A Conspiracy of Paper bw-1

by David Liss

  “Lienzo,” he hissed like a cat. “You have ruined me!”

  We were all silent. I waited for my father to rise up with outrage at this rudeness, but he only sat motionless, staring at his plate, avoiding eye contact with the man as though to look at him would be to invite some kind of violence. “You may speak to me in my place of business on the morrow, Mr. Bloathwait,” he said at last. His voice was subdued and tremulous. Perspiration, reflected in the orange light of the fireplace, glistened upon his face.

  Bloathwait spread his legs a bit as though to steady himself against an assault. “I fail to understand why I should not destroy your domestic quiet when you have utterly ruined mine. You are a scoundrel and a thief, Lienzo. I demand restitution.”

  “If you believe you have been wronged, you may take your concerns to court,” my father replied with uncharacteristic fortitude. A crack in his voice betrayed his fear, but he responded to the desperation of the moment with a kind of noble resignation. “Otherwise, you must consider yourself a victim of the changeable nature of the funds. We all suffer from time to time, at the whim of Lady Fortune: there is no avoiding it. I believe a man should always invest no more than he can afford to lose.”

  “My enemy was not Fortune. It was you, sir.” He pointed at my father with a great walking stick. “It was you who encouraged me to invest my fortune in those funds.”

  “Mr. Bloathwait, if you wish to discuss this matter, you may come see me upon the ’Change, but I wish to spare you the indignity of being escorted out by my servants.”

  Bloathwait twisted his mouth as if to speak, but it suddenly grew slack—like a wine bladder gone empty. He lowered his walking stick and tapped it once upon our floor. He then stretched out his shockingly small mouth to show us a grin. I say us, for he flashed it at me and José as much as at my father. “I think, Mr. Lienzo, that I shall wait for you to seek me out.” He offered a short and formal bow, and then departed.

  Had that been the end of the affair, I suppose I might have forgotten it. But it did not end there. Only a few days later, as I returned home from my school, I spotted Mr. Bloathwait upon the street. At first I did not recognize him, and walked on, noticing an enormous figure directly before me who stood shin-deep in snow, trailed by the flapping of a great black overcoat. He stared hard upon me, and his black eyes sunk into a face that appeared to me an enormous expanse of skin peppered with tiny eyes, a bud of a nose, and a mere slash of a mouth. The harsh gusts of wind had turned his skin red and sent his dark wig upon the air like a military banner. He wore somber clothes—for Bloathwait was a Dissenter—and those of his sect had learned from their ancestors, the Puritans, to use their attire to signify a disregard of vanity. On Bloathwait, however, these dark colors held more of menace than of abnegation.

  I moved to step out to the street, to cross and thereby avoid him, but a hackney barreled down, and I had no opportunity. So I walked on, even then foolishly thinking bravado should serve me where luck might not. Perhaps if I only walked by him, ignored him, the incident would pass.

  It was not to be so. Bloathwait reached out and grabbed my wrist. It was a firm grab, but not a strategic one. I understood that, as an adult, he was not in the custom of grabbing people by the wrist, and as a boy with an older brother, I knew well how to break such a sloppy hold. For the moment I held my ground, unsure if I should break free and run or listen to what this man, who was, after all, an adult, had to say. He frightened me, yes, but I recognized in his anger with my father some commonality with him—as though he had found a way to give voice to my own ideas and experiences. For this reason, I wished to know more of him, but because he made me recognize my father in a way I never had before, I wished to flee.

  “Let go of me,” I said, trying to sound nothing so much as irritated.

  “I’ll let go of you, sure,” he said. “But I want you to tell your father something for me.”

  I said nothing, and he took that as acquiescence. “Tell your father I want my money returned, or sure as I stand here I shall let you and your brother know my outrage.”

  I would not show him that I was frightened, though there was much in his look to frighten a boy my age. “I understand you,” I said, raising my chin. “Let go of me now.”

  The wind blew fresh snow in his face, and I believed there to be something villainous about even the uncaring gesture that wiped it aside. “You’ve more courage than your father, boy,” he said with a grin that spread out his tiny mouth.

  He released my wrist and stared at me. I, refusing to run, turned my back to him and walked slowly home, where I waited in silence until my father returned from ’Change Alley. It was not until late, well after dark, that I saw him, and I sent one of the servants to request an audience with him. He refused until I sent the servant back, telling him that it was of the greatest importance. I think my father must have recognized that I rarely requested time with him, and never before had asked again when first refused.

  Once he admitted me to his closet, I told him with a steady voice of my encounter with Bloathwait. He listened, attempting to show no emotion upon his face, but what I saw there frightened me more than the vague threats of a fat and pompous man like Bloathwait. My father was frightened, but he was frightened because he knew not what to do, not because he feared for my safety.

  I wanted to keep this encounter a secret, even from José, but at last, later that night, I told him, and to my horror he revealed that he had had a nearly identical encounter. From that moment on, Bloathwait became to us more horrific than any goblin or witch used to frighten a child. We saw him regularly, as we came out of school, upon the street, in the marketplace. Grinning at us, sometimes hungrily, as though we were no more than morsels he might devour, and sometimes with a kind of inclusive amusement, as though we were all victims of the same ironic twist of fate—that we were somehow comrades and partners in this ordeal.

  I once believed that these encounters went on for months, maybe years, though when I was older, José insisted it had only been for a week or two. I suppose he must be right, for a grown man cannot spend too large a part of his life following children around in order to frighten their father, and I had no memories of Bloathwait in which he was not surrounded by snow or red-faced from the cold. Even now, when I have seen far more of Bloathwait to frighten me as an adult than I had as a child, when I think of him I see him in his great coat, a mass of black in the white of winter.

  But Bloathwait’s terror did at last end. When I had not seen him for some time, I asked my father about it, but he only slammed his fist upon the table and shouted that I was never to speak that name aloud again.

  I cannot say the name was never spoken of in the house, though. Sometimes, among my father’s business associates, I would hear the word Bloathwait mentioned in hushed whispers, and always my father looked over his shoulder to see if there was a witness, a witness who might strip away his mask of indifference and take note of the secret shame beneath.

  Until the day I quit that house, I never dared utter his name to my father, but this great, sinister enemy—this man who had been my antagonist, and in a strange way an ally, exposing to me in the most irrefutable terms the failures of my father—remained firmly set in my fancy. I had no difficulty in recognizing him when I saw him next, now grown older, fatter, a lampoon of his former self. I had last looked upon his face, not as a child, but at my father’s funeral, when I had turned away from the service, and walked though the damp London afternoon, and seen him standing at a distance of perhaps fifty feet, looking at us, his little eyes fixed upon the huddle of Jewish men muttering their prayers. Strangely, I knew neither fear nor horror, though in retrospect I believe he looked a horrific figure, wrapped as I remembered him in a black outer coat, his wig, wet with rain, pressed against his face. A servant stood, ineffectually holding an umbrella above his head, and two more stood at the ready, awaiting his commands. When I noticed him, my initial thought was of recognition, as though he were a
great friend and one I should be glad to see. Driven by instinct, I almost raised my hand in a wave, but in an instant I recollected his face, and froze, staring at him. He met my gaze and did not flinch. Rather, he offered me a slight smile, amused and menacing, and then turned to enter his carriage.

  I devoted little attention to matters of politics and commerce, but London is a city in which great men are known to all, and I could not but be aware that this man who had once been so monstrous an enemy of my father was now a figure of some prominence—a member of the Court of Directors for the Bank of England. The Bank of England was the enemy of the South Sea Company, and the Company wished my inquiry to cease. I could not tell what it was, or how these matters fit together, but my uncle’s refusal to name Bloathwait, to allow his name to cross his lips, made plain to me that I had no choice but to talk to this enemy once more to learn if a villain from the past had returned to take my father’s life.

  I DO NOT WISH to produce in my reader the impression that I had no pursuits but those described in these pages, nor any acquaintances than those herein detailed. I knew my nature to be a single-minded one, however, and I thought it best to clear myself of all outstanding obligations before I plunged myself further into this inquiry. In the days that followed my visit to my uncle’s house, I completed some business I had with a regular patron of mine—tailor who catered to the city’s quality and who often found his bills neglected by gentlemen whose fortunes had turned. Many such gentlemen take advantage of this country’s liberal statutes and appear in public on Sundays when they know the bailiffs cannot arrest them for their debts. Thus, their creditors suffer while debtors parade about under the denomination of Sunday Gentlemen. I, however, in the service of my patrons, chose to maintain a much more flexible view of the law than did the bailiffs. I had a long-standing agreement with Bawdy Moll, who allowed me to pluck debtors off the streets on Sundays and deposit them in her gin house until Monday reared its more agreeable head. Rare was the man who would not accept of Moll’s liquor once locked in her dungeon, and with our debtor disoriented and unable to produce a coherent story of his illegal arrest, I would contact a proper bailiff—unaware of the larger scheme—who would make the arrest. It was a simple operation, for which I received an amount equal to 5 percent of the outstanding debt and Moll received a one-pound gratuity.

  Having secured a slippery fellow who owed my tailor friend in excess of four hundred pounds, I canvassed a few of my acquaintances to see if they knew something of the elder Balfour or his death, but that proved a fruitless venture. More successful was a visit to a young actress—whose name it would be indelicate to mention—with whom I kept some small acquaintance. She was a beautiful girl with bright blond hair and azure eyes and a sly smile that always made me believe she should play a trick upon me at any moment. I often took comfort in her idle chatter, for the world of the stage was so far from the world of my ordinary exploits, but on this occasion I could take no such refuge, for I listened to her tell me that she had learned she would play Aspasia in The Maid’s Tragedy only because the role had been abandoned by a woman who had fled the theatre to become Jonathan Wild’s whore. But I soon forgot the name of this enemy as I enjoyed several delicious hours in this woman’s company. It was something of a shame that she always found herself cast in tragic roles upon the stage, for she had a kind of wit about her that I found irresistible. An evening with this charmer was spent as much in laughter as it was in amorous intrigues. But I digress, for these adventures are of little relevance to this history.

  What I believe is relevant, however, is that on my late-night retreat from her lodgings I met with a misadventure I could only assume to be tied to my inquiry. My actress lived not far from my own lodgings, across the Strand, in a small outlet off Cecil Street, an area I thought too isolated and too near the river for an attractive lady’s comfort. It was her habit to send me home late at night, after her landlady had gone to sleep and before she rose again, and I had no great objection to the arrangement, preferring the comfort of my own rooms. That night, having paid my tribute at the temple of Venus, I set out to make my way back to Mrs. Garrison’s. It was dark as I walked up toward Cecil Street, and not a soul stirred that I could see. I could hear the waters of the river, and I could smell its dank, fishy odor. It had begun to rain slightly, and a cool mist filled the air. I pulled my coat about me and headed into the darkness of my ill-lit way home. When I was a boy, the streets of London had been reasonably lighted with lamps, but in the few years before this tale those lamps had fallen into disuse. These dark streets had become lost to honest folk, taken over by the wretched denizens of the alleyways, gutters, and gin houses.

  If my reader lives in London, he will understand that no man, no matter how formidable and no matter how well armed, can walk the dark streets of this city without trepidation. Such had always been the case, I suppose, but matters had grown far worse as Jonathan Wild’s rascals began to take for themselves the freedoms of the city. Had I lived farther from my paramour than I did, I should have sought to procure a hackney, but I would not be able to do so until upon the Strand, and from there I felt I could safely make my own way. Thus I walked cautiously, attempting to keep my wits about me, though my mind was distracted by the memories of a pleasant evening as well as a bit muddled from two or three bottles of a pleasing vintage.

  I had walked only a few minutes when I heard footsteps behind me. Whoever followed was skillful, for he matched his gait precisely with my own, making his footfalls all but impossible to discern. I could only presume it was a footpad who had made his way up from the river and had been delighted to find fair game upon these streets. I kept my pace steady, not wishing to let him know that I heard him, but I grabbed the handle of my hangar with a resolve to be ready for him with my blade. I thought about bringing forth my pistol, but I had no desire to fill yet another prig with lead, and it was my hope that I could defend myself without killing my assailant. It was certainly not overly optimistic to believe that the sight of a brave man with a drawn weapon would be enough to end the matter. The city, this prig might realize, was surely full of easier prey.

  I continued to walk, and he continued to keep apace. The mist began to turn into a steady rain, and a strong wind picked up from the river. I found myself shivering slightly as I walked, hearing my heart pound as if behind my ears, just as I heard the rhythmic tapping of the stalker’s footfalls. I could not tell when he would strike, but I found it strange that he waited so long. We were alone, and no footpad could hope for more favorable conditions. Indeed, he had nothing to gain by waiting, but he continued only to keep pace. I thought to turn around and challenge him to force the issue and to end the conflict, but I flattered myself that I might reach the Strand—and safety—without risking a struggle. I should have loved to have faced any ruffian of this order in a fair match, but I had no knowledge of his weaponry. He might have a brace of pistols pointed at me, and by frightening him I would only secure my demise. Perhaps, I thought, he was new at his trade and did not understand how ideal the conditions were. If so, I might keep walking until I should find company and the matter would end without confrontation or violence.

  At last I saw a hackney coach up ahead, barreling in my direction. I could not imagine where it headed at such a speed, for the street went nowhere one might need to get to quickly. Despite its frenzied pace, I felt certain that if I signaled to him, the coachman would stop and permit me to ride at least to the nearest well-lit spot, where I might procure my own transportation. I feared he might not see me in the dark, so I stepped forward into the road, and drew my hangar, hoping that such light as there was would reflect off the thin blade and signal my distress.

  I waved my arms as the coach drew nearer, but it did not slow down. Indeed, I realized as it approached that the horses were not going to run by me, but rather into me, and so I took myself a few steps backward, continuing to wave as I did so. As I changed my course, so too did the horses, and I could not but con
clude that this madman meant to trample upon me. I hope my reader will think me no coward, but in an instant I was filled with terror, for I believed in my heart that this was the coach, and this the very coachman, who had run down my father. This terror sprang not only from the fear I now felt for my own life, although that was certainly no small part of it, but from the recognition of the enormity of what I faced. I sought to know what had happened to my father, and now his fate might well be my own. There were forces at work that I could not comprehend, and because I could not comprehend, I felt I could not defend myself.

  I took another few steps backward, away from the road, where the murderous coachman would never dare to drive his horses but at his own peril. I discovered, however, a difficulty I had not bothered to consider—that the coach and the thief were but of the same party, for the thief had managed to sneak his way behind me, and, taking advantage of his surprise, he gripped me hard upon the shoulders, twisting my body roughly before throwing me to the ground. As I landed, the coach sped by at a frightening pace, the horses screaming with what sounded like sinister pleasure. My assailant lost no time raising up and holding forth his own blade over my dazed and prostrate form.

  “I thought to say ‘stand and deliver,’ ” he told me with a grin dully reflected in even the minimal light, “but in your case, delivering will be enough.”

  I could not discern his features clearly in the darkness, but he was a stout, gritty-looking creature who, by the width of him, might have acquitted himself reasonably well in an honest fight. Now that he had the advantage, I thought hard for ways I might remove myself of his mercy.