The Mercury Waltz by Kathe Koja Page A

They cannot be true actors, they will never replace true actors, especially not in some dingy theatre on dodgy Rottermond Square. And as for their handlers, they are very clearly men from nowhere, with whom no one need reckon at all; only Cockrill has ever marked them, another scrambler at the edge. Much more important is the great question of safety and patronage, he and Fairgrieve had talked it out only the day before: We’ll all need a lord in the pocket, if this new law is passed, what is it, the Standard Morals or something like? They mean to give the ballet dancers breeches, to cover up their thighs —!
    The Morals and Standards Act, it’s called, for lewdness in the arts. I’ve no worries, the Bard is above reproach —which is not entirely true, both he and his Mrs. are worried, she most adamant in urging him to Ask them, Simon, it’s God’s own angels give you the chance! so “This new act, now,” cautiously, “concerning morals, can you gentlemen give me some guidance?” to bring Banek’s basilisk frown, “What guidance does a man need beyond a clean conscience?” as “The city supports its theatres,” says Eig, “when they are good citizens. But if they sow the seeds of corruption, it must discipline them accordingly, ” leading them back to the discussion of the Mercury, Banek favoring a sterner editorial condemnation, Cowtan offering a counter-production meant to draw the customers elsewhere, to the Cleopatra perhaps? It is a fruitful meeting, that continues for some hours—
    —as by this blue hour, Herr de Vries has shed both the archbishop’s company and his own trousers, and is happily encouched with the daisy-haired boy from the church steps, now tarted up in gussy like a lass, this more energetic meeting brokered by Haden in a nonesuch hotel just around the corner from his own digs: Le Chapel Vert, the name currently underscored by the almost prayerful groans issuing from the inner bedchamber. While he waits in the alcove with its flaking green paint, Haden drinks from the Commissioner’s overcoat flask—some sort of licorice liquor, one he has not had before; it tastes like medicine—and examines a letter extracted from the Commissioner’s breast pocket, a sealed letter, sadly, and here he has neither the time nor the tools to defeat that. All he can do is note the name and crest on the envelope, and weigh its weight on the scale of his palm; whoever he is, this de Metz toff seems to have a great deal to say.
    By the time Herr de Vries emerges, roseate and smiling, the letter is back at the same angle it wore before extraction, tucked beside another, much thinner envelope handed to Haden with a wink that is met by a smile, Haden’s most bogus, roguish grin and “Very nice boy,” says Herr de Vries, “though Lucien is still premier. Give him my greetings, hmm?” as he pulls on his gold-buttoned gloves and departs. Haden leaves two of the envelope’s smaller banknotes on the night table, beside the dozing boy whose rouged lips are now chapped and smeared, and takes himself home—
    —to find huddled and waiting on the steps, yes, Lucien in a velvet jacket too large for him, and a fairly ridiculous scarf: “Not trouble? No,” at Luc’s eager smile. “Step up then,” Haden leading the way up the stairs, the windy flue of a narrow old building, to a small but triply windowed garret, the city’s guttering spark and sparkle displayed there like paintings on a rich man’s walls. “Have a sit,” across from the unfresh bed, boot marks and wine stains and others more earthy, one chair at the three-legged table stacked and tumbled with papers and books, cracked leather backs and the dry scent of libraries; poked, the meager stove-fire curls into a kind of life. “That a new scarf? Where are you bound, so fine?”
    Luc fingers the cheaply sewn silk, the best that he can afford. “To see M’sieur Stefan. M’sieur Stefan favors blue…. I came to ask—to ask if, may be, if I