When Morgan finally stands again, he looks down awkwardly at the floor, at the table. He’s uncomfortable at the thought of looking at Bern, even with the taste of honey in his mouth, but then Bern takes hold of Morgan’s chin and wipes Morgan’s mouth with the other hand. They are quiet, but Bern does not let go of Morgan’s chin, and at last Morgan looks at the other man’s face.
“I thank you, Morgan.”
Morgan nods, and Bern releases him.
“Have many others made it this far in the Game?” Morgan asks quietly. Bern nods but does not comment. Morgan turns to leave, but Bern suddenly, fiercely, grabs his wrist and pulls him back. The bearded man rests his mouth against Morgan’s palm and says, with his lips pressed in skin, “You are a fine man, Morgan. If you win tomorrow and this house disappears with me in it, I—I want you to know that.”
Morgan reaches up and brushes Bern’s hair, so soft and dark.
The next night Morgan thinks, The Game will be at an end tonight one way or the other. He rubs his neck; he knows it’s stupid, but his skin itches, and he can’t keep his hand off the back of his neck. No food has been set tonight, Morgan notices, swirling his whisky slowly. He’s already sloshed some on his shirt moving too quickly. Guess that means no final meal.
A door opens, and Morgan sits up in his chair. Bern enters, carrying a fox mask, and Morgan can’t believe how life-like the mask looks, the detail of the fur, the soft wetness of the nose. The fur is a dark red, almost the color of his own hair, Morgan notes, and such a sharp contrast to the white edge of the muzzle. Bern wears a shirt of the same color red and black trousers.
“That’s incredible,” Morgan says. “It’s so lifelike.”
“I took even longer with this one,” Bern says. “I dyed the fur and set each strand of it in place by hand.”
Morgan takes the mask and ties it around his own head; the mask covers the upper half of his face, so his host can still see him smile. Bern holds up his hand and says, “The fox, you know, has never been considered a noble animal. Vermin, more often. Sly, treacherous, a lowly thing.”
“I didn’t know that,” Morgan says. “Is that why he’s the hunted tonight? Because everyone who makes it this far tries to trick you on the third night?”
“Or they try to fight me.”
Morgan nods, feeling oddly calm. Fighting Bern was never what he had in mind. He undresses quickly, the firelight lapping red-gold shadows against his pale, hairy body, his plum-colored nipples. Then he begins to unbutton Bern’s shirt, pulls it open. He has moved to Bern’s belt buckle when Bern places his hands over Morgan’s.
“Oh. My friend,” he whispers. Morgan resumes unbuckling Bern’s trousers, pulls them and the shirt off, and then they are both naked beasts in the firelight. Reaching around the back of Morgan’s head, Bern unties the fox mask, lays it on the table. With no hesitation, only hunger, Morgan kisses Bern’s mouth and Bern responds with the same desire, and they are on the floor, hands and mouths and fevered yearning and sumptuous aches between them. Bern lays on his back, Morgan kissing his mouth hard, insistent, rubbing body against body, until the blunt edge of Bern’s desire is at point between Morgan’s buttocks.
“But this isn’t how you won it this afternoon,” Bern breathes in Morgan’s ear.
A fierce, brilliant smile. “That’s the second act.”
“You’re the first to win the Game,” Bern says quietly; Morgan is spooned against his back. “Do you feel it, the change in the air? The spell of the house is broken. The first in over five hundred years.”
“That’s a long time to be alone.”
Bern looks over his shoulder. “Alone? With all those Game players coming in and out?”
“You know what I mean. To be without love.”
“You’re forgetting Vivian.”
“No. I’m not.” Morgan licks and nibbles his neck. “Am I?”
“Oh.”
The body next to him shudders and Morgan feels something, like a rush of water without wetness, flow over them.
“How did you know?” she asks quietly.
“Little things, mostly. Ways you both said certain bits. The way you both tasted. Man or woman, you taste exactly the same. But ultimately . . . this is going to sound stupid,” he says, “but I felt at home with both of you, in the same way.” He smiles, remembering his fight with Penelope and Dave about his lack of commitment. “I didn’t have to choose. I wanted both of you equally.”
“Oh.”
“Right, then.” Morgan smiles as he says this, wonders if she can feel his smile against her shoulder. “What happens next?”
She doesn’t say anything for a long time, only holds his arms where they’re wrapped around her. “You proved yourself an honorable man and played the Game fair,” she says. “Every door will open to your city now, and open to the day you left.”
“Really?” he says. He disentangles his limbs from Vivian’s and walks to the nearest door. He opens it, and before him is the original alley he first walked down, though much shorter. He can see Bernard Street. “Brilliant.” He closes that door and moves to another one. Same alley. “Ah, fucking brilliant.” He turns back to Vivian, who’s sitting up though she won’t look at him. “Well, I guess this is it, then.”
“Yes,” she says.
“Think one of the doors will still let us back to our rooms?”
Vivian turns her face to him now, confused. “Why?”
“Well, I don’t think Bern’s clothes will fit you. And you can’t go naked in public. I don’t know what it was like before you ended up here, but people frown on that nowadays.”
She looks up at him. “What do you mean?”
“You didn’t think I was going to leave you here, did you, love?” He kneels beside her and takes hold of her shoulders. “I’m not going anywhere without you.”
Her face is a tumble of emotion, a smile first and then a look as if she might cry. “I didn’t think you would want me, knowing what I am.”
“Silly girl.” He kisses her forehead, her nose, her mouth. “And boy.” Vivian falls against his chest, her face buried in him. “But there is one question I have for you.”
“Oh?”
“Out there,” he jerks his head towards the door, “will you be both Vivian and Bern, or is that only in here?”
“Yes, I will still be both of us, out there.”
Morgan smiles, lifts her chin and kisses her softly. “Good.” Kisses her again. “Very good. I want both of you to come with me.” He stands and stretches. “Now, let’s get dressed and go. There’s so much I want to share with both of you.” And he holds out his hands to them.
* * * *
The Purveyor of Homunculi
Sarah Micklem
From Anticlimactic Folk Tales of Abigomas,
collected and edited by Dr. Marcel Auerle
Hard as it may be to credit, there was a time (you may see for yourself by examining the yellowing registers of the Superior Hotel in Lyslee) when the Isle of Abigomas was a stop for English gentlemen on the Grand Tour. Not, to be sure, any Grand Tour undertaken by any English gentleman. Rather one of the long, dallying, meandering Grand Tours undertaken by an English gentleman such as the hero of our tale, Thomas Crumley—a gentleman in no hurry to return home, where he would be obliged to marry forthwith a bride of family and income.
Mr. Crumley had ventured farther than other young men of his acquaintance on their Grand Tours, yet he was not an especially brave man. Indeed, he had wandered thus far because he quailed, he positively quailed, at the prospect of his inevitable engagement to Miss _________ (no need to drag her into our story, poor lady). But Mr. Crumley had discovered on his Grand Tour that life was not necessarily boring, that he was capable of taking any number of conveyances to places no one had ever heard of, where they spoke languages no one could possibly understand—in short, he had discovered in himself an enthusiasm for the picturesque hitherto unsuspected. And he never got seasick.
And
so one afternoon he remained on the Isle of Abigomas on a whim and let the ship sail off without him on its cruise around the islands. He checked into the Superior Hotel in Lyslee (the only hotel on the island, so far as English gentlemen were concerned), put on a clean shirt and cravat and went out to stretch his legs on the stairs that made up most of the streets of the town. He left his valet, Harris, to unpack and arrange for a supper that evening and a breakfast and dinner the next day that would meet his requirements.
He might stay a day or two, he thought. The town of Lyslee was picturesque in the usual way of ancient towns built on steep hills on small islands, and he industriously admired it, peering through iron gates into courtyards pleasantly dappled with leaf shadow, and pausing to take in the view when the street opened onto a vista of the sparkling azure sea. He was the sort of man who thought of blue as azure.
But the sun was hot and the steps excessively acute, and Mr. Crumley turned with relief into a narrow alley where the stairs led downhill. He passed from glare into gloom. Buildings with jutting balconies and cornices nearly embraced overhead. Tiny shops lined the alley, each having just enough room for a shopkeeper behind a counter. Apothecary shops, to judge by the shelves holding ranks of glass and ceramic jars—filled with what?—Mr. Crumley did not even bother to wonder. Shutters, hinged on top, were propped open to shelter customers standing in the street.
Shopkeepers called out to Mr. Crumley as he passed. He strolled on. He was not in a purchasing mood, and furthermore could not understand their language. But one man spoke to him in French, saying, “Monsieur, you will never have to visit a barber again!”
It took a moment to puzzle out the shopkeeper’s words, uttered as they had been in an appalling accent. Mr. Crumley paused; he turned back.
“Did you say, never have to visit a barber again?” (You will have to imagine that this conversation continued in French.)
“It’s true, Monsieur! Yes, yes! You will never have to shave again. Never never again suffer a razor cut.”
Mr. Crumley had a razor cut on his chin, as it happened. His valet was not the perfect manservant encountered in mystery novels. He nicked him once or twice a week, about as often as Mr. Crumley would have nicked himself, had he been obliged to shave himself.
As for barbers, Mr. Crumley went to them for an occasional treat. He enjoyed the sublime passivity of being administered to with lather, hot cloths, and racy gossip. But the part about someone—barber, valet—anyone—approaching his neck with a sharp razor—now that the possibility of avoiding it had been suggested, he realized he had never enjoyed it.
Mr. Crumley observed that the shopkeeper was a hirsute man. The backs of his hands were nearly furred, and yet his cheeks and chin were as smooth as fine unglazed porcelain, and had as subtle a sheen. He was a fine advertisement for his goods.
But what was the man selling? Arrayed on the counter and on shelves behind the shopkeeper were pyramids of small, narrow-necked jars made of amber glass, stopped up with corks. They bore no labels. They contained—each contained, floating in fluid, a single pickle of some sort. Mr. Crumley was nearsighted. He leaned closer, peering with his left eye (the most nearsighted one) into a jar. It held a tiny figure of a man: pale, hairless, naked, curled up like a seedling in a bean. The face had a soft, flat, baby nose, and eyelids that seemed sealed shut, like those of a newborn kitten. Perhaps the figure was made of wax, carved by the same sort of artisan who could carve a castle from a walnut shell. For it was quite perfect in detail, so perfect that its sex was not in question.
“You like him, Monsieur?” The shopkeeper picked up a jar and tilted it gently from side to side. The little man rocked as in a cradle. “This homunculus is special for shaving. While you sleep at night, he rids you of whiskers. And if you are a man with a heavy beard—very well, he works while you nap in the afternoon. Wake up and the beard is gone! You may go to the ball, Monsieur, and dance with the ladies! He’s no bother, doesn’t need food. He nibbles your whiskers, eh?”
Mr. Crumley drew back. Nibbling on whiskers—horrible!
The shopkeeper put his elbows on the counter and leaned forward as if he were about to impart a secret. But all he said was, “It is not unpleasant, Monsieur. You will sleep through it, I assure you. And should you decide you prefer a mustache, why, you merely need to tell him, and the little fellow will leave just what you wish, no more and no less. You will awaken perfectly groomed—nose, ears, eyebrows—not a hair where it should not be. And smooth-shaven! Very handsome!”
“Where does it live? Does it stay in the little bottle when it’s not wanted?”
“Anywhere you wish—amidst your toiletries—in your shaving cup, which will no longer be necessary. Mine likes to stay under here during the day.” The shopkeeper pointed to the collar of his blue wool frockcoat. No lump marred the curve of the collar; nothing could be seen under it but a shadow. “So small, you see! No trouble at all!”
“How much is one?” Mr. Crumley asked. He was thinking this was just the sort of rarity that would impress, at last, his cousin Mr. Gail, who had boasted so interminably of his Grand Tour, but had never ventured east of Venice. If Mr. Crumley tired of the homunculus, he would give it to his cousin—see if he liked his whiskers being nibbled. A smile made a brief appearance on Mr. Crumley’s face, which caused the shopkeeper to elevate the price.
Mr. Crumley should have bargained, but as he always felt bested in the end, he thought it better not to try. He feigned the indifference of a wealthier man and paid the shopkeeper’s price, and walked away with the small amber jar wrapped in brown paper and tied with a string.
At once he regretted his purchase. How was he going to keep the thing secret from Harris? Perhaps Harris did not enjoy shaving Mr. Crumley; nevertheless, Mr. Crumley feared he would be affronted by having this duty performed by a homunculus.
Mr. Crumley determined to be masterful. What did it matter if his valet were perturbed? Mr. Crumley would take a stance upon his dignity and say, with justice, that he’d been nicked once too often, and he preferred to shave himself from now on.
And there was no need to roil Harris unnecessarily. The shopkeeper might be a cheat, and his merchandise useless.
On his return, Mr. Crumley told his valet he wanted a nap, and sent him off to post a letter, find a newspaper in English (or French or German, if there was no hope), buy a plaster for his bunion and wool to darn the snag in his hose—every errand Mr. Crumley could devise.
Then, sitting on the bed in his hotel room, Mr. Crumley unwrapped his new purchase and examined it closely, tipping the jar this way and that. The homunculus looked—not dead—but most certainly not alive. Yet the shopkeeper had said that the thing should be decanted within the next two weeks, or it would grow too large and Mr. Crumley would have to break the glass to free him.
He uncorked the jar and laid it on its side in the washbasin. Clear fluid, brine perhaps, ran out. He leaned over the basin watching the little man. Mr. Crumley held his breath without realizing it; when the homunculus stirred, unfolded its limbs and waved its arms and legs in the uncoordinated way of an infant, Mr. Crumley breathed again.
So tiny! So perfect! He was quite taken with the little fellow, now scrabbling aimlessly within the jar. “If he’s too idiotic to find his way out,” the shopkeeper had said, “bring him back. I’ll give you a new one.” But Mr. Crumley—who, five minutes before, was rather hoping the homunculus would prove useless so he would not have to explain him to Harris—was now eager for him to escape his glass prison, and cheered him on.
It took twenty minutes by Mr. Crumley’s pocket watch for the homunculus to wriggle out of the jar. He slid headfirst into the puddle in the basin, splashed about, found his way to his feet. Unsealed his eyelids for the first time and looked directly at the enormous face of Mr. Crumley hovering over him. Raised his arms, opened and closed his mouth, and uttered not a sound, to Mr. Crumley’s relief. Suppose he had cheeped like a baby bird!
Did the little
fellow expect to be picked up? Mr. Crumley couldn’t bring himself to do it. The homunculus looked fragile enough to be crushed by a pinch from Mr. Crumley’s fingers. Instead he offered the homunculus his silver shaving cup, on its side. The fellow walked in and Mr. Crumley tipped the cup upright and set it on the nightstand. Could he get out again? He could. He must be quite a climber, the little man, good as a lizard at sticking to a smooth wall. Mr. Crumley emptied the pickling fluid into the chamber pot and tossed the paper and twine out of the window. He kept the bottle and cork, in case.
Mr. Crumley composed himself for sleep atop the coverlet. It was too hot to do anything else. But he could not sleep for wondering when the homunculus would crawl out of the cup and cross the intervening expanse of bedclothes to nibble on his chin. How would the homunculus know when he was asleep? Mr. Crumley turned his head on the pillow and found the little man peering at him over the rim of the cup. Mr. Crumley heaved himself over to lie on his side, facing away. He began to feel himself very large, a giant. Suppose he rolled over in his sleep and crushed the homunculus? The shopkeeper had not said anything about that. An appalling thought! Already Mr. Crumley felt responsible for the well-being of the little man—who was staring at him, he was sure of it. He would never be able to sleep. He would never sleep again.
The shutters were closed against the sun, but their slats let in a sea breeze that stirred the bed curtains and cooled the sweat on Mr. Crumley’s brow. He heard clattering from the courtyard, where waiters were setting out chairs and tables on the cobblestones. And little by little, without believing it possible, Mr. Crumley drifted into a dream, and what he dreamed is none of our business.
Mr. Crumley was awakened by Harris an hour before supper. He felt sluggish and groggy. It was not until Harris had finished tying his cravat that Mr. Crumley thought to put a hand to his own cheek. It was porcelain smooth. He held up the small mirror from his grooming kit, and beheld not a trace of the incipient whiskers that usually shadowed his face by suppertime.
Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet 30 Page 8
