It went on and on for what seemed like ten nonsensical minutes, during which Tomaj held her with compassion, flicking his thumb over the nipple that seemed to be the cause of all of this, uttering words against her mouth that the next day she remembered fondly as being kind and caring, things such as, “That’s all right, small one, fragment of my life … hush … you’re my gentle little malala … That’s all right, let it flow, come all over me, just relax back and let it come …”
And some other German words she didn’t recognize.
After ten minutes, she gasped, her eyes opened, she saw palm trees above. She wanted him to never leave her, but he gently raised her to stand upright, and he blew cooling breezes against her face, her neck, her bared shoulders. Her eyes tried to adjust to the odd juxtaposition of the immediacy of his body, and bizarre phosphenes of colored orbs in the distance. She wiped her forehead, almost knocking off her beautiful hat of birds.
Her toes touched the ground. Tomaj held her up on the stone wall by leveraging both his hands under her armpits.
She panted, “Oh my God in heaven. I’m so sorry—I had a seizure of some sort. It must be this tropical atmosphere. Miasmatic exhalations from the water. I … I feel so faint. Can you take me home? Oh, no, you can’t, we came in a filanzana, oh, my brothers, where are they?”
Wrapping his arms around her, he burrowed his sweet face into her neck. “No, you didn’t have a seizure, my dear malala.” Why was he chuckling against her throat? She twined her fingers into his sleek dark hair, and felt his sweat. “You just had an orgasm, that’s all. I could feel it, though I couldn’t feel your—”
“Orgasm?” Dagny repeated the word. “What’s that? A seizure?”
“No, my love,” he replied happily. “It’s when a woman becomes so hot for a man that all of her pent-up excitement reaches a head, and she explodes in a climax of titillation.”
“Climax? Only men do that. How does that explain every muscle in my abdomen completely taking over every cell of my brain? I’ve never seen this before in female animals! It’s impossible! If animals did this, they’d all be dead!”
“Ah, my love. Ich liebe dich, Du verrückte Fräulein. How can you be so beautifully intelligent, and so ignorant at the same time? Women are capable of great heights—”
“I see, Count, that you are kissing Miss Ravenhurst!”
The voice was a growled burr, like the gravelly roar of the fossa cat beneath the mango tree, drooling for the cornered lemur.
Tomaj spun around, both hands splayed out before Dagny, protecting the puddle of jelly she’d become on the wall. She cowered behind him, wishing she had a pistol, but one could not bring a pistol to a ball.
Tomaj chuckled. She felt the reverberations of his laughter as she clutched his coat-tails. His entire body shook, from his strong shoulders, right down through his thighs. “And so what if I was, Monsieur Boneaux? What business is it of yours?”
Paul was a brutally puffed-up silhouette, the aura of a lantern giving him a seraphic halo. Tomaj put his hand on his smallsword at his waist, and Dagny saw Paul do the same when he growled in his champagne-soaked drawl, “It is very much my business, you deviant freebooter! I have an interest in Miss Ravenhurst that is none of your concern, so step away from the lady this moment!”
Chuckling even louder, Tomaj took his hand from his sword, perhaps to show his lack of distress at Paul’s seemingly inane statements. His words were drenched in Hungarian disdain. “It’s strange that an idiot can live close by with the wise.”
Did he not know Paul was serious? Tomaj’s chuckling enraged Paul all the more, and he snorted, red-faced, as he advanced by a few yards, hand gripping the hilt of the sword. “You are a stain on the good name of all honest Madagascar citizens! Miss Ravenhurst, are you mad? Get out from behind this profligate poltroon and go take your place with your brothers!”
Creeping several steps from the safety of Tomaj’s towering figure, Dagny ventured, “Paul, the count did nothing untoward. We were merely getting air because I felt faint, and—”
Tomaj looked down at her. “Dagny, stand back,” he advised gently, but Paul took this opportunity to draw his smallsword and bellow at her, “Damn you, lewd minx! Get back where you belong! Out, I tell you, out!”
Tomaj’s upper lip curled back, and he mouthed the words, “Lewd minx?”
Before Paul could raise his sword, like an expert prizefighter Tomaj walloped him in the nose with a powerful fist, and Paul comically flew a few yards through the air, sword arm flailing uselessly. He landed with a thud up against the trunk of a palm, like a sack of wet laundry someone had tossed from on high.
Dagny laughed with relief and amusement to see him dispatched so unceremoniously, and she ran to stand before Tomaj, in case Paul should leap up in the newly invigorated attitude of a mummy arising from its sarcophagus.
Men dashed down the stone pathway, and Tomaj gripped her by the arm and touched his mouth to her ear. “Go, my malala. I don’t want any scandal to befall you … go to your brothers. I’ll polish off this Froggy buffoon.”
Indeed, Paul was getting up, albeit a little wobbly on his feet, blood twinkling purple on his mouth in the indistinct light from the ballroom lanterns. He staggered like a corned man, gripping the smallsword as though he intended to scythe wheat with it, and Dagny distinctly heard him burble, low and menacing, “This is the last time you get in the way of what I want, Balásházy.”
“Ah-ha.” Tomaj grinned, almost happily. “What’s in the hand of the hawk can’t be caught anymore. What’s in the hand of a man can’t be caught anymore.”
Reciting poetry, like he hadn’t a care in the world! Was he … quite … stable?
Tomaj shoved her away from him, and Dagny stumbled into the arms of several people, one of whom was Madame Boneaux, who clutched Dagny to her bosom as if they knew each other well, when in fact they’d only shared a few passing compliments.
“Ah, l’animal! La brute!” Madame Boneaux cried. “Are you all right, my dear? It’s fortunate my husband was here to defend you against that monster!”
“Yes,” panted Dagny. “Very fortunate.”
Now Zeke and Sal bounded among them, followed by Gratton, Townshend, and Antoine Youx. The interlopers formed a knot between the two combatants, with their hands held out as though they gripped grenades, all shouting for calm.
Tomaj grinned, having not even drawn his own sword.
Zeke got so close to his face Tomaj felt the spray of his spittle, which Tomaj calmly wiped off with the back of his hand.
“You god-damned Transylvanian! Do you know what you’ve done? Do you know who this is? This is Monsieur Paul Boneaux of Mantasoa!”
Tomaj squinted his eyes with hatred at Dagny’s less alluring brother. “What of it? I am Count Pellegrin Tomaj Balásházy of Barataria.”
Tomaj turned his back on the dolt, allowing Sal to take him by one arm and Youx to take the other. They strolled as on a pleasant beachside outing. She called that squireen Paul, Tomaj mused. How is it she calls him by his given name? If she, indeed, had a cottage near Tamatave, she could hardly have spent much time near Mantasoa in the highlands …
“Sal,” he said conversationally. “Have you ever chanced upon any vitriol? Or any other various sulfates of metal I could use as a paint pigment? I’ve run clean out of the ‘London Mud’ paint, and am nearly out of ‘Russian Flame.’”
Sal shook Tomaj’s forearm a bit. “Tomaj! What was the meaning of all that?”
“Yes!” agreed Youx fervently. “Why do you want to make the fur fly with that greasy Frog? As though he doesn’t already have enough reasons to hate you!”
They’d reached a distance where the tumult of other voices was only the swell of remote waves, so Tomaj leaned casually against a tree trunk and withdrew his afyuni pipe. Thoughtfully, he said, “Just a matter of fancy waistcoats, I suppose. He seems quite protective of Miss Ravenhurst, while at the same time treats her like a batty bitch. What’s his interest
in Miss Ravenhurst, Sal? Does she school his children?”
As he had no spill to light his pipe, Tomaj looked down at Salvatore Ravenhurst’s blank face. Sal’s doll eyes quivered with an unknown emotion. Tomaj looked to Youx. Youx genuinely seemed perplexed.
Tomaj looked back to Sal. Sal opened his mouth, but only the tiniest squeak of a vowel was emitted.
Tomaj’s hand that held the pipe fell to his side. “Oh, no.”
Nobody breathed.
“No.” Shaking his head, Tomaj reached a claw-like hand toward Sal’s throat, but managed to stay himself. “No, Sal, no.” His voice was low and murderous, roiling from his chest like waves in a cross-sea, as though more than one entity simultaneously spoke his spirit. “That treacherous stoat isn’t… he can’t be … Dagny would never …”
Perhaps because Tomaj’s talon was still within striking distance of his larynx, Sal nodded tentatively. “Yes,” he whispered. “She would.”
“It’s all right!” cried Youx eagerly, stepping between Sal and Tomaj. “Don’t worry, Bos! Who’s to say she’s really sweet on him? Right, Salvatore? Maybe she has other, more mercenary reasons for … for …”
“For fucking the sweet holy curculios out of that sweaty bastard?” Tomaj shouted. Although he adored Sal, for good measure he gripped Sal’s shirtfront and gave him a brisk shake before tossing him away. Tomaj paced the small curtilage, his brain racing with disgust and shock, and, if the truth be known, a sort of respect. Drawing his smallsword, he thrust it into the trunk of a traveler’s tree. “My ancestors! She’s been here for what? Three months? And she becomes the … the …”
Sal interrupted with priestly shaded eyes, handed folded before his crotch. “‘Concubine’ is fine, Tomaj. Believe you me. I tried to tell you earlier in the garden, but I didn’t feel I had the right. I’m not the biggest devotee of that gentleman myself.”
“She’s no concubine!” Youx strode forward, hand on the hilt of his own sword. “How can you say that about your own sister, sir?”
“It’s not meant as abuse, Antoine!” Sal cried. “I’m only speaking the truth!” Sal explained to Tomaj. “She’s a strong-willed, determined woman! We arrived here with nothing other than our laboratory instruments and a few valises! Tomaj! You must understand! Don’t give up on Dagny—her motives are pure!”
“Oh, I understand, Sal. Pure motives,” Tomaj growled. “Purely mercenary!”
“No, no! You see, we were called back to Pennsylvania when we heard their—our father was dying. So Dagny—we took care of him for about a year, and when he finally passed, we discovered that—to tell you the truth, the mother took all the money and vanished. Yes. Ran off with a wealthy landowner!”
“What has this to do with Miss Ravenhurst and … that man?” Youx cried.
“Let him talk,” Tomaj said darkly.
“Our father was a naturalist, and one of his overriding wishes was to see the Malagasy lemurs, the giant dodo bird, the rare orchids. So we sold what little that woman left us, and came here.” When Sal spoke in earnest like this, he was a most endearing sight to behold. “You must see, Tomaj. Dagny has cared for us her entire life. There’s not much gem mining to be done in New York City! And what can Zeke do there but work on trash barges? So Dagny has always provided for us, as well as she could, anyway. We still starved, and coming over here on the ship, we made a pact never to wallow in poverty again! So Dagny … asked who was the wealthiest man on the island. Yes, she did. I know it’s shameful.”
Tomaj’s nostrils flared. “I should say it’s shameful. How can you allow her to be a demirep to a man of such questionable morals? Do you know that he regularly screws that odious Queen Consort who has a face like a sea-boot? Do you know why that is, Sal? Why on earth would an upstanding merchant commit such a heinous act of double criminal conversation? To further his own plot to reign supreme over this entire island, that’s why!”
Youx shoved his oar in. “Aye, after you turned down her offer of similar favors because you were afraid of contracting the Egyptian disease! And now you live in dread she’ll command you to kiss her pink foot.”
Tomaj swiveled his head in Youx’s direction. “Thank you, Antoine. Only because I make it a policy to fuck women to whom I am attracted.” Turning back to Sal, he said heatedly, “And if I was afraid of the Egyptian disease, imagine what potentially gangrenous illnesses you’re exposing Dagny to! How could you, Sal? How could Zeke, for that matter?”
Sal moved soil with the toes of his shiny boots. “We’re very ashamed, Tomaj. But it was that or live in a cave. And he’s a genuinely decent person. I know that’s hard for you to see, since it appears he’s your enemy. He treats her like a precious gem—”
“When he’s not calling her a lewd minx!”
“It’s only for a short while, Tomaj! Until I find my celestine mine, and Zeke sets up his chop-house!”
“Chop-house? Where, in Tamatave? So he’s given up on the idea of a trading factory?”
“Yes, he felt a chop-house wouldn’t be in conflict with any of your activities, and it might benefit those of your men in Harmony Row who aren’t wed, or who don’t have women to care for them.”
“A chop-house is a good plan …” Withdrawing his smallsword from the tree, Tomaj sheltered Sal under the crook of his arm, and they walked to the circular drive at the front of the house. “Sal, I’ve got to journey to the Mauritius. I need you to do a favor for me. Well, not a ‘favor’ so to speak, as it’s something you’d do anyway, but … I need you to keep an eye on Dagny. By my ancestors, don’t let her go to Boneaux! Come up with any story to keep her away from him, can you do that? Bring her to my estate, let Youx, Bellingham, and Ellie take care of you—Zaleski and Slushy’re coming with me to Port Louis. Don’t fret, I wouldn’t inflict you with Slushy’s recipe for cabinet pudding—by Christ, live there if you want to, there’s plenty of room! Just don’t let her go to Boneaux!”
CHAPTER TEN
THE TURKISH BATH-HOUSE
NOW TELL ME, DAGNY. WHAT WAS IT YOU WERE DIScussing with that freebooter?” Furiously, Paul sipped his tumbler of port. His eyes flashed as they flitted about her drawing room—at her lone figurine of a Basque sheep-herder, at the cornices of the ceiling, at a stuffed and lacquered flat-tailed “ghost tortoise” that was currently resisting immortality by sprouting fungus about the feet.
Paul did not wait for an answer. “I graciously allow him the Viennese Waltz with you because he’s so damned arrogant in his insistence that he is the only man on the island who knows how to move his godforsaken feet—bah! As though some lily-livered fortune hunter who is a count in title only, someone who is just a nose on a stick, someone who builds a gaudy, embarrassing excuse for a plantation—”
“Paul!” Dagny surprised herself with the force of her exclamation. Sputtering, she snatched up her own glass of port and gulped it thirstily. “Please! I know there are no warm brotherly feelings between the two of you, but can you please refrain from … from …”
Paul slit his eyes. “From telling the truth about this slime that you have seemingly developed soft feelings for?”
Happily, Paul was distracted then. He jumped with agitation when a sudden crash came from the front garden of Dagny’s cottage. She knew it was just the arrack makers dropping their still on the road. They often made the rounds to her cottage with that fiery kind of rum, knowing they could sell Zeke a goodly quantity of the stuff, to earn enough to hold a respectable tromba ceremony that night. Paul had skulked in her back door minutes earlier, having taken his phaeton to the Reverend Gratton’s house by the harbor, then taken a public filanzana to Dagny’s cottage, in a not so able disguise of epaulets and a chapeau bras naval hat. Still, everyone knew it was Monsieur Paul Boneaux, the maûtre terrible of Mantasoa, and in the belief that he might hire them, a queue of the patient men waited outside.
Dagny said gently, “Soft feelings? Don’t be silly, Paul. We were merely discussing … the count had heard I’m a naturalist, s
o he offered me a goodly sum of money if I would deliver him an aye-aye specimen. That’s all.”
Paul scoffed into his empty glass. “A goodly sum? How much do you consider goodly? Five hundred dollars?”
Dagny’s nostrils flared with anger. “Five thousand dollars.”
That shut Paul up for a moment. His forehead creased with surprise, and he chuckled to himself as he refilled his port glass. “For one of those ghastly ghoulish rodents? Why is it so valuable? What is he going to do with it, conduct some tromba ceremonies with his diabolical New Orleans cronies?”
Dagny wrinkled her nose. “New Orleans? What do you mean?”
Smug now, Paul paraded about the room with one hand on the small of his back. “New Orleans! Where most of those Mavasarona Bay miscreants hail from! Did you not know that, my doll? The ones who are not rejects from Her Majesty’s Navy are all deserters of the United States. Rejected even from the band of the villainous Jean Lafitte in New Orleans!”
“Jean Lafitte? Why, I heard he was a hero for what he and his men did at the Battle of New Orleans. I read the newspapers in New York!”
“They are all banditti, my innocent doll—men who attacked American ships, plundered the British, and sacked the French!”
“Oh, there you are quite wrong, Paul. Lafitte made sure to never attack an American ship. I distinctly recall reading that.”
A swift shadow of annoyance washed all the amusement from Paul’s face. “Why do you insist on defending that idiot? Are you perhaps considering becoming the mistress of Barataria, and joining up with that band of renegades?”
Dagny’s eyes froze with rage. “I was not defending Count Balásházy. You are so obsessed with him, you didn’t notice I was defending Monsieur Lafitte.” She softened her demeanor and moved in sinuously, sliding her hand around his beefy bicep. “Besides. What use would I have for a, as you say, nose on a stick, when I have you?”
The Strangely Wonderful: Tale of Count Balásházy Page 13
