Ready To Serve

READY TO SERVE

I could, in truth, not say how this appalling situation had come about, but there it was. As I entered the study, he was sitting at my desk with incredible nonchalance as if the leather armchair were his, wearing one of my old shirts as well as an assembly of clothes donated by my male servants. My staff had been obliged to throw every single article of his attire away; the abysmal stink could not be washed out.

I walked in hesitantly, leaving the door stand open wide behind me, just in case. There was a scabbed-over cut in his lip and a shadow still lingering around the left eye, where it had been swollen. Otherwise, apart from a sneeze now and again and a red nose, skin scraped raw from the dozens of handkerchiefs he had soiled, he appeared perfectly well again, and I did not remember having allowed my staff to keep him a day longer than absolutely necessary. But maybe I had not given very precise instructions. At all events, I was here to say it now:

Pack your bags, time to go.

Not that there were any bags, and neither was there anything to pack. In fact, there was nothing at all. All the garments he had arrived in had needed to be disposed of, so he would, in effect, leave here with more than he had possessed when he had been admitted to my house – and items of higher quality! My shirt. My butler Jenkins’ socks. The groom’s trousers and a vest of my valet’s, presumably. Underwear from I did not remotely desire to know where. Really, how was this my business? “Supply him,” I had ordered briskly, “somehow!” Jenkins had turned up with a complete set of apparel in his arms. I had waved him away, out of my sight. “Sickroom! I want nothing to do with this!”

But that shirt of mine had been old and a little tight around the shoulders and I did not fancy wearing it anyway. Besides, he could not know it was mine. So. So he had two shirts now. I did not expect them to remain in a good condition for long.

Despite this lamentable state of affairs, he did not seem as abashed as I thought anybody in that deprived situation should feel.  Indeed, for someone who had been fished out of a gutter – THE gutter, my brain added cynically – he seemed fairly cheerful, absorbed in whatever it was he was doing there at my desk. At my desk. I tried not to think of what its drawers contained – for fear he might somehow be able to read my thoughts or smell the banknotes in my cash box? There was quite a lot of money in the topmost drawer and some rather sensitive business papers in the one below... Safely locked, of course, and only because I had recently been working on them. Everything really worth stealing was in the safe, but even so I did not feel comfortable with him in the same room as my stocks and shares and valuables.

Correction: I did not feel comfortable with him in the same room, period.

Yet, it had to be done. I needed to get this over with. Reluctantly I walked in further, bracing myself, preparing to say my bit.

I discreetly cleared my throat. He looked up from… whatever it was that occupied him and gazed at me so guilelessly that I almost felt guilty for what I was proposing to do. Almost. For a moment. I had to remind myself that this lost puppy look was his stock in trade; that he was a shrewd observer, keenly intelligent, and manipulative. A trickster. A threat to anyone who had a secret to keep.

His lowliness, his usual shabbiness, darker tinted skin and rough speech – all of these would have put any decent person on their guard. But I could not allow them to blind me to the fact that, despite being uneducated, he had a quick wit far exceeding mine. I was pitted against that, aware in my heart that I was badly equipped to deal with it, and had spent far too much time with him already. 

“I truly regret to mention this,” I began (being forced to mention this, I should, by rights, have said – forced by a certain person’s boorish and ill-bred insensitivity to when his welcome has been outstayed) “but it cannot be denied that time has moved on and...”

That moment, I perceived four tiny cups that had been placed face down on the mahogany surface of the desk. He had been moving them about. What for? Narrowing my eyes as I approached, I suddenly realized what they were.

Cups? No, so-called “shells”, wherever he had got them from! A shell game. It looked very much like he was misusing some of my cappuccino coffee cups from the Wiener Manufaktur for that purpose. They were family heirlooms from the time of Maria Theresia, incidentally – not that he appeared to care in the slightest!

“You are not really doing this in my study?” I exclaimed, outraged.

He glanced at the daintily painted porcelain, then back up at me, smiling brightly. “Just practising. You wanna try?”

My people had obviously carried out my instructions and given him something to clean up with and all the utensils necessary to generally return to a moderately civilized appearance, as well as fresh clothes. The dark stubble at his cheeks and chin was gone, that untamed hair, freshly washed, was fizzy now and flying in all directions. His eyes were not glassy anymore. They were quite clear again and I did not know what else. Impertinent? Not exactly. Mocking? No, not quite. Why would he be mocking me? I was in control here – he was the one in the beggarly position!

Teasing, then? That most definitely, though it was entirely inappropriate, too. That impish dimple was apparent again. Was this an envoy of the devil sitting there at my study desk, taunting me? All these raven black curls and these bottomless dark eyes, cheeky as hell...

His rascally smile broadened as he was waiting for my answer still.

“No, thanks,” I said coldly, haughtily. Just practising? You are not going to practise illicit shell games in my study, for heaven’s sake!

“You should – it’s fun.” He shuffled the tiny cups around. “D’ya know what that is, Julius? Fun?”

I ignored the insolent tone and him, too, but that did not seem to have any feasible impact.

“What I have come to say,” I resumed, taking up where I had left off before, “is that, regrettably but inevitably, a point has been reached where... where my household and I consider it quite outside our ability to…”

“Look here,” he interrupted, completely unperturbed, as if I had not spoken, “There’s the coin.” He lifted one cup. “Now all you’ve gotta do,” he continued, already moving his hands so fast that my eyes could hardly follow, “is keep that one in sight. Right? Easy.”

I was not amazed. Everybody knew that this was not really a game in the sense of the word, but almost always a confidence trick used to perpetrate fraud. That was why I did not like it too much that such humbug should take place in my study, even if no betting was involved now.

“As already mentioned, ...” I started another attempt while he was busying himself with the cups. Despite myself, I tried to follow the right one with my eyes, inconspicuously. It was, as a matter of fact, rather hard to keep from doing just that involuntarily. I pulled up a chair and sat down near the desk so as to make the subject I had to broach slightly less offensive. “...you must see yourself that...”

The dizzying movements stopped abruptly. “Alright, now which is it?”

I frowned and then picked out one of the cups, forgetting that I had wanted to boycott this ridiculous game. He lifted the small piece of crockery and there was, of course, nothing underneath. I was not surprised. In such bogus games the coin was usually removed by sleight of hand before the game even started. Fraud, pure and simple. People would be talked into betting on the right shell, allowed to win the first few times and then mostly lose, ever larger sums of money. This was how this form of quackery worked; it was notorious for that reason.

“I have got other things to do,” I said stiffly. He sneezed.

“Wait – you haven’t even tried properly! Works much better the second time.”

“This game is fraudulent anyway,” I retorted, “So what is the use? It is no more than despicable petty trickery and I really have...”

He raised his eyes from the china cups and turned them on me full force. Huge and lustrous; wide pupils with deep, dark chocolate irises, dead black lashes, dead black eyebrows. “Julius, d’ya think I cheat?”

“I...” I quickly caught myself. No spluttering! I was not conversing with a gentleman in a club! Consideration was not necessary here. “Yes,” I said firmly, harshly, to make up for my initial hesitation – or worse, insecurity – and the fact that I had fallen for the same trick a second time, confound it! “I think that is really unavoidable in the circumstances!”

He pulled a face. “Just one more try, alright?” Again, he showed me where the coin was and then pushed the shells around so fast that the movements blurred. “Now where, Julius?”

“Baron Drashe,” I corrected automatically, by now quite resigned to the fact that he would not listen, “and besides, as I was saying, my people have, you must admit, been more than patient...”

***

 “Where?” I repeated, challenging him, and thereby interrupting this hateful sentence.

The lines were already deepening on Julius’ forehead as he frowned in concentration. He indicated one cup and as I lifted it, a daisy came to the fore. A hardy little flower that’d grown in his garden in the pre-Christmas thaw. He glowered at it, and I bit my lip so as not to laugh out loud. As I covertly studied his face, the first signs of annoyance started to manifest themselves there. Good. Better that than this permanent mood of dejection. He made a gesture as if to shove the tiny blossom aside and got up.

“No, no, leave it,” I said hastily, “I might need that later.”

“What for?” He was standing now.

For picking the petals, daisy oracle style. He loves me, he loves me not. I wagged a forefinger at him, admonitory. “Julius, magicians can’t be asked to give away their secrets! Professional code of honour!”

He looked as if he’d bitten into something and hadn’t found it to his taste. I gazed at him with my eyes wide open, innocence at its finest, faultless, blameless, pure as pristine snow – and yet he tried to say his studied lines again.

“In short, what I came to inform you about is that, as you can by now not fail to realize...”

I’d have loved to, in fact, but since I didn’t really dare touch his lips, I put a finger to mine to stop him. “Shush. Just one last time. Third time lucky, ya know.”

I plucked the daisy from the leather-inlaid surface of his mahogany desk to slip it into my pocket; then showed him the empty cups and the one that hid the coin. “See – no foul play. All’s fair and square.”

He was already half turned away to go, poised to make his escape should he be confronted with any more tomfoolery. I didn’t let that impress me, though, nor his compulsive attempts to throw me out politely. Instead, I made a good job of remaining totally serious as I shuffled the shells again. Hesitant, unwilling, he made his choice and the cup revealed... not the coin, but a very pretty silver cuff link. This time I couldn’t keep from chuckling as he started visibly and sneaked a quick, surreptitious look at his shirt sleeves where, naturally, one cuff link had absented itself. I coughed into my sleeve, fighting hard to maintain composure. 

His irritation was palpable even though I didn’t look at him. My senses seemed to detect vibes of – what? Distaste? Outrage? Fury? Frustration? I peeked; he lifted his eyes from the desk to confront me and so I looked down again quickly or I’d have choked with laughter. “Well, let’s see what else we can find,” I chipped in before he could say anything, my tone matter-of-fact. He snatched the cuff link away – probably angrily; I couldn’t know for sure since I avoided his eyes – but I was already mixing up the shells again. Looking earnest.

He really and truly – though most likely with a grim face now, and the way his hand shot out seemed to indicate that he was a little fed-up, too – picked a cup when I asked him to. I placed three fingers on it, softly. He was leaning forward over the desk, probably without noticing he was doing so. I did so too and held my breath. The cup, as I disclosed its secret with a flourish, showed up the second cuff link and after that, in the next round, one of his shirt buttons.

I couldn’t hold it together anymore by then, laughing until my eyes started to water. It occurred to me that this would be quite a fun way of undressing someone – slooowly, a button at a time – but then I finally looked up and met Julius’ withering glance. Beetle-browed as could be and eyes blazing with the realisation that I’d had him on for my own private delectation.

No. Not so good. No fun way. Very bad idea. Very bad idea indeed.

“S’rry, Julius,” I hiccupped, sniffling with the after-effects of merriment combined with the after-effects of a severe cold. I pushed the things at him. “Sorry, really. Here, take the coin in compensation. One Gulden. It’s yours, anyway. Always has been. Oh, and I’ll remove my sorry ass from your fine mansion, never fear. It’s just that there’s something I think we outta do before.”

His frown turned into a scowl, but I grinned. “Four eyes can do more than two,” I explained. “Same principle as with hands. Besides, you’ve got a lot of paper, haven’t ya? Oh, and Julius – thanks for the shirt!”

***

I did not know why he could not draw at the desk. Would that not be the natural thing to do since he had already been sitting there? Instead, he was slumped down very casually on the couch in my study now with the writing pad I had given him on his knees, legs propped up, feet on the upholstery as if he were at home here, leaning back against the armrest disrespectfully. I began to regret my folly in having acceded to this and was about to open my mouth and order him out immediately, not wait a moment longer – may he slouch insolently somewhere else! – when my glance grazed the first sheet of paper and got stuck there.

The pencil strokes appeared on it fast, almost irritatingly so as his hand moved from left to right and back again, to the top and bottom of the sheet, outlining the cheeks and temples and throat, adding a beard to the chin, thickening the hair on top with a few lines, filling in the features of the face, shading the eyes. More and more contours appeared like flashes of lightning as his fingers cruised across the page – and while I was staring at all this in a completely impolite, unrefined manner that I would not usually display.

Never show surprise or any other strong emotion. That was one of the guiding principles of being a gentleman that I had been taught. But I had a lot to do not to let my mouth drop open. This was not true. It could not be – he was just a... a beggar in the street, a tramp, a fraud, a common thief. Such disreputable persons did not... they simply could not possess such... skills!

Criminal elements were an ulcer of society, people who had gone wrong, who were depraved and degraded, deficient in intelligence and feeling – they were, by definition, not talented – and certainly not in the fine arts! I had been told that all my life and had believed it too.

Now I could not credit my own eyes – but there it was, undeniably set down on paper in front of me. These chalk drawings on the cobblestone pavement... alright, but this... No, that just was not possible. He had just been practising shell games on my desk, in God’s name!

Before I had time to recover from the shock, the first sheet of foolscap fluttered to the floor and then the second, the third, fourth, fifth... and soon the faces of all the scoundrels in this case were littering my study’s fine oak parquet.

“Ever seen any of’em, Julius? Remind you of anything? We might’ve met them in the dark, mind. And some of’em might’ve been doing what we were doing, using a bit of camouflage.”

“I am not Julius to you,” I protested once more, hardly realizing that I had whispered it. Shaking my dazed head, I picked up the pieces of paper one after the other, aligned them and had a closer look at them.

“This is the one who came for the blackmail money – this one sometimes came in tow. I believe I might have seen this one in this... this house...” I trailed off, uncomfortable, but perked up when I spotted the next face. “That is the one I knocked out! These two attacked us once, if I am not mistaken. These...” I leafed through the pages, selecting two of the pencil portraits I had identified before and a third, new person. “These... three, I think, were among the ruffians in the park. And that one...”

As I was speaking, he sorted the sheets into two piles. The faces in the smaller pile looked surprisingly well kempt and clean-shaven. A little like soldiers.

“Yeah,” he said, following my line of thought, “look pretty neat, the lads, don’t they? Not what you’d expect of scum, would ya, Julius? Not like me when you took me home a few days ago.”

I objected to that, to the entire utterance. “Drashe,” I mumbled. “Baron.”

He seemed to be in a brown study and hardly reacted. “Hm?”

“This one,” I spoke slowly, pensively, concentrating hard as I picked one of the likenesses from the ‘neat’ pile – “I seem to have seen these features before, in a different context, perhaps… but I cannot recall the location right now. What I mean is, if you unexpectedly meet someone you are barely acquainted with in a situation that you do not at all associate with that person, then it is sometimes hard to remember who exactly they are and how you even know them…”

Or, I thought to myself, it might be hard to recall a face if a situation had been so distressing that you avoided making eye contact, that you hardly took anything in except your own distress. If you were panicking, all your energies focused on how to maintain some outward semblance of composure, you might not remember someone’s facial features. I had been in such situations in the past year, more than once. But I did not give voice to the thought. It was not something you said to a stranger – even a familiar stranger. Oxymoron. He would not know what that was.

Besides, if the likeness in question belonged to an individual below my station – which of course it did – I might not have deemed it necessary to look at them at all.

I did not mention that either.

He was watching me as if his devilishly discerning eyes could penetrate to my inmost thoughts, but, mercifully, for once kept his assumptions to himself. “It’ll come to you,” he finally said, satisfied. “Just don’t rack your brains over it. Best, try to forget it – then it’ll suddenly come back.”

***

Time to flush out the arch villain. The trouble was that his henchmen knew me, so if I went openly, they’d get me, and I’d never reach my aim. And I could hardly send Julius. His company wouldn’t be enough protection, either, not in this case. Not if I announced that I wished to see the boss, wanted to make a deal because I had their money. Of course, I wouldn’t take the loot with me to the first meeting, and they knew that well enough. But they’d get me, which was all they needed so as then to squeeze the information about the hiding place out of me with all the methods they’d at their disposal.

Still, a meeting of some kind had to be arranged, or I’d never get to see who was at the head of this. It was a little tricky. Maybe I hadn’t thought so much about the details when starting out on this game and now I couldn’t very well tell Julius that after having sweet-talked him into stealing loads of extortion money from an underworld gang, I’d no clue how to go on from there.

Absolutely no clue. And while I was clueless, Julius was sitting on a heap of dirty illicit money that a whole mob of violent criminals who baulked at nothing were rabid to get back. I could hardly let him sit on it much longer like a hen brooding on a packet of dynamite with the fuse lit. 

So, what to do? I could usually come up with some idea when in a ticklish spot. Not so, it seemed, this time. During the three or four days that I’d spent at Julius’ mansion recuperating, inspiration hadn’t struck. Gradually, I felt the panic rising from my guts to my throat, constricting it. I’d got him into this, completely recklessly and thoughtlessly as usual, and now had no recipe for how to get him out of it again.

But if we didn’t act first, no doubt they would. They didn’t yet know, pray to god, that Julius was safeguarding their spoils. But I’d hidden away for a week and then been out for days with the flu. That way we’d lost time already. How long could it take them to finally realize who their second antagonist was? Time was clearly working against us. Probably, the only reason why they hadn’t yet figured out what things were like was that this was so very unlikely, such a very improbable alliance. Not what anybody’d guess.

So, what now? What? WHAT?

Bloody hell, what was I to do?

Ask Julius? Course not! He was a nerd! Kind and all, but really not... not the right one to consult on how to deal with a set of cons. Let’s put it that way. Also, to be honest (for once), I didn’t want him to know that I was floundering. No need for him to think I couldn’t handle this.

Never let the aristocracy shit on your head!

“Julius,” I said, taking a gamble, “before influencing you by spilling my further plans, I’d like you to tell me yours. Who knows, there might be a grain of intelligence in them.”

He looked at me as if I was a worm writhing in his noodle soup or something suspiciously moving in the leaves of his dinner salad. Not that I wasn’t used to such glances!

“So?” I prompted before he could ask me what my plans were, and I’d be utterly and pathetically lost.

“I suggest we anonymously return the money and stop right there,” he said. Julius-style idiocy, as I’d expected.

“And I would advise you most emphatically to leave the area,” he added with a serious mien like a head-teacher. Really, he only needed horn-rimmed glasses!

“Look, I can’t leave here just like that,” I said. “Disguised and at night, maybe. But I really can’t go and then sneak back again, maybe several times, to discuss things. Too risky.”

“You need not come back.” Thanks!

“Would you,” I asked, the ghost of an idea crossing my mind, fleetingly yet, insubstantial, “send your coachman or groom to a place where coachmen and grooms usually flock together? Where his presence wouldn’t be remarked on? A pub or something? I might organize a meeting there through him and then watch from a hidden spot.”

Even while talking, I realized that the foolishness of this idea almost measured up to that of Julius’ suggestion. But he dug in his heels anyway.

“No, I would not! Get yourself into danger if you like! Not my people! They have got nothing to do with this!”

“But you could...”

“But I could go,” he interrupted, daft as usual. Supercilious, naïve and courageous all in one go – the perfect mixture if you wanted to encounter fatal consequences. Darned featherbrained toff!

“You bloody won’t! You wanna prove, in your dumb arrogance, that you’re made of better stuff than the rest of us – well, go and cut some more coats in half! But don’t go blundering into things you’ve no clue of!”

“It seems to me you are the one who has no clue!”

Touché. Right you are, Julio. Point taken.

Unfortunately, now that he’d found the fly in the ointment, he immediately fastened onto it. “So, enlighten me, what were you planning to do with the money I have stockpiled illegitimately?”

Oh lord, there we had it. I’d probably had it coming.

“Offer it to them,” I said with as much confidence as I could muster, “bait them with it. Just like I said.”

“I see. How?”

That was precisely the question I’d been trying to avoid. Why did he suddenly have to be so sharp now?

“I was working on that,” I assured him.

“You were working on it?” His voice had acquired a tone that spoke of impending trouble. “Were you not already working on it before you ran away from here, leaving me with a pile of blackmail proceeds on my hands – dirty spoils of crime squeezed out of respectable people, of my acquaintances and fellow villagers and neighbours, of people I have known all my life, by a set of despicable thugs? All these ill-gotten gains soaked in shame and suffering are now quietly reposing in safe deposit boxes and on bank accounts of honourable banking institutions where they were placed by lawyers of good repute upon my orders. Am I to launder this money now or what did you have in mind?

I have spent hours and hours on identifying the sources,” he went on, “trying to trace the banknotes back to their owners – unsuccessfully! Because the truth is that, concerning a large percentage of the money, we do not know where it came from, we do not know where it would have gone to, the only fact that is undisputed is that it is in my keeping now, that I have dirtied my hands with it, and that I am stuck with illegal spoils of hundreds of Gulden worth that can get me into prison if discovered!”

I wasn’t sure if I’d heard him say so much in one go ever before. But I doubted it was a good sign.

And you’re wrong, dearie. If discovered, they’ll get you killed.

“Well, let’s look at the bright side: if it’s a lot, that’s smashing,” I stated, as I thought, very diplomatically. “They’ll want it back badly enough to lead me to their boss for negotiations. Only I’m still a little diffuse on how to approach them.”

“Diffuse?”

 I didn’t like that pitch to his voice.

“Slightly vague,” I conceded. “As yet undecided.”

“So, do I take it you have no plan for how to go on from here? Do you ever have any plan for what you are doing, if I may ask? Or do you just start out on things and involve others in an avalanche of trouble with not the slightest idea of where it will all end?”

“Julius,” I said, “your constant fretting isn’t getting us anywhere. It’ll work out somehow, you’ll see. Things usually do – by and large.”

His eyebrows met in the middle.

“Oh yes? Forgive me if that does not infuse me with confidence. But I fear, so far your actions have not impressed me with their far-sighted and well-considered nature!”

“Well,” I admitted, “It’s just that with all the shit that’s gone down this week, I didn’t really find the time to... uh... think.” I could imagine his answer before I even finished the sentence. “And feel free to comment on that!”

He didn’t, but the set of his jaw and the lines on his forehead spoke for him. As I watched, waiting for the inevitable outburst, he took out his handkerchief, folded it with pedantic precision and, with his eyebrows still knitted, returned it to his suit pocket as if to gain time before pronouncing judgement. The action looked a trifle forced to me – as if he needed some such pernickety diversion to keep himself from blowing his top. Somehow, I was beginning to suspect that when he did, like a long-dormant volcano that erupted, he’d send me packing.

“Decidedly,” he started, still with that forced composure, “it seems ill-advised and…”

Dumb-ass idiotic. That’s what you mean! C’mon say it straight out!

“…unwise to pursue your highly questionable plan at all, in any manner. But I could organize a business meeting…,” he said.

That threw me for a sec. Wait. What? You’re going along with it?

“…with a few fellow business owners of my station....”

Of my station. Naturally, that was of the utmost importance! You’re kidding me. Are ya? In my mind, I saw a vivid picture of an army of arrogant little so-and-sos, all very grand, all dressed up to the nines and with impassive faces, sitting around a table like they’d rods down their spines – a table that groaned under the weight of shiny silverware, precisely arranged, useless decorations and bouquets of fresh flowers. And then I’d another vision of the door opening and a horde of sinister-looking gangsters walking in.

Come on, that’s bloody stupid, Julius, even for you! I pulled a face and considered it again. On the other hand, why not?

He’d stopped speaking and was contemplating me with a very doubtful frown – much the same expression I was presently wearing, I guessed. “On the other hand, it is probably not precisely a good...”

Now don’t you go all glum and melancholy again!

“A whole lot of’em,” I chipped in fast, taking up the thread where he’d left off before, “so that the danger to every one of your bigwigs will be minimized. Safety in numbers. Tell them to bring supportive staff – some employees to take notes or something... they must be waited on, these big wheels. Surely, they can’t do anything themselves... Let’s set up a group so big it won’t easily be assaulted...”

He raised an eyebrow but at least the worry wrinkles on his forehead had smoothed – and the doubt gone.

“...including entrepreneurs and financiers from other districts, who will probably not be in these ruffians’ power, ignorant of what is going on here and not be intimidated should any of the local criminals be present...”

Yeah, that sounded better. Much better. When he wasn’t in depression mode, he’d a good voice that I rather liked to listen to. I even liked his precise enunciation (though it sounded posh).

 “...and I’ll arrange a get-together with the arch villain in the same place, at the same time,” I supplied, “but of course I won’t be there, leastways not so as to be seen – and your name will never even be mentioned... It’ll be the purest coincidence that your crowd’s there too.”

“Then we could both watch who comes along – you hidden, me openly...” As usual. As suited our respective places in life. “You might,” he added, “go there in disguise if you dare – it is only that terr...”

He pulled the brakes at the very last moment and reformulated that statement.

“...it is only your… erm… slightly particular hair that people might remember. Your face is not distinctive... Therefore, it might be best if you had a large cap and muffler and shaved off these curls...”

“Shave your own hair off if you like!” I snapped.

He looked totally perplexed. “I did not intend any offence...”

“Well, then,” I grumbled. He still looked nonplussed. “This meeting,” he cautiously returned to the issue, “ought to be organized in a decent location... some place with a good reputation, nothing shady...”

As he developed the theme, his voice was gathering conviction and resolve with every word. “We went to Stalehner’s once... the Waldschnepfe is just as prestigious and thoroughly respectable... and just down the street... I am a regular customer, living so near – nobody will be surprised if I suggest a meeting there.”

“I’ll hide in the attic,” I added, thinking fast, ideas flowing freely now. Somehow, stewing over things in a team made the stewing process smoother. “I’ll get there the night before, lie low the whole day or better still, two days earlier so that they won’t see me coming that evening... Time aplenty to find a hidey-hole should they canvass the place... I’ll nose out a spot from where to watch unseen... they’ve got a podium, I think... I could loosen one plank, crawl in well in advance, at night, shutter it up behind me, drill a hole in the front...”

“And until then you can take shelter here...”

Cool! I’m cool with that, Julio! So, no matter how master Drashe was itching to have me gone, I’d get a few days’ grace at his sanctuary.

He fixed me with a stern eye. “...but if I ever again see you crawling out into the garden to pluck any flowers, or even so much as setting one foot in front of the room you will be given, this thing is off! From now on you are supposed to not exist!”

Thanks again, love you too! But then I remembered how the heavy-looking lads had been standing in the gloom on top of the steps leading down to the basement where my latest dorm had been located. I’d thought I’d shaken them off, but they’d followed me, driven me into a corner; then attacked. I ought to be thankful that they’d knocked me about between them, obviously enjoying toying with their prey, and hadn’t knifed me down straight away before Julius had arrived. All I remembered was the happy slapping going on for a while and then how I’d woken up with the brick baron kneeling there beside me in the mud. 

Considering that, he did have a point. Better be a prisoner in Julius’ castle than a dead body in the gutter. Better have my existence denied by a repressed toff with a pretty face than my life taken by a set of ugly thugs.

And yes, I’d noticed myself that I continually picked on the hooligans’ ungainly visages. But that was mainly my very personal spitefulness, my biased point of view. Julius’ status in that comparison was undisputed – it really couldn’t be otherwise – but of course, in general, not all the bad people were hideous and not all the goody-goody ones sported angelic faces. Though it was true that a life in grinding poverty and the constant want of everything didn’t, as a rule, make anybody more beautiful. There were exceptions, however. Some devils wore angel’s faces. Like me (when I’d not just been whacked about). I smiled to myself.

“Agreed.”

He nodded wordlessly and left the room.

***

The meeting was duly organized. I wrote a letter which Julius entrusted to his lawyer – correction, one of his lawyers (apparently, fancy people kept a bunch of’em) – to convey it to yet another lawyer Julius had never employed before who’d pass it on to an employee who’d then hand it over to a street urchin who’d...

Blimey, this started to sound like a memory game – “I packed my bag” or something. Where were we? Right, a street urchin, who’d be paid to deliver it to the house of dubious repute where I’d once sang lullabies, c/o the boss of the local underworld.

There was no way to know if that villain would inform his master as my letter asked. But it was the best we could do. I’d tried to be persuasive in how I’d phrased this epistle; I’d warned them that information about the location of the loot wouldn’t be delivered to anybody but the head executive – and that I knew who wasn’t the hotshot here. I told them that the moment I spotted any of his thugs’ ugly faces, I’d be gone immediately. I’d evaded them several times, I’d proved that I could outwit them any day; I’d made a whole lot of profit and now I wanted partnership on eye level.

Their organisation could help me; I could help them. I’d no intention of infringing on their patch. This was just a means to an end. What I really wanted was to overthrow the leader in the third district, where I’d been before. I really had; they could enquire. I wanted to take over business there, far away from any possible interest they could have. But I needed their help, their influence, to make it to the top there. Then they could go their way and I’d go mine.

Of course, they wouldn’t believe any of this convoluted nonsense. But that didn’t matter a fig.

Finally, I kindly impressed it on them again that I only made deals with the very top. Exclusively. Nobody else! They could say goodbye to their money otherwise. And I wouldn’t give them a second chance. If I wasn’t convinced this was worth my while, I’d just vanish with their spoils, never to be seen again.

I’m sure you’ll understand, guys, since last time our paths crossed it resulted in my waking up in a gutter, face down.

XXX

After the letter had been sent, I remained obediently in the servant’s room I’d been bundled into and didn’t stick out my nose once – or let’s say, I wasn’t caught doing anything untoward.

Three days before the meeting, Julius checked up on his night shift factory workers and went there by carriage, of course, after closing time. I was attached to the back of the vehicle, pressing close with a rucksack full of useful things, keeping to the shadows. The fancy coach halted right next to the Waldschnepfe where carriages were usually parked. To all appearances, Julius had his conveyance stopped in order to ask his coachman to examine the hooves of one horse that seemed to him to limp slightly. Due to Julius’ gentlemanly consideration for others, he didn’t want to block the whole street and so the vehicle drew up right near the establishment.

As agreed, I dropped off there like a sated tick and, in the shade of the coach, slunk over to the wall. Crouching, carefully crawling in the shadows, I made it to the hatch of the coal cellar, which I forced open, and slid down the coal chute. Even in the unlikely case that the gangsters had people watching the house three days in advance, the chances that they’d seen me were small – with a little luck.

From the cellar I crept up the dark backstairs to the attic, where I camped for three days with the food, water and chamber pot I’d been provided with. After closing time each day, I went on nightly excursions to explore the lay of the land in detail. On one such excursion downstairs I nicked a waitress’s outfit – the largest I could find – complete with a white apron, starched white cap and floor-length black stuff dress that’d hide my disreputable boots.

It was no trouble in a restaurant to find a glass that I could fill with water. Having previously nicked a razor, shaving soap and small mirror from Julius’ bathroom in the dead of night (what he didn’t know couldn’t bother him – and I’d let him sleep peacefully), I was able to wash and shave very nicely in my attic retreat the day before the show when the light was still good.

In the late afternoon, a shady search party clumped up the stairs (probably with the house owner’s permission; after all, he was blackmailed, too) to disturb me and my bat friends in the attic, as I’d expected. But they found nothing there; I was already sweeping the floor in the storeroom behind the kitchen in my pretty dress. I’d originally planned to slip underneath the stage, it was true. The only problem with that was the timing. When would I crawl in there? It’d have to be done well in advance and I really didn’t fancy lying on my belly for hours squeezed below these wooden planks.

I’ll do a lot for you, Julius, but not that! Besides, I fancied my freedom. I needed to be able to move about. And so, the psychological moment would’ve to come in on this again. They were looking for a man. For sure, I was on the tall side to impersonate a girl, but I’d found a dress that was long enough. It was also as wide as a tent, but that could be helped with a little lacing up in the right places and a little stuffing out in others. A few old rags from the cleaning room and a piece of string from the kitchen served quite well for that purpose. I’d a nice figure now, up above, though my hips were a little narrow, maybe. So what? Working class girls were often starved, and too much stuffing could get loose as I moved, which wouldn’t exactly help the cause.

In an attempt to create a ladylike waist, I’d tied the white apron so tightly that I could hardly breathe. I’d swooped up my untidy hair, tied it into a knot on top of my head with another bit of string and shoved it all under that white cap. Luckily, the people here wanted their waitresses to be dressed decently, Catholic-style: a starched white bib apron over a black dress. The dress was high-necked with lace crawling high up the throat. No danger of any chest hair sticking out – or the rags that made up my bosom.

I pulled the brim of the cap down a little. With the possible necessity for paint at the back of my head, I’d riffled the drawers of the servant girls in Julius’s employ on my stealthy nocturnal rambles through his house. On one such I’d pushed his door open cautiously, silently, looking in to watch him sleep and wish him goodnight on the way. Downstairs in the servants’ quarters, the prettiest of the girls indeed had eyelash black in her possession. Well. She had had.

Probably had a follower, the lassie. I promised her while she was blissfully asleep, too, not to tell Julius.

People in this house slept well. No wonder. It was a good place to be.

So, I helped myself to the mascara and some make-up to cover up the remaining stubble. Though there was hardly any. Julius’ razor was knife-sharp and that fancy soap really helped.

Servant girls weren’t allowed to have men friends or to wear make-up. Julius’ maid probably only put on hers clandestinely and wore it on secret outings with her sweetheart on her half-day off every two weeks. She couldn’t wear it when working and neither could the waitresses here. But I needed to do something about my colour, or they’d discover and throw me out straight away.

A girl from the country might have a healthy complexion – unlike the fine ladies – but my complexion was exceedingly healthy in December. For this lot here, that is. Since I knew neither of my creators – “parents” would’ve been the wrong word – I’d no idea where my ancestors were from. I’d say my skin was southern European and wouldn’t stick out in the mixed lower classes, but the Viennese upper classes in winter were like… sickly cheese. Sickly cheese that’d gone off. With judiciously used paint and since there’d only be candlelight, I hoped to keep a low profile.

I also wanted more dramatic lashes to soften my features, change my appearance and detract from my nose, which, after having been broken, hadn’t been set by any doctor. I knew how to divert the eye from that; I knew how to apply paint. But I usually applied it in a very different context and, well – theatrically. To attract attention. Which wasn’t on the cards here. Thus, only longer lashes. Drat it, I wasn’t Julius! However, disregarding all its imperfections, my face was better suited to this stunt than his. With these prominent jawbones and strong, sharp angles his could never ever pass as female, even if he shaved his skin off!

So much for “Your face isn’t distinctive!”

You know once, only just once, you could say something nice to me!

All the same, even in disguise it was a gamble. I might be unmasked. It was now up to histrionics again. Body language. The way I moved.

The floor in this storeroom had never been swept so well! When one of the heavy boys who were checking up on all the rooms, every nook and corner in this house, peeped in and withdrew again, unsuspecting, I was assured that my disguise had passed its first test. I’d buried my camping things in the pile of coals in the cellar and made sure I’d left no traces. They couldn’t know I was here.

When things started to become busy in the kitchen, I followed the other servant girls out, adapting my movements to theirs as I was carrying a soup tureen. It wasn’t that easy to get the sway of the hips just right with one’s angles of the pelvis and thighs being different. But c’mon – I was good.

Maybe if Julius didn’t care for guys, I might get to him this way! I mightn’t be the prettiest among the flock of girls – too tall, too scrawny, too angular, no rosebud mouth and face way too plain without the help of lots of showy make-up. Though my facial bones were just within the acceptable range, I still wasn’t a beauty, presumably, in this role. Plus, my tent dress wasn’t precisely form-fitting, no matter how I’d bound it up. But hey, beauty’s in the eye of the beholder, my lads! And Julius isn’t one of these superficial machos!

Grinning, I swept out of the kitchen, skirt swishing, and then had to reign myself in. Not too much enthusiasm, please! I couldn’t walk like a posh chick of Julius’ class! No sashaying for servant girls. Even as a female I’d to stick to my station.

Curse all these distinctions!

At big events, owners of establishments this size employed hired staff. So, with luck, the girls didn’t all know each other and wouldn’t remark on my presence. I placed my soup tureen on the sideboard where the other maids deposited their ballast too and returned to the kitchen like them. It went on like that several times, and on the way there and back I carefully kept the customers in sight while peering out cautiously from underneath my cap. In the meantime, the room had filled.

The musicians that this establishment was famous for had also arrived and were preparing for their gig on the podium. All of Julius’ cronies were already there, and scores of other people. Julius, too, of course, in a damn elegant dining suit and tie, his chestnut hair distinguishing him from the crowd. As usual he was spick and span, kitted out ever so meticulously. Also as usual, while the make and fabric of his attire were very obviously first-rate; no expenses spared, the colours were subdued. Very unadventurous black, very conservative cut, grey tie, no flashy colours, nothing showy. Refinement in camouflage.

While I’d done everything to hide my male proportions, his expertly tailored suit did everything to enhance his. Not that that was necessary. He was sitting bolt upright, chin high, broad shoulders almost brushing his neighbours’, his strong face wiped of every expression except confidence and authority, though he must be nervous.

Look at you, you can act! Or maybe a business meeting like this was just his natural habitat.

I placed my well-filled salad bowl on the sideboard and joined the other waitresses on the way back. Soon all the dishes were carried out from the kitchen and my sisters and I started to serve the customers. I did that with grace. The nobs didn’t look at us, of course. Servants were part of the furniture. Not to be taken notice of.

Thanks to all these snobbish rules of conduct, not a single man glanced at my face directly. It almost hurt my pride. Wasn’t I pretty enough or what? However, beauty wasn’t everything. I moved freely within the room, unnoticed, delicately gliding around the tables, completely at ease in a house that was probably stuffed with thugs. I’d already spotted some of them hanging around in corners. One was leaning at the bottom of the stairs like a proper lout. I’d passed him several times so far. No reaction. He didn’t even hold the door open for me or any of the other lasses.

Chauvinist!

Why, oh why hadn’t I ever thought of doing this before? Like this, once I’d served the food, I could harvest more, unnoticed, than would fit into the puritanically buttoned-up front of my dress! There wasn’t even a décolleté I could use as a receptacle for goods. This damn dress didn’t have any pockets either and those in the apron were far too small. I’d to empty them every time I returned to the kitchen (fast and furtively into a temporary stash in the form of a cleaning bucket) and when my pockets were full, I’d to squeeze the things though the loose fabric between the buttons, cramming them into my blouse. Like that, my bust had already grown considerably. I’d have to curb my greed.

Indeed I did, a smidge, and heroically refrained from taking any money. That needed superhuman restraint and rather felt like sitting in the middle of a royal banquet with a rumbling stomach, surrounded by the most delicious morsels and not being allowed to partake. I wasn’t made for abstaining from temptation, but was well aware that, if I touched any cash, the owners might notice the moment they wanted to pay. If several people should realize they’d been looted, there might be an uproar, which would hardly be helpful right now.

The silent departure of a fancy handkerchief, however, or a teeny, tiny brooch or flimsy tie pin, wasn’t usually perceived so quickly. I’d often wondered how people seemed to take objects for granted, not valuing them as they should. So, I charmed these pretty little things out of pockets or handbags and detached them from fancy clothes with flair, in passing as I was floating by, my feet hardly touching the ground. Truth be told, underneath the wide hem of my dress my feet weren’t as dainty as they should’ve been, sticking in shoddy boots instead of flimsy slippers, and they probably didn’t smell of violets either after three days of hiding in a coal cellar, but I walked on air. And yet, alas, harvesting wasn’t what I was here for.

Between serving courses, replenishing wine and squirreling away pretty things, I did my best to identify as many of the criminals as possible. It wasn’t that difficult. Some faces I’d seen before, even drawn in Julius’ study. Others were new. But the way they were surveying the room made them conspicuous immediately.

Girls, of course, weren’t so obvious in where their eyes might stray. We behaved with decorum. I’d spotted seven cons by now and as I busily carried away dirty dishes, oodles of leftovers, used cups and glasses – all the incredible waste the swells left behind; as I brought dessert wine, liquor and coffee and placed flimsy little art works of desserts before ignorant males, I watched them all. I didn’t miss how one of the thugs I’d identified moved over to a man who was seated at a single table at the side and leaned down to whisper something to him.

That was a guy I’d never seen before. I took care to memorize the face, remarking as I did so that it’d join the ranks of the neat blokes in the pile on Julius’ parquet floor. Well-disciplined, short-cropped ash blonde hair, precisely shaved cheeks and quite a handsome profile, if rather four-square and a little harsh around the mouth; a hard jaw line. Like Julius he was a mature man in fine fettle, only yet a bit older. About forty, I guessed, or mid-forties. The wheat-blond hair on his head was thinning a little already, but that didn’t detract from the fine shape he cut. Covertly watching, I approved.

He looked kneaded and toughened by the currents of life like me, only he was older, so it showed more. His face was set in grim lines with furrows running from nose to mouth; his body tough as a rubber ball, lithe and lissom, but clearly thoroughly fighting fit. Tendons like wire cables and lean, hard muscles jutting out underneath that formal outfit, I shouldn’t wonder. Steeled by training, judging from the way he held himself. This wasn’t somebody who sat behind a desk or stuffed himself with cake in coffee houses. This was a survivor, too, like a battle-scarred he-cat, and he’d made it longer in this merciless world than I had. That demanded respect. I’d have to tread carefully round this one.

He didn’t look like somebody who habitually wore fancy clothing – a uniform would’ve suited him better. Here, however, he had to adapt and was camouflaged in a black suit like everyone else. His formal jacket wasn’t really expensive, but neither was it cheap stuff. It was as trim as Julius’ and buttoned up with the same exactness, the collar severe and stiff and the sleeves straight, everything in strict apple-pie order.

His bearing, too, wasn’t that of a common street thug. It almost resembled Julius’, with authority and confidence displayed in the way he held himself. He was tense not with nervousness but because he seemed hyper-alert, like a predator lying in wait.

I scrutinized the bloke still more closely: the way one arm was placed proprietarily on the table. The way he was sitting there, upright but slightly leaning back, confident, surveying the room. How he didn’t even lower his head when his deputy came to report to him.

Aha, I thought to myself as I was traipsing out to the kitchen with my tray piled high with dirty dishes and cutlery. Someone in a position of command! Not a toff like Julius – no, not that. I’d had enough opportunity to watch Julius’ behaviour at close quarters and no, this guy wasn’t so-called “quality”. Also, his jacket wasn’t quite classy enough for that. But he was damn sure of himself, nonetheless. Power, my brain supplied. Yes, there was the assurance of power there somewhere in his dominant posture and fierce facial expression.

Here was someone who knew he held the upper hand. Maybe someone who was armed? I looked more closely on my next round, made a pirouette around his table with a fresh bottle of wine. Yes, armed. There was the bulge of a pistol underneath that coat, or I was Snow White!

A soldier? His army haircut as well as the neatness and precision of his attire would speak for that assumption, as his weapon did. I could imagine him in uniform alright. It all fitted. Having checked the room again, I was sure. This was the guy here to meet me. There was nobody else who could possibly fit the bill. And that bloke was quite openly looking around now.

Sorry for ditching ya, gov. Won’t turn up for this candle-light dinner. I’m indisposed.

I didn’t pinch his pistol since Julius loathed these things. But as I leaned over to clear off his dirty plate and cutlery, I picked his pocket – with extreme care and extra fast. Since he was unsuspecting and I was the best, I succeeded and then sailed out of the room within the protective flock of my sisters. I hoped none of the guys in that house had fallen in love with me because then I’d have left a broken heart behind. I vanished into the kitchen never to be seen again.

With the house being full to breaking, the kitchen was in total chaos. It was bedlam there with cooks shouting at cross purposes, assistants and flustered maids scurrying to and fro, scullery maids up to their elbows in foamy water and waitresses weaving in between. Nobody took the slightest notice of what I did.

Behind the kitchen there was a stair to the cellar, and I hastened down that, carefully lifted the flap of the coal hole a fraction to peer through and when all seemed clear, was out faster than the air could come in as I opened it. If anybody wondered why a tall, scrawny girl in a black stuff dress and coal-smeared white apron and cap should squeeze out of a hatch to a coal cellar, they must’ve been even more surprised at the speed with which the lady made off thereafter, gathering her dress around her waist in a completely unrefined way and exposing unladylike slacks and even less ladylike, shabby boots underneath.

There were probably guards posted all around the house, so of course it was a risk to run. But the guy in command inside might’ve noticed something after all. He might’ve realized by now that his wallet was missing and might’ve put two and two together. No corner in that house was safe for me anymore. I had to take the risk of running.

Sure as hell, shouts erupted behind my back as I was already legging it full speed. One voice was raised, then a second one, a third. But I was already in full swing. That damn dress, even when gathered up and lifted high, and the fake breasts coming undone as I scarpered, were impairing my balance somehow. Still, I didn’t lack motivation. I ran as if the devil was on my heels. In true fact, his minions were.

The Vienna Woods were close and once I reached them, I ran and ran and ran on, swerving left and right, picking myself up immediately when I stumbled over roots and branches, never stopping until I finally collapsed and dropped to the ground, completely exhausted. I lay there in my black-and-white waitress’s outfit, torn and dirty now; listening. But there was heavenly silence. No branches cracking, no leaves disturbed, no voices yelling. Even so, I crawled to my feet as soon as my lungs would allow for that, pulled off that apron, dress and cap and walked farther into the woods in my normal clothes. I’d no idea where I was but with luck, neither had they.

***

It wasn’t fun to stray through the nocturnal wood with the sweat cooling on my skin and the air cooling down too, dreadfully fast, sucking warmth from me. I was totally lost and starting to worry about that seriously. I couldn’t sleep on the bare ground on a frosty winter night in only a shirt and slacks; even trying to do so would be dangerous, and I’d be too uncomfortable, too scared out here in the dark and trembling too much to find sleep anyhow. The guideline for survival in winter was to keep warm and dry. But I didn’t have anything to keep me warm and the scanty clothes I had were damp from sweat and from the humidity in the air. I needed to keep walking to produce body heat – in a straight line now, as I hoped, and cautiously. Because I could hardly see a thing and there were quarries in these woods. If you didn’t watch out, you could step into a sudden void.

With the night sky partially clearing, the moon came out at least now and again, but in its pale light the trunks of huge beech trees assumed monstrous shapes in a bewildering maze of shadow and twilight that made orientation tricky. I stumbled on half blind, which wasn’t a good thing to do in a forest. More than once, I got tangled up in scratchy brambles or sodden weeds, fell over roots and branches on the ground, trod into unexpected hollows, pitched over obstacles I hadn’t seen, or stubbed my toes. When the undergrowth became too dense for me to fight my way through, or when I got stuck in leafless but impenetrable bushes, I had to go back and make a detour, and there was no way of knowing if I’d started going in circles.

Yet I walked and walked on, tiring and getting ever colder despite the exercise, desperation seeping in. The Vienna Woods were huge. I could wander for ages and never find my bearings, never find a way out, certainly not at night. I got weary, then drowsy, half asleep on my feet, tripping, slipping and falling many more times, onto cold, wet leaves and twigs that cracked, into mud and gravel and thorns, bruising my palms, knees and shins. My clothes felt dirty and sticky, my feet sore, but I kept on marching in the direction that I judged, from the position of the moon, to be west.

By the time the morning dawned and the overcast sky lightened almost imperceptibly from black to foggy grey, I was so exhausted and so cold that I felt close to delirium. But then there it was in the patchy morning mist: a vineyard. I staggered onto it and dropped to the ground with relief. Low on the horizon, underneath the clouds, a thin line of a colour that was something in between red, orange and pink – but cold, with no warmth or brightness to it – heralded the usual winter sunrise. Picking myself up once again, I circled the vineyard’s borders until I came across the pathway that gave access to it. Then I followed the path downhill until, with the sun slowly rising from the fog, bloodred, I finally reached one of the villages that lay behind the Vienna hills. A small town, in fact. It was the one I’d originally wanted to disappear to.

I chose a hayloft above a stable yard, waited till the stable hands weren’t around to see me, stole in, climbed up a ladder, buried myself in a large heap of hay and passed out then and there.

***

If you would like to read on, you will find the next part in "Something Just Like This"