“Uncle Rudy!” said Remy suddenly. “Do you see him?”
“No, but I wouldn’t worry. If anyone can take care of himself, it will be the Baron.” He hoped for many reasons that he was right.
“We have to look for him.”
As they started back toward the Golden Angel, they were blocked by a line of police officers. When Remy tried to walk through them, an officer held up his hand. “No one past this point, Fräulein.”
Remy said, “But my uncle was inside.”
The officer shook his head. “Locating people is what we’re here for. Leave it to us.”
Remy tried to argue, but the officer simply glared at her obstinance. Finally Largo pulled her away, saying, “It’s no use with bullocks. We’ll stay here until we see the Baron.”
“Thank you.”
Remy shivered and Largo put his jacket around her shoulders. He looked over the crowd and said, “All these fine ladies and gentlemen—the ones with good reputations who sneaked out tonight for a taste of the forbidden—they must be dying of embarrassment knowing the bullocks will want to question them.”
More police arrived, but they wore ordinary overcoats and hats, not uniforms. Why would they send undercover bullocks to a fire? he wondered. “Are they here to arrest the ghost or the bastard who threw the cigar?” he whispered.
Remy shushed him. “Be quiet. We don’t want to attract attention.”
Largo knew she was right, but he couldn’t help saying, “It’s a good thing neither of us has a reputation to protect.” Remy smiled and elbowed him playfully.
They stood for several boring minutes in the rain. No one questioned them. Largo thought that the firefighters and police were going well out of their way to ignore everyone. Finally, the undercover police fanned out into the crowd.
“Here we go,” said Largo, and he waited for the questioning to begin. But it didn’t. The undercover police began pulling people from the crowd in ones and twos and loading them into a line of Mara cabs. “What’s going on?” he whispered.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Remy crossed her arms. “Look who they’re letting go. The Grünewalds. The Froeses. All the richest and most important people at the show. They get to go home while we have to stand here like goats.”
Largo craned his neck for a better view. Remy was right. He couldn’t put names to them, but he recognized several people from the covers of yellowsheets. Lucky rat bastards, he thought.
A woman called out to him. “Largo!” she said. He looked around and saw a well-dressed couple by the side of one of the cabs. The woman waved to him. It was Frau Heller. “Fancy meeting you here,” she said. “Did you enjoy the show?”
He waved back to her. “All except the last part,” he said.
She said, “Me too,” as her husband pulled her into the cab. “I told you you’d look good out of those wool rags. Take care,” she called.
“You too, madam.”
The door shut and the cab moved off past the fire trucks.
Largo raised his hands and dropped them to his sides again as he walked to Remy. They both laughed.
“One of your customers?” she said.
“One of my first as chief courier.”
“Good,” said Remy. “I was about to get jealous that you were leaving me for a society lady.”
“There’s no chance of that. Well, very little at least.”
She laughed and kissed him.
Someone grabbed Largo’s shoulder and pulled him away. It took him a moment to recognize the man in the rain. It was Special Operative Tanz.
“What are you doing talking to a woman like that?” said Tanz.
“She called to me. I was just being polite,” Largo said.
“I remember you from the other day. You’re the one who isn’t political. Who doesn’t know anything about anarchist propaganda when it’s on walls all over Lower Proszawa.”
“I have to watch the traffic, not the walls.”
“Right,” said Tanz thoughtfully. He pointed to where the Hellers had stepped into their cab. “How do you know a fine woman like that?”
“I’ve made deliveries to her house. Well, a delivery.”
“Was it one delivery or more? Get your story straight.”
“It was just one,” said Largo.
Tanz got closer. “And that lovely, important woman remembered you after one visit?”
“She told me I should change my clothes,” Largo stammered.
“What? You weren’t even dressed when you saw her?”
Largo remembered Tanz’s games. There was nothing he could say that wouldn’t be twisted against him.
“I was quite dressed,” he said carefully. “She simply didn’t like what I was wearing.”
Tanz eyed him and said, “How long have you been sucking up to good people like that? What’s your plan?”
“What? I haven’t been—I have no plan. I only met her once.”
Remy came over and took his arm. From behind Largo, a man said, “Might I have a word with you, Officer?” Largo turned and saw Baron Hellswarth leading Tanz away. He spoke quietly but steadily.
Remy smiled at the men. “Uncle Rudy will set him straight.”
“I hope so. There’s nothing you can say to that man that won’t dig you in deeper.”
Remy watched the two men talking. “Let him try that with Uncle Rudy.”
A moment later, Tanz and the Baron returned.
“It seems that I’ve misjudged you,” said Tanz. His face was creased into a friendly smile, but his voice was tight and strained. “The Baron here has vouched for your good character, Herr Moorden.” The officer practically spit the last words. “In any case, you and the young lady are free to go.”
“Thank you for understanding, Tanz,” said the Baron. The officer tipped his hat, but his eyes never left Largo’s. A Mara cab pulled up and Baron Hellswarth led them toward it.
Just before they stepped inside, Remy stopped. “Enki!” she yelled. Largo looked around and saw him standing alone by the edge of the crowd. She turned to the Baron. “Uncle Rudy, can we help him too? He’s blind and utterly harmless, I promise you.” She didn’t wait for an answer but headed straight for him.
“Enki, it’s me, Remy. Let us give you a ride.” When she reached out to touch him, however, he fell face-first into the wet street and began to convulse violently. Blood spread around his head where he cracked his cheek on the edge of a curb. Remy reached for him again, but Largo pulled her back. Someone screamed, “It’s the Drops!” and that was all it took.
The crowd reared back from them. Even the police couldn’t stop the frightened mob. More screams came a few seconds later. “Here too!” The crowd lurched again. Largo saw the two women he’d helped earlier. They lay on the ground, their limbs twisting at horrible angles.
Baron Hellswarth grabbed Remy and Largo, pulled them to the waiting cab, and shoved them inside, then climbed in himself. When he was seated he shouted Remy’s address into the Mara’s listening tube and the cab drove away.
Remy grabbed the Baron’s arm. “What about your lady friend? The one you had stashed in the theater box?”
The Baron shook his head. “I lied earlier. I was there alone. I’ve always wanted to see Mourlet perform, but I couldn’t think of anyone in my circle who would want to go.” He smiled and shook his head. “I should have known that you two would be there. Especially you, wicked girl,” he said.
Remy threw her arms around him. “Thank you for saving us.”
“Yes, thank you,” said Largo. “That bullock has had it in for me for days. I don’t even know why.”
Baron Hellswarth held Remy. “Don’t worry about it. I play cards with his superior, the Polizeipräsident. Tanz won’t be bothering you again.”
“That’s wonderful news, Baron.”
The older man put a hand on Largo’s shoulder. “When we’re alone and away from the office, you may call me Rudolf.” He gave Remy a squeeze. “After all, we’re family here.”
Remy took Largo’s hand. He sat back against the seat, brushing rain out of his hair. He’d expected Anita’s performance and the fire to be the strangest part of the evening. But no. Now, apparently, he was on first-name terms with a Hellswarth.
“Poor Enki,” said Remy. She looked at the Baron. “Is there anything the doctors can do for him?”
“I’m sure they’ll do their best,” said the Baron.
Largo was certain that he knew better.
He pictured the men in rubber suits putting the Dandy from the butchers’ quarter into a sealed bag. He wondered if they buried the bodies in mass graves or simply burned them.
Remy said, “When you talked to the policeman, did he say what happened to Anita and Vera Baal?”
“They got away,” said the Baron. “The police are looking for them both, especially Baal. They suspect her of being an insurrectionist and the fire a deliberate attempt to murder some very important people in the theater.”
Remy sat up. “They can’t think Anita would be involved in something like that.”
The Baron looked out the window as the rain began to abate. “Her involvement remains an open question. But you have to admit that the fact she disappeared with a terrorist is suspicious.”
Remy wrapped her arms around herself. “Not Anita. I won’t believe it.”
“But she’s just an alleged terrorist at this point,” said Largo.
“That’s true,” said the Baron. “All I know is that they want to talk to her.”
Remy leaned against Largo and rested her head on his shoulder. “I hope everyone made it out of the theater all right,” she said.
“We all do,” said the Baron.
The cab left them at Remy’s building. She hugged her uncle. When Largo shook his hand he said, “Look after her tonight.”
“I’ll take good care of her.”
Remy fumbled for her keys as the Baron rode away. “I forgot my wrap in the theater,” she said. “I’m glad Uncle Rudy didn’t notice. He’s the one who gave it to me.”
“That’s too bad,” said Largo. Remy shrugged.
In Remy’s flat, they took morphia and Remy went straight to bed. Though exhausted, Largo once again couldn’t sleep. He found the copy of Der Knochengarten he’d left there and read for an hour. Before he crawled into bed he stood over Remy for a few minutes. He pictured her convulsions and how much they had resembled Enki’s.
But she recovered, so it wasn’t the Drops.
It made sense, but the thought wasn’t entirely convincing. When he got into bed, Largo put an arm around her so he could feel her breathe. He remembered what she’d said in the Golden Angel: “I love you. Don’t ever go.”
“You too,” he said.
Remy opened her eyes. “What?”
“Nothing. Go to sleep.”
She held on to his arm and they stayed that way all night.
Xuxu: Artistic Movement or Academic Prank?
From New Studies in Lower Proszawan Art by Käthe Merg
Prior to the Great War, Xuxu was a largely unknown art movement. Founded at the Wenders School of Art in High Proszawa, in its nascent form, it was seen as pointless and frivolous, an art joke for an insular group of university students. Even the word Xuxu is nothing more than a meaningless sound. However,
after the war, it took a form dedicated to the principle that all life and, therefore, all art is political.
Xuxu was created by a motley assortment of students, street artists, and outright criminals. Thieves, for instance, furnished many of the supplies the artists needed when they couldn’t steal them from the university. Underground dealers supplied the drugs that fueled much of the movement’s early work. During this period, artists collected found objects and frequently defaced accepted works of art in an attempt to break free from all tradition.
If any one person can be said to be the leader of early Xuxu, it’s Volger Berk. He claimed to have created the movement’s name and ethos in an act of “supernatural inspiration.” However, history reveals the early Xuxu had more to do with narcotics and reading the yellowsheets for absurd stories, while also watching public walls for new government and advertising posters to mock. In many ways, Xuxu’s early days were a joke wrapped inside a joke. Artists making art for other artists.
However, there was one significant idea that came from this period, that of the Pantheon of Malignance. This group of dark “gods” consisted of grotesque parodies of the Chancellor, the Archbishop, Baron Hellswarth, and various governmental secretaries who were regularly cursed and banished in quasimagical public rituals. While these performances were popular within the university, they were seldom seen by anyone but other students.
Then something important happened to Xuxu at the beginning of the Great War. While the movement remained absurdist and centered on attacking academic art, during this period all questioning of tradition was seen as unpatriotic as troops marched off to the front lines. During those years, the Xuxu movement largely fell silent except among a handful of open-minded collectors and the artists themselves. As the war went on, their meetings became more and more clandestine until they seemed to some outsiders to be possibly subversive.
Soon after Volger Berk was arrested and questioned by the Nachtvogel, he renounced the movement and it quickly fragmented into several warring schools that became ever more insular. By the end of the war, Xuxu was generally regarded to be a corpse—and an obscure one.
The Grand Dark Page 23
