Under the Poppy Read Online Free PDF Page B

accepts it, every single time.

“Mister Arrowsmith,” says the mayor, “you have quite the continental taste.” His cigar smolders like burning punk, he sports an extravagant tie, red as a poppy. “For Champagne, I mean. I would have thought you was more a whiskey man.”
    “When in Rome,” says Mr. Arrowsmith pleasantly.
    “Is that where you hail from?” asks the colonel. He has three teeth missing, at times it makes him mumble, but his gaze is clear enough, his bearing stiff. Beside him Jürgen Vidor smiles a sketch of a smile, pours again for the three of them and “Commerce,” says Jürgen Vidor, “is at home in all locales. Much like the military, eh, Colonel? Did you try the elk, Mr. Redgrave? Shot just this morning, in the forest, they say.”
    “Shot at dawn,” says Mr. Franz, the attaché; he giggles. No one acknowledges his remark.
    Champagne and elk and rye whiskey, cigars and cheroots, five seats filled at a table for six. Onstage, Jonathan in a gravedigger’s suit plays a Chopin etude; the stage curtains are drawn primly behind him. At the outer door Omar adjusts his cuffs, shakes his head at the looming queue of disappointed revelers: “Private party tonight, sorry. Come back tomorrow.”
    “Tomorrow I’ll be broke!”
    “Then come back when you’re not…. Private party, sorry, gents.”
    At the head of the aisle, Decca, in a lemon yellow silk that in no way becomes her, jet combs like horns in her red hair, mutters instructions to Velma, herself an overseer tonight, the two hired hotel servers her domain so “Watch them every second,” Decca says. “Every fork that goes missing comes out of your pocket. Now, what of the wine?”
    “Fine for now,” says Velma, resplendent in unaccustomed bombazine. “It’ll do.”
    “Don’t give yourself airs, just do as I say…. Where is that ass Puggy?”
    “I don’t know, miss.”
    “I’m not speaking to you,” though no one else stands with them, Decca distracted, gaze up and down the room, the four tables bright with wax candles, unthinkable expense, that and the champagne, will they notice how poor it really is? Puggy says the show will overcome all defects, but where is Puggy? or Lucy, neither there when she needs them most so “Get back on the floor,” she says to Velma, her roving gaze now seeking Rupert, who had agreed, had he not, to dine with them, Jürgen Vidor and his guests? At least Istvan is where he promised to be, she has just checked, knocked, eased open the door on darkness to see him swaddled and sleeping, face thrust deep into the pillow, long hair fanned on the coverlet, a rind of meat and whiskey nearly empty on the floor. Pearl maintains that she gave him quite the frolic, so fucked, fed, and bottled, he should slumber like an infant, thank God.
    And now, thank God again, or someone, here is Rupert, unsmiling, his linen immaculate, signet ring gleaming on his left hand, bloodstone and gold; up close she can see the sallow pallor of the headache but in the candlelight “You look so handsome,” Decca says, then winces inside, O the wrong thing to say but “Shall we greet our guests?” he says as he offers his arm, down the narrow center aisle, isthmus to the revelry, the five at the center surrounded by three satellite tables occupied by the colonel’s men and a few of the Poppy’s regulars much aware of the signal honor, less boisterous than on a normal Saturday, more refined, their pricks are still covered at least. The men at the center ignore them, ignore everything but the bottles on their table, their own lurching conversation as the colonel is not one for talk, and Mr. Franz is a giggling idiot, so Jürgen Vidor, who thus far has drunk only sparingly, must direct and prompt the flow, keep the mayor from making a fool of himself, keep Essenhigh and Arrowsmith on cordial terms, while shielding from each, as per instructions from his faraway master, the true reason for the other’s presence. Usually this is