“Pons brought it here, the night he blew himself up. He tried to shoot me, but there was no bullet in it.”
“Poor old Pons. Then he went straight from here to the methane pits, eh?”
“I guess so.” Frank sat down and picked up his beer. “He said it was ‘my’ bomb that killed his wife.”
Orcrist nodded. “Did I ever tell you about the time I took him along on a robbery?”
“No. You said you ... gave him a chance to prove himself under fire, and that he didn’t do well.”
“That’s right. It was about a year before you came bobbing like Moses down the Leethee. Beatrice, his wife, had already cracked up and been committed by that time, of course. Anyway, I decided to take him along on a raid on the palace arsenal; several of the understreet tunnels, you know, connect with palace sewers. Pons was extremely nervous and kept inventing reasons why we should turn back. Finally he worked himself into a rage and turned on me. He accused me of being in love with Beatrice and of blaming him for her crack-up.”
“What made him think that?"
“Oh, it was absolutely true, Frank. I was in love with her. I don’t know why it was him she married— sometimes I think women secretly, unspokenly prefer stupid, mean men. But all this is beside the point. I called off the robbery then; it was clear that we couldn’t work together. And that’s the entirety of Pons’s criminal career.”
“How did he become your doorman?”
“He had no money or friends, so I offered him the job and he took it. He and I had been friends before, you see.” Orcrist’s beer was gone, and he got up to fetch two more cans.
Chapter 5
Frank and Kathrin walked up the gravel path, their way festively lit by lamps behind panes of colored glass. Kathrin wore a lavender, sequined gown that emphasized her slim figure, and Frank wore a quiet black suit with newly-polished black boots. A dress sword hung at his belt in a decorated leather scabbard, but in the interests of security and anonymity he had left his bronze ear at home, and simply combed his newly-grown hair over the spot where his right ear should have been.
Tyler’s house was a grand gothic pile, the roof of which merged with the high roof of the street. It looked as though it should have been a long abandoned shrine of forgotten and senile gods, but tonight its open windows and door spilled light and music into the street and up and down the nearby tunnels.
Tyler had been told about Frank’s exile-status by Orcrist, so when Frank and Kathrin appeared at the door he introduced them to everyone as “John Pine and Kathrin Figaro.” Frank then led Kathrin through the press of smiling, chatting people, shaking hands with several. They found space for the two of them on an orange couch. He immediately took his pipe, tobacco pouch and pipe-tamper out of his pocket and laid them out on the low table in front of him.
“I sense wine over there to the right,” he told Kathrin. “Shall I fetch you a glass?”
“Sure.”
Frank ducked and smiled his way to a little alcove in which sat a tub of water and ice cubes surrounding at least a dozen wine bottles. He spun them all this way and that to read their labels before selecting a bottle. He uncorked it, found two glasses and made his way back to the orange couch.
“There we are,” he said, filling the two glasses and setting the bottle in front of them.
Kathrin sipped hers and smiled happily. “I think it’s wonderful that you know a famous poet, Frank.” Frank was about to make some vague reply and remind her that his name tonight was John, when a well-groomed, bearded man leaned toward them from Kathrin’s side of the couch. “How long have you known George?” he asked.
“Oh, about six months,” answered Frank. “I’ve never read any of his poetry, though.”
“He is the major tragic figure of this age,” the bearded man informed Frank.
“Oh,” said Frank. He took a healthy gulp of his wine and tried to imagine amiable, drunken George as a tragic figure. “Are you sure?”
“You must be one of George’s ... working-class friends,” said Beard, with a new sympathy in his eyes. “You probably never have time to read, right?” He leaned forward still farther and put a pudgy hand on Frank’s knee. “Can you read?” he asked, in a voice that was soft with pity.
“Actually, no,” said Frank, putting on the best sad expression he could come up with. “I’ve had to work in the cotton mills ever since I was four years old, and I never learned to read or eat fried foods. Every Saturday night, though, my mother would read the back of a cereal box to me and my brothers, and sometimes we’d act out the story, each of us taking the part of a different vitamin. My favorite was always Niacin, but—”
The bearded man had stood up and walked stiffly away during this speech, and Frank laughed and began filling his pipe. He gave Kathrin a mock-soulful look and put his hand on her knee. “Can you read?” he mimicked.
“You didn’t have to lie to him, Frank,” she said. “Sure I did. And my name is John, remember?” He struck a match and puffed at his pipe, then tamped the tobacco and lit it again. “I hope the Beard of Avon there isn’t representative of George’s friends.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Kathrin. “He looked sort of ... sensitive, to me.”
Tyler himself came weaving up to them at that moment. “Hello, uh, John,” he grinned. “How do you like the party?”
“It’s a great affair, George,” Frank answered. “By the way, I hear you’re the tragic figure of this century, or something.”
“No kidding?” George said delightedly. “I’ve suspected it for a long time. Here, Miss Figaro, let me fill your glass. Well, see you later, Fr—John, I mean. I’ve got to mingle and put everyone at ease.”
“Yeah, give ’em hell, George,” said Frank with a wave. Kathrin got up, spoke softly to Frank and disappeared in the direction of the ladies’ room. Frank sat back, puffing on his pipe and surveying the scene.
The room was large and filled with knots of animatedly talking people. Bits of conversations drifted to Frank: “... my new sonnet-cycle on the plight of the Goriot farmers ...” “... very much influenced by Ashbless, of course ...” ”... and then my emotions, sticky things that they are ...”
Good God, Frank thought. What am I doing here? Who are all these people? He refilled his wine glass and wondered when the food would appear. There was a napkin in front of him on the table, and he took a pencil out of his pocket and began sketching a girl who stood on the other side of the room.
When he finished the drawing and looked up, the food had appeared but Kathrin hadn’t. He looked around and saw her standing against the far wall, a glass of red wine in her hand and a tailored-looking young man whispering in her ear. A surge of quick jealousy narrowed Frank’s eyes, but a moment later he laughed softly to himself and walked to the food table.
He took a plate of sliced beef and cheese back to his place on the couch; he had such a litter of smoking paraphernalia spread out on the table that no one had sat down there. When he was just finishing the last of the roast beef, and swallowing some more of the wine to wash it down, Kathrin appeared and sat down beside him.
‘‘That’s pretty good, Frank,” she said, pointing at the sketch he’d done earlier. ‘‘Who is it?”
“It’s a girl who was standing over—well, she’s gone now. You’d better jump for it if you want to get some food.” He decided to give up on John Pine.
“I’m not hungry,” Kathrin said. “Did you see that guy I was talking to a minute ago?”