Yet when Amaunet’s wagons rolled by they looked up only briefly, and swiftly looked away. Some few made gestures to ward off evil.
“You’ve got quite a reputation, eh?” observed Golescu. Amaunet did not reply. She seemed to have barely noticed.
Golescu spent another chilly night on the floor in the rear wagon—alone this time, for Emil slept in a cupboard under Amaunet’s narrow bunk when he was not being held hostage, and Amaunet steadfastly ignored all Golescu’s hints and pleasantries about the value of shared body warmth. As a consequence, he was stiff and out of sorts by the time he emerged next morning.
Overnight, the fair had assumed half-existence. A blind man, muscled like a giant, cranked steadily at the carousel, and thin pale children rode round and round. A man with a barrel-organ cranked steadily too, and his little monkey sat on his shoulder and watched the children with a diffident eye. But many of the tents were still flat, in a welter of ropes and poles. A long line of bored vendors stood attendance before a town clerk, who had set up his permit office under a black parasol.
Golescu was staring at all this when Amaunet, who had come up behind him, silent as a shadow, said:
“Here’s your chance to be useful. Get in line for me.”
“Holy Saints!” Golescu whirled around. “Do you want to frighten me into heart failure? Give a man some warning.”
She gave him a leather envelope and a small purse instead. “Here are my papers. Pay the bureaucrat and get my permit. You won’t eat tonight, otherwise.”
“You wouldn’t order me around like this if you knew my true identity,” Golescu grumbled, but he got into line obediently.
The town clerk was reasonably honest, so the line took no more than an hour to wind its way through. At last the man ahead of Golescu got his permit to sell little red-blue-and-yellow paper flags, and Golescu stepped up to the table.
“Papers,” said the clerk, yawning.
“Behold.” Golescu opened them with a flourish. The clerk squinted at them.
“Amaunet Kematef,” he recited. “Doing business as ‘Mother Aegypt.’” A Russian? And this says you’re a woman.”
“They’re not my papers, they’re—they’re my wife’s papers,” said Golescu, summoning an outraged expression. “And she isn’t Russian, my friend, she is a hot-blooded Egyptian, a former harem dancer if you must know, before an unfortunate accident that marred her exotic beauty. I found her starving in the gutters of Cairo, and succored her out of Christian charity. Shortly, however, I discovered her remarkable talent for predicting the future based on an ancient system of—”
“A fortune-teller? Two marks,” said the clerk. Golescu paid, and as the clerk wrote out the permit he went on:
“The truth of the matter is that she was the only daughter of a Coptic nobleman, kidnapped at an early age by ferocious—”
“Three marks extra if this story goes on any longer,” said the clerk, stamping the permit forcefully.
“You have my humble gratitude,” said Golescu, bowing deeply. Pleased with himself, he took the permit and strutted away.
“Behold,” he said, producing the permit for Amaunet with a flourish. She took it without comment and examined it. Seen in the strong morning light, the indefinable grimness of her features was much more pronounced. Golescu suppressed a shudder and inquired, “How else may a virile male be of use, my sweet?”
Amaunet turned her back on him, for which he was grateful. “Stay out of trouble until tonight. Then you can mind Emil. He wakes up after sundown.”
She returned to the foremost black wagon. Golescu watched as she climbed up, and was struck once more by the drastically different effect her backside produced on the interested spectator.
“Don’t you want me to beat a drum for you? Or rattle a tambourine or something? I can draw crowds for you like a sugarloaf draws flies!”
She looked at him, with her white grimace that might have been amusement. “I’m sure you can draw flies,” she said. “But I don’t need an advertiser for what I do.”
Muttering, Golescu wandered away through the fair. He cheered up no end, however, when he discovered that he still had Amaunet’s purse.
Tents were popping up now, bright banners were being unfurled, though they hung down spiritless in the heat and glare of the day. Golescu bought himself a cheap hat and stood around a while, squinting as he sized up the food vendors. Finally he bought a glass of tea and a fried pastry, stuffed with plums, cased in glazed sugar that tasted vaguely poisonous. He ate it contentedly and, licking the sugar off his fingers, wandered off the fairground to a clump of trees near the river’s edge. There he stretched out in the shade and, tilting his hat over his face, went to sleep. If one had to baby-sit a vampyr one needed to get plenty of rest by day.
By night the fair was a different place. The children were gone, home in their beds, and the carousel raced round nearly empty but for spectral riders; the young men had come out instead. They roared with laughter and shoved one another, or stood gaping before the little plank stages where the exhibitions were cried by mountebanks. Within this tent were remarkable freaks of nature; within this one, an exotic dancer plied her trade; within another was a man who could handle hot iron without gloves. The lights were bright and fought with shadows. The air was full of music and raucous cries.
Golescu was unimpressed.
“What do you mean, it’s too tough?” he demanded. “That cost fifteen groschen!”
“I can’t eat it,” whispered Emil, cringing away from the glare of the lanterns.
“Look.” Golescu grabbed up the ear of roasted corn and bit into it. “Mm! Tender! Eat it, you little whiner.”
“It has paprika on it. Too hot.” Emil wrung his hands.
“Ridiculous,” said Golescu through a full mouth, munching away. “It’s the food of the gods. What the hell will you eat, eh? I know! You’re a vampyr, so you want blood, right? Well, we’re in a slightly public place at the moment, so you’ll just have to make do with something else. Taffy apple, eh? Deep fried sarmale? Pierogi? Pommes frites?”
Emil wept silently, tears coursing from his big rabbit eyes, and Golescu sighed and tossed the corn cob away. “Come on,” he said, and dragged the little man off by one hand.
They made a circuit of all the booths serving food before Emil finally consented to try a Vienna sausage impaled on a stick, dipped in corn batter and deep-fried. To Golescu’s relief he seemed to like it, for he nibbled at it uncomplainingly as Golescu towed him along. Golescu glanced over at Amaunet’s wagon, and noted a customer emerging, pale and shaken.
“Look over there,” Golescu said in disgust. “One light. No banners, nobody calling attention to her, nobody enticing the crowds. And one miserable customer waiting, look! That’s what she gets. Where’s the sense of mystery? She’s Mother Aegypt! Her other line of work must pay pretty well, eh?”
Emil made no reply, deeply preoccupied by his sausage-on-a-spike.
“Or maybe it doesn’t, if she can’t do any better for a servant than you. Where’s all the money go?” Golescu wondered, pulling at his moustache. “Why’s she so sour, your mistress? A broken heart or something?”
Emil gave a tiny shrug and kept eating.
“I could make her forget whoever it was in ten minutes, if I could just get her to take me seriously,” said Golescu, gazing across at the wagon. “And the best way to do that, of course, is to impress her with money. We need a scheme, turnip-head.”
“Four thousand and seventeen,” said Emil.
“Huh?” Golescu turned to stare down at him. Emil said nothing else, but in his silence the cry of the nearest hawker came through loud and clear:
“Come on and take a chance, clever ones! Games of chance, guess the cards, throw the dice, spin the wheel! Or guess the number of millet grains in the jar and win a cash prize! Only ten groschen a guess! You might be the winner! You, sir, with the little boy!”
Golescu realized the hawker was addressing him. H
e looked around indignantly.
“He is not my little boy!”
“So he’s your uncle, what does it matter? Take a guess, why don’t you?” bawled the hawker. “What have you got to lose?”
“Ten groschen,” retorted Golescu, and then reflected that it was Amaunet’s money. “What the hell.”
He approached the gaming booth, pulling Emil after him. “What’s the cash prize?”
“Twenty thousand lei,” said the hawker. Golescu rolled his eyes.
“Oh, yes, I’d be able to retire on that, all right,” he said, but dug in his pocket for ten groschen. He cast a grudging eye on the glass jar at the back of the counter, on its shelf festooned with the new national flag and swags of bunting. “You’ve undoubtedly got rocks hidden in there, to throw the volume off. Hm, hm, all right … how many grains of millet in there? I’d say …”
“Four thousand and seventeen,” Emil repeated. The hawker’s jaw dropped. Golescu looked from one to the other of them. His face lit up.
“That’s the right answer, isn’t it?” he said. “Holy saints and patriarchs!”
“No, it isn’t,” said the hawker, recovering himself with difficulty.
“It is so,” said Golescu. “I can see it in your eyes!”
“No, it isn’t,” the hawker insisted.
“It is so! Shall we tip out the jar and count what’s in there?”
“No, and anyway you hadn’t paid me yet—and anyway it was your little boy, not you, so it wouldn’t count anyway—and—”
“Cheat! Shall I scream it aloud? I’ve got very good lungs. Shall I tell the world how you’ve refused to give this poor child his prize, even when he guessed correctly? Do you really want—’
“Shut up! Shut up, I’ll pay the damned twenty thousand lei!” The hawker leaned forward and clapped his hand over Golescu’s mouth. Golescu smiled at him, the points of his moustaches rising like a cockroach’s antennae.
Wandering back to Amaunet’s wagon, Golescu jingled the purse at Emil.
“Not a bad night’s work, eh? I defy her to look at this and fail to be impressed.”
Emil did not respond, sucking meditatively on the stick, which was all that was left of his sausage.
“Of course, we’re going to downplay your role in the comedy, for strategic reasons,” Golescu continued, peering around a tent and scowling at the wagon. There was a line of customers waiting now, and while some were clearly lonely women who wanted their fortunes told, a few were rather nasty-looking men, in fact rather criminal-looking men, and Golescu had the uneasy feeling he might have met one or two of them in a professional context at some point in his past. As he was leaning back, he glanced down at Emil.
“I think we won’t interrupt her while she’s working just yet. Gives us more time to concoct a suitably heroic and clever origin for this fine fat purse, eh? Anyway, she’d never believe that you—” Golescu halted, staring at Emil. He slapped his forehead in a gesture of epiphany.
“Wait a minute, wait a minute! She knows about this talent of yours! That’s why she keeps you around, is it? Ha!”
He was silent for a moment, but the intensity of his regard was such that it penetrated even Emil’s self-absorption. Emil looked up timidly and beheld Golescu’s countenance twisted into a smile of such ferocious benignity that the little man screamed, dropped his stick, and covered his head with both hands.
“My dear shrinking genius!” bellowed Golescu, seizing Emil up and clasping him in his arms. “Puny friend, petite brother, sweetest of vampyrs! Come, my darling, will you have another sausage? No? Polenta? Milk punch? Hot chocolate? Golescu will see you have anything you want, pretty one. Let us go through the fair together.”
The purse of twenty thousand lei was considerably lighter by the time Golescu retreated to the shadows under the rear wagon, pulling Emil after him. Emil was too stuffed with sausage and candy floss to be very alert, and he had a cheap doll and a pinwheel to occupy what could be mustered of his attention. Nonetheless, Golescu drew a new pack of cards from his pocket, broke the seal, and shuffled them, looking at Emil with lovingly predatory eyes.
“I have heard of this, my limp miracle,” crooned Golescu, making the cards snap and riffle through his fat fingers. “Fellows quite giftless as regards social graces, oh yes, in some cases so unworldly they must be fed and diapered like babies. And yet, they have a brilliance! An unbelievable grasp of systems and details! Let us see if you are one such prodigy, eh?”
An hour’s worth of experimentation was enough to prove to Golescu’s satisfaction that Emil was more than able to count cards accurately; if a deck was even fanned before his face for a second, he could correctly identify all the cards he had glimpsed.
“And now, dear boy, only one question remains,” said Golescu, tossing the deck over his shoulder into the night. The cards scattered like dead leaves. “Why hasn’t Madame Amaunet taken advantage of your fantastic abilities to grow rich beyond the dreams of avarice?”
Emil did not reply.
“Such a perfect setup. I can’t understand it,” persisted Golescu, leaning down to peer at the line stretching to the door of the forward wagon. A woman had just emerged, wringing her hands and sobbing. Though the fairground had begun to empty out now, there were still a few distinct thugs waiting their turn to … have their fortunes told? It seemed unlikely. Three of them seemed to be concealing bulky parcels about their persons.
“With a lucky mannekin like you, she could queen it at gambling houses from Monte Carlo to St. Petersburg,” mused Golescu. “In fact, with a body like hers, she could be the richest whore in Rome, Vienna, or Budapest. If she wore a mask, that is. Why, then, does she keep late hours fencing stolen spoons and watches for petty cutthroats? Where’s the money in that? What does she want, Emil, my friend?”
“The Black Cup,” said Emil.
When the last of the thugs had gone his way, Amaunet emerged from the wagon and looked straight at Golescu, where he lounged in the shadows. He had been intending to make an impressive entrance, but with the element of surprise gone he merely waved at her sheepishly.
“Where’s Emil?” demanded Amaunet.
“Safe and sound, my queen,” Golescu replied, producing Emil and holding him up by the scruff of his neck. Emil, startled by the light, yelled feebly and covered his eyes. “We had a lovely evening, thank you.”
“Get to bed,” Amaunet told Emil. He writhed from Golescu’s grip and darted into the wagon. “Did you feed him?” she asked Golescu.
“Royally,” said Golescu. “And how did I find the wherewithal to do that, you ask? Why, with this.” He held up the purse of somewhat less than twenty thousand lei and clinked it at her with his most seductive expression. To his intense annoyance, her eyes did not brighten in the least.
“Fetch the horses and hitch them in place. We’re moving on tonight,” she said.
Golescu was taken aback. “Don’t you want to know where I got all this lovely money?”
“You stole it?” said Amaunet, taking down the lantern from its hook by the door and extinguishing it.
“I never!” cried Golescu, genuinely indignant. “I won it for you, if you must know. Guessing how many grains of millet were in a jar.”
He had imagined her reaction to his gift several times that evening, with several variations on her range of emotion. He was nonetheless unprepared for her actual response of turning, swift as a snake, and grabbing him by the throat.
“How did you guess the right number?” she asked him, in a very low voice.
“I’m extraordinarily talented?” he croaked, his eyes standing out of his head.
Amaunet tightened her grip. “It was Emil’s guess, wasn’t it?”
Golescu merely nodded, unable to draw enough breath to speak.
“Were you enough of a fool to take him to the games of chance?”
Golescu shook his head. She pulled his face close to her own.
“If I ever catch you taking Emil to card
parlors or casinos, I’ll kill you. Do you understand?”
She released him, hurling him back against the side of the wagon. Golescu straightened, gasped in air, pushed his hat up from his face and said:
“All right, so I discovered his secret. Does Madame have any objections to my asking why the hell she isn’t using our little friend to grow stinking rich?”
“Because Emil doesn’t have a secret,” Amaunet hissed. “He is a secret.”
“Oh, that explains everything,” said Golescu, rubbing his throat.
“It had better,” said Amaunet. “Now, bring the horses.”
Golescu did as he was told, boiling with indignation and curiosity, and also with something he was barely able to admit to himself. It could not be said, by any stretch of the imagination, that Amaunet was beautiful in her wrath, and yet …
Something about the pressure of her fingers on his skin, and the amazing strength of her hands … and the scent of her breath up close like that, like some unnamable spice …
“What strange infatuation enslaves my foolish heart?” he inquired of the lead horse, as he hitched it to the wagon-tongue.
They traveled all the rest of the moonless night, along the dark river, and many times heard the howling of wolves, far off in the dark forest.
Golescu wove their cries into a fantasy of heroism, wherein he was possessed of an immense gun and discharged copious amounts of shot into a pack of ferocious wolves threatening Amaunet, who was so grateful for the timely rescue she … she threw off her disguise, and most of her clothing too, and it turned out that she’d been wearing a fearsome mask all along. She was actually beautiful, though he couldn’t quite see how beautiful, because every time he tried to fling himself into her arms he kept tangling his feet in something, which seemed to be pink candy-floss someone had dropped on the fairground …
The Year's Best SF 22 # 2004 Page 39
