LOSER'S NIGHT
This time the Old Phoenix appeared to me alongside a country road after dark. I was on the walk that most men take at least once in their lives, until sunrise, and no wish was in me for any society other than that of the stars. I almost passed the house by. Then I saw its fancifully carved beam ends in silhouette against Sagittarius. Astonishment and—not gladness, but hope brought me to a stop..
A while, though, I stood hesitant. The road ran wan through fields where dew glimmered and occasional trees caught starlight in their crowns. A breeze lulled cool, bringing odors of soil, growth, all our familiar earth. I never know what I will meet on those unforeseeable rare moments when the Old Phoenix is open to me. There will surely be no ready answers or easy solace. Nothing that happens in that nexus between the universes ever quite happens. When guests say goodbye and walk back out the door, it shall be like waking from a dream.
Yet some dreams leave a measure of understanding. Always on those evenings an extraordinary company is gathered. Mine host and hostess take their pay in the stories they hear told, the play of spirit upon spirit as they watch. Not humble, I nonetheless cannot imagine why they extend their hospitality to me. Certain things, such as life Itself, can only be accepted.
Did I decline, would they ever bid me return? That was not a risk to take. Besides, no matter how shaken I might be tonight, at least it should be out of this mood.
The inn might waver from sight at any instant. I scrambled through the ditch, grass rustling about my ankles, and up the low steps. The signboard creaked faintly overhead in the wind. The bronze of the elephant’s-head handle was cold to my touch, but when I pulled, the light that spilled forth was yellow and warm. I stepped through, closed the door behind me, and looked around.
The taproom is changeless, with oaken floor and wainscots beneath massive roofbeams. A fire crackles in a handsome stone fireplace. The mantel holds a giant hourglass and two seven-branched candlesticks. These and tapers sconced on the walls give better seeing than you would expect. Pictures and objects equally curious catch the eye more than do the writing desk and bookshelves, which I suspect are more meaningful. A rear door leads to a corridor and staircase; upstairs are bedrooms, though few go to them and then only out of necessity. Another door admits savory odors from the kitchen. The mahogany bar, with its brass footrail and beer pumps, betokens the same homely comfort as does the battered furniture: a long table and numerous small ones surrounded by straightbacked chairs, some armchairs wherever the last users drew them.
About a score of people were present, mostly in small clusters. Like seeks like, or unlike seeks unlike, for comradeship or, seldom, quarrel. They were unwontedly quiet, I thought. Not that the Old Phoenix often gets noisy. Even when high spirits burst into song in a corner, it somehow doesn’t trample over conversation in the manner of my world’s accursed jukebox and never-to-be-sufficiently-damned television. But talk tonight seemed less animated than usual, smiles infrequent and acrid.
He whom I call Tavemer met me at the threshold. His own smile was as broad as always, his stocky frame at ease. Light reflected off the bald round head. “Hello,” he said. “Welcome. How are you?”
Startled, I realized that he, who knows all languages, had not used mine. His was none I remembered ever hearing before, yet I had understood, my mind had rendered it into ordinary American English, but that was the tongue in which I stammered, “V-very happy to be here, thanks,” for the strange words did not come to me.
His manner turned serious—not solemn, which I had never seen him be; it went deeper than that. “You’ll find the rules are a little different this evening. Folks need to talk freely with each other, whomever they feel like.”
I had sometimes wondered whether my limited abilities as an Interpreter were what gave me entry. They would not be required tonight. I was invited because of my need. The Taverners are as merciful as their charter, or whatever it is that was once granted them by some power unknown, allows them to be.
"On that account," he continued, "please don't ask anybody's name, or use it if you think you recognize a person." He smiled again. "Otherwise, relax, enjoy yourself." He stepped aside. However friendly, he had the trade to oversee and couldn't well stand chatting. I nodded and went on. As I passed him, a muscular hand clapped me on the shoulder.
His beer called. I headed for the bar. Glances trailed me, but no voices hailed. Self-introductions among so motley a lot are apt to be awkward. Those who want companionship soon find it regardless, with the individuals most appropriate.
My steps brought me close to a table where two men had settled. They were both lean, dark, somber. Through the machine-gun talking I identified classical Latin and Canadian French. They couldn't have spoken directly without the special dispensation.
"—battle tomorrow or the day after," said he in the toga. "At Philippi, I think. Harder will be what comes afterward, to restore the Republic."
He in the plaid shirt and faded blue work pants caught his breath. The wine slopped from the tumbler he clutched. He gaped at the other for a second before he rasped, "Are you—" He broke off. Self-control did not seem to come easily to him. "But no, I must not say it, eh?" He drank. His hand shook; more wine ran down the stubble on his chin. "And I am not learned anyway, I am only a simple métis."
"You should return to your country," said the Roman. "Your people need you."
Intensity still hotter than his burned in the eyes across from him. "They cry for justice, by God, and it is to me they cry—"
I shivered, and then had gone out of earshot.
The bar was a haven. "Belly up, dearie," urged Taverner's wife behind it. Like him, she wore decent working-class clothes of seventeenth-century Europe, the garb in which I most commonly see them. Why, I haven't ventured to ask. As likewise was her custom, she addressed me in the style of a music hall barmaid from about the year when I was born. "A nice pint or two, that's wot yer need." She worked a pump. The gray bun waggled at her nape.
"And a shot of Tanqueray, if you please," I requested. Her shelves are small, but somehow she can produce anything you ask for.
"Right-o. 'Ere yer be." Mug and glass slid across the wood. "Ow's the weather at 'ome?"
I shrugged. "Summer." The gin cast its sharp benediction over palate and gullet. The ale surged mightily after.
She cocked her head. "Yer weren't noticing, were yer?"
"Why should I?"
The smile faded on her plump plain countenance. "Three score and ten summers, the Book says. I should think yer couldn't afford ter waste none."
"Sometimes it can't be helped. But I don't want to cry on your shoulder."
"Cor! It'd be wringing wet if they orl did that ternight. Just look at 'em." She patted my hand. "Not that I ain't got sympathy, ducks. I wish we 'ad a nice girl for yer to pass the time with. But I'm afraid none o' these ladies 'ud do. I'm sure yer'll find some matey chap, though." She peered beyond me. "Scuse, I see a gentleman wot could do with a refill."
"Me first, if you please," said a male voice at my side. The man employed English too, in his case with a hint of Irish lilt. He didn't look especially Irish, long-faced, neatly bearded, outfitted with frock coat, waistcoat, necktie, watch chain, upper-class appurtenances of the late nineteenth century. However, his lapel bore a green ribbon.
"Right-o." Taverner's wife drew his stein full of the same splendor I savored. From beneath the bar she got a bowl of ice and tongs, which she placed on a tray with a bottle of yellow-green liquor and a carafe of water. She bustled off.
Meanwhile the Irishman tipped mug to mouth, wiped foam from his mustache, and gave me a wry smile. "Pardon me, I happened to overhear," he said. "I daresay you know we're rather free in this place. Woman trouble?"
I felt no offense. He appeared to be one sheet in the wind, no more, but he carried it well and what he showed was less curiosity than kindliness. "In a way," I admitted. "Not as simple as I wish it were."
"Sure, is it ev
er?" Abruptly he winced. "What when you get her, but the cost is all else you ever lived for?"
"Hm?"
"Kitty—No." He stiffened. "My apologies, sir. I ought not have spoken. Now, if you will pardon me again, I should return to my tablemate."
"Oh, yes."
Did he think I felt rebuffed? "I would invite you to join us, were we not discussing reform politics." Passion flickered. "The restoration of justice in the teeth of timocracy—" It died down. "I suspect you would not care to do so."
"No," I agreed. "Thanks anyway."
A prickling in my spine, I watched him go back. The other man wore a classic Greek tunic and sandals, of a simplicity that made me guess he was a Spartan. The drink before him looked like diluted wine, and he took it slowly, with a bite off a crust of bread between sips, although in the Old Phoenix you can drink at a rate that would be disastrous anywhere else. His bearing suggested one used to command, such as a king, but a deep inward weariness blunted it, close to despair.
I thought it would indeed be worth listening to them, and then decided the first one had been right and it would not be wise.
My gaze ranged about the taproom. The guests were as wildly diverse as ever. Uniquely in my experience, only three or four were female. The lives of women may generally be quieter than those of men, but not the less interesting or important; and when they do get spectacular—Hatshepsut, Jingo Kogo, Gunnhild, Britomart, Sacajawea, Moll Flanders, Sojourner Truth, Valeria Matuchek, on and on and on—they make my sex look tame. What was it most of them lacked?
For a moment I thought I'd found my partner. From pictures I knew that rugged Edwardian Englishman. But no; I didn't wish to hear his dreams; I would be remembering the ice and hunger in which they must end. And what awaited the dark man in a form-fitting glittery coverall with whom he conversed?
Of course, for these it might be otherwise. Space-time is many-branched, perhaps infinitely so. There seems to be little we can imagine which is not reality somewhere among yonder histories. Out of them, into the Old Phoenix for a night, have come—I have heard, or seen for myself—not only the likes of Theseus, Scheherazade, Falstaff, Holger Danske, Huck Finn, Irene Adler, Red Hanrahan, blind Rhysling—but a Zenobia who won free of Rome, an Abelard who remained a whole man, a Rupert of the Rhine who outfought Cromwell, a Tecumtha who preserved his nation—
I had no way of telling about any whom I now saw, unless I met them; and why should I lay remembrance of other vanquishments to mine? What were the Taverners doing? This was a house where the good cheer and the heartening rarely failed, and then through no fault of theirs. Had some darkness reached also into it?
My glance traveled past the fire, and my pulse hopped. A man sat by himself on the far side of it. I knew that scarecrow form and raven-gaunt face; I would have foreseen the soiled blouse and doublet, the patched, ill-fitting hose and shoes. We'd hoisted quite a few together, he and I, swapped verses and songs, tales and lies, ramshackle philosophies and smutty jokes. Okay!
I'd have to be a little careful. His temper could flare. I didn't imagine he would ever actually pull the dagger at his hip, not here, and certainly the landlord would never allow violence to be possible. Still, I'd heard of what happened when Kit Marlowe showed up in his presence—one of Taverner's few mistakes, letting two alley tom-cats into the same room—and I'd been on the receiving end of snakebite words myself. No matter. He got his mirth back equally fast, laughed, and called for another drink. On the whole, I am immensely pleased and proud that Francois Villon likes me.
I took my ale in his direction. Meeting me on her way back, the barmaid flashed a grin and a thumbs up. "That's right," she said, "toujours gai," which I didn't think was quite out of the role she likes to play.
It had little to do with the man she had served. He slumped alone in an armchair before the hearth, gripping his drink and staring into the flames. With a shock, I placed bony head, craggy nose, ruddy beard. He had both his ears. . . . "The light, the coals, like the sun." I don't know Dutch, but you can't mistake that hoarse language and under tonight's rules I heard what he mouthed. "White, Theo. All colors go up together in the white heat." Fireglow wavered across the blank blue of his eyes. I hadn't thought you could get this drunk in the Old Phoenix, no matter how much you gulped. Quite likely not. He had been born possessed. True, a whiff in the air told me it wasn't Pernod for him as I'd supposed, but absinthe.
I'd better assume that Mrs. Taverner knew her business, and go on past.
Villon sat shank over knee, chair tilted back against the wall, beaker set handy on a slab projecting from the side of the fireplace. He held a lute as scarred and battered as himself, from which he struck plangent chords. They weren't accompaniment but mere doodles of sound, keeping his fingers busy. He too looked fixedly at what I could not see, though in his eyes was a terrifying clarity. He wasn't singing, he was reciting, well-nigh too low to make out through the background of talk. Again I knew the language, his, "the old nasal French," wrote Chesterton, which bears "the clang and groan of great iron." But the spell upon us tonight made it into English for me as well, whose lameness set beside the original caused me to flinch.
Bards may stand in a stately hall,
Praising the warrior's victory
Or wealth that is won and fame withal
By men of deeds or of artistry.
I will abide with the irony
That leaves blow sere when the wind harroos.
And epitaphs blur like memory.
Even the dead have much to lose.
He stopped. His lips moved on, wordless. He was, then, composing. After a moment he scowled, shook his head, spat a foul oath—and noticed me.
At that he leaped to his feet. Had most men done so, the chair would have clattered down behind. He left it as a cat does. Feline also was the quickness with which I saw him check my name before it escaped. `Why, you!" he exclaimed instead. `What a futtering wonderful surprise! You're just in time to rescue me."
Wiry fingers caught my hand. It was an odd, writhing grip, like his clasp on a former occasion. My guess was that it tickled him to give innocent me the recognition sign of some thieves' den. "Get yourself a seat," he went on. "Tell me of your rascalities since last—or, failing any, your virtuous deeds, doubtless much more comical. As for my adventures, ah, first and foremost, the episode of the priest, the sailor, and her whom I call Minou!" He paused, considered me, and finished, "No, perhaps not that for you, not immediately. I might salt a wound, eh?"
He was too perceptive. In his kind of life, you have to be. "What do I rescue you from?" I asked fast.
"Annoyance. This bemerded ballade. I thought I had it—the ambiance, thick as smoke tonight, verses should come of themselves upon me, like pigeon droppings. But no. It drags, it clanks. Yet it has me by the heels, it will not let me go before I give it a form, a name. Diverting the mind a while, that may improve the flow." Villon laughed. "At least let the wind of your words blow away the garbage clutter of my metaphors! Sit."
Well, I might get more help than I gave. I glanced about after a vacant chair. The nearest I saw was at a table occupied by two men. I went for it.
Inevitably, they caught my attention. Both seemed healthy in their later middle years, except that the European in the high stock and snug trousers of sometime around 1820 strained to see with eyes that were failing him. He sipped wine from a crystal goblet, so appreciatively that it must be a prime vintage, unlike the raw stuff Villon tossed down. The second nursed what I took to be a glass of fruit juice. He was clearly a Muslim, attired in a plain white kaftan, and I thought that the language in which he replied to his companion's French was Arabic. However, he himself was no Arab, being light of complexion and straight of nose. A North African, I guessed.
"—and thus the spirit of fellowship and obligation that the desert breeds revitalizes a civilization when the nomads enter into it," he was saying. "For its part, it refines them of the dross, it makes them fully human. But in the e
nd it is fated that they in their turn become corrupt and enfeebled."
The Frenchman nodded. "Likewise among plants and animals," he responded. "I believe extinction falls upon a line as often because it changes itself all too well to fit the conditions about it as because it adapts too slowly. Nevertheless, monsieur, with respect, you overgeneralize. Human societies must be as capable as natural species of successful evolution into forms altogether new."
They were wholly caught by each other's ideas. Was such enjoyment peculiar to them this evening? "Excuse me, gentlemen," I said. "May I take the extra chair?"
Gentlemen in truth, they rose, bowed or salaamed, and assured me I was welcome. Thereupon they went straight back to their discussion. I half wished I could sit in on it.
"Yes, I think the next stanza is in ferment," said Villon as I returned. "Speaking of which, your health, old cock!" He raised his beaker and swallowed a draught. "May you soon win back your merriment."
I lowered myself, tasted my ale, and answered, "Did I say I'd lost it?" At once I realized my defensiveness was automatic. The ease of being able to speak English to him had its pitfalls.
"No, but I have seen flagellants cheerier than you. Moreover, this is a night for lives that failed."
"What?"
Villon swept his hand around in Gallic wise. "Only pay heed. Not that I can say who or what every soul among us is. But I see enough, enough."
Rebels, leaders, explorers—on what planet will the man in the garb that glitters perish, in what century?. . . "How can you identify any?" —you, expelled student, wastrel, brawler, robber, thief, jailbird, vagabond, and the devil knows what else, five centuries before my time in my world.
He shrugged. "One has the luck to be admitted here now and then. One gets sociable, drinks, eats, gambles a bit, talks, listens, watches, and, yes, thinks, if you can imagine that of me. Thus I have gleaned some sparrow's crumbs of history from other lands than France, in ages later as well as earlier than what I live through." He grinned. "It tempts to put them into my verses. But who would understand, at what passes me for home? I would rather not have witchcraft added to the accusations against me. So I fashion my variant songs in the Old Phoenix only, as occasion suggests them."
The Old Phoenix Tavern Page 4
