Buch lesen: «A Beggar’s Kingdom»

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise for Paullina Simons

Dedication

Epigraph

Prologue: Real Artifacts from Imaginary Places

Part One: The Master of the Mint

Chapter 1. Fighter’s Club

Chapter 2. Oxygen for Julian

Chapter 3. Silver Cross

Chapter 4. Keeper of the Brothel

Chapter 5. Lord Fabian

Chapter 6. Infelice

Chapter 7. Dead Queen, Revisited

Chapter 8. Bellafront

Chapter 9. Bill of Mortality

Chapter 10. Six Persuasions

Chapter 11. Objects of Outrage

Chapter 12. A Subject of Choice

Part Two: In the Fields of St. Giles

Chapter 13. Rappel

Chapter 14. Gin Lane

Chapter 15. Cleon the Sewer Hunter

Chapter 16. Agatha

Chapter 17. Midsummer Night’s Dream

Chapter 18. The Ride of Paul Revere

Chapter 19. Bucket of Blood

Chapter 20. The Advocate

Chapter 21. Troilus and Cressida

Chapter 22. Grosvenor Park

Chapter 23. Bowl of St. Giles

Chapter 24. Quatrang

Chapter 25. Karmadon

Chapter 26. Best Shakes in London

Chapter 27. Refugees

Part Three: Lady of the Camellias

Chapter 28. Airy’s Transit Circle

Chapter 29. The Prince of Preachers

Chapter 30. Sovereign Election

Chapter 31. The Love Story of George and Ricky

Chapter 32. Pathétique

Chapter 33. Five Minutes in China, in Three Volumes

Chapter 34. The Sublime and Beautiful

Chapter 35. My Love and I—a Mystery

Chapter 36. Foolish Mervyn and Crazy-eyed Sly

Chapter 37. The Valley of Dry Bones

Chapter 38. Ghost Rider

Chapter 39. A Mother

Chapter 40. Two Weddings

Part Four: Tragame Tierra

Chapter 41. The Plains of Lethe

Chapter 42. Masha at the Cherry Lane

Chapter 43. What Will They Care

Chapter 44. Termagant

Chapter 45. Hinewai

Chapter 46. Hula-Hoop

Chapter 47. The Igloo

Chapter 48. Door Number Two

Chapter 49. Heart of Darkness

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About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE
Real Artifacts from Imaginary Places

ASHTON STOOD, HIS BLOND HAIR SPIKING OUT OF HIS baseball cap, his arms crossed, his crystal eyes incredulous, listening to Josephine trying to sweet-talk Zakiyyah into going on Peter Pan’s Flight. Julian, Josephine, Ashton, and Z were in Disneyland, the last two under protest.

“Z, what’s not to love?” Josephine was saying. “You fly over London with Peter Pan aboard a magical pirate ship to Neverland. Come on, let’s go—look, the line’s getting longer.”

“Is it pretend fly?” asked Zakiyyah.

“No,” replied Ashton. “It’s real fly. And real London. And a real pirate ship. And definitely real Neverland.”

Zakiyyah rolled her eyes. She almost gave him the finger. “Is it fast? Is it spinny? Is it dark? I don’t want to be dizzy. I don’t want to be scared is what I’m saying, and I don’t want to be jostled.”

“Would you like to be someplace else?” Ashton said.

“No, I just want to have fun.”

“And Peter Pan’s magical flight over London doesn’t qualify?” Ashton said, and sideways to Julian added, “What kind of fun are we supposed to have with someone like that? I can’t believe Riley agreed to let me come with you three. I’m going to have to take her to Jamaica to make it up to her.”

“You have a lot of making up to do all around, especially after the crap you pulled at lunch the other week,” Julian said. “So shut up and take it.”

“Story of my life,” Ashton said.

“What kind of fun are we supposed to have with someone like that?” Zakiyyah said to Josephine. “His idea of fun is making fun of me.”

“He’s not making fun of you, Z. He’s teasing you.”

“That’s not teasing!”

“Shh, yes, it is. You’re driving everybody nuts,” Josephine said, and then louder to the men, “You’ll have to excuse her, Z is new to this. She’s never been to Disneyland.”

“What kind of a human being has never been to Disneyland?” Ashton whispered to Julian.

“That’s not true!” Zakiyyah said. “I went once with my cousins.”

“Sitting on a bench while the kids go on rides is not going to Disneyland, Z.”

Zakiyyah tutted. “Is there maybe a slow train ride?”

“How about It’s a Small World?” Ashton said, addressing Zakiyyah but facing Julian and widening his eyes into saucers. “It’s a slow boat ride.”

“That might be okay. As long as the boat is not in real water. Is it in real water?”

“No,” Ashton said. “The boat is in fake water.”

“Is that what you mean when you say he’s teasing me?” Zakiyyah said to Josephine. “You sure it’s not mocking me?”

“Positive, Z. It’s a world of laughter, a world of tears. Let’s go on It’s a Small World.”

After it got dark and the toddlers had left and the crowds died down a bit, the three of them convinced Zakiyyah to go on Space Mountain. She half-agreed but balked when she saw the four-man luge they were supposed to board. Josephine would sit in front of Julian, between his legs, and that meant that Zakiyyah would have to sit in front of Ashton, between his. “Can we try a different seating arrangement?” Z said.

“Like what?” Ashton kept his voice even.

“Like maybe the girls together and the boys together.”

“Jules, honey, what do you think?” Ashton asked, pitching his voice two octaves higher. “Would you like to sit between my legs, pumpkin, or do you want me between yours?”

“Z, come on,” Josephine said. “Don’t make that face. Ashton’s right. Get in. It’s one ride. You’ll love it. Just …”

“Instead of you sitting in front of me,” Ashton said to Zakiyyah, as cordial as could be, “would you prefer I sit in front of you?”

“You want to sit between my open legs?” Zakiyyah’s disbelieving tone was not even close to cordial.

“Just making suggestions, trying to be helpful.”

“Aside from other issues, I won’t be able to see anything,” Zakiyyah said. “You’re too tall. You’ll be blocking my view the whole ride.”

Ashton knocked into Julian as they were about to board. “Dude,” he whispered, “you haven’t told her Space Mountain is a black hole with nothing to see?”

“We haven’t even told her it’s a roller coaster,” Julian said. “You want her to go on the ride, or don’t you?”

“Do you really need me to answer that?”

They climbed in, Ashton and Julian first, then the girls in front of them. Zakiyyah tried to sit forward as much as possible, but the bench was narrow and short. Her hips fitted between Ashton’s splayed legs.

“Can you open your legs any wider?” she said.

“Said the bishop to the barmaid,” said Ashton.

“Josephine! Your friend’s friend is making inappropriate remarks to me.”

“Yes, they’re called jokes,” Ashton said.

“They’re most certainly not jokes because jokes are funny. People laugh at jokes. Did you hear anyone laughing?”

Zakiyyah sat primly, holding her purse in her lap.

Ashton shook his head, sighed. “Um, why don’t you put your bag down below, maybe hold on to the grip bars.”

“I’m fine just the way I am, thank you,” she said. “Don’t move too close.”

“Not to worry.”

They were off.

Zakiyyah was thrown backwards—into Ashton’s chest. Her hips locked inside Ashton’s legs. The purse dropped into the footwell. Seizing the handlebars, she screamed for two minutes in the cavernous dome.

When it was over, Julian helped a shaky Zakiyyah out, Josephine already on the platform, jumping and clapping. “Z! How was it? Did you love it, Z?”

“Did I love being terrified? Why didn’t you tell me it was a rollercoaster in pitch black?”

They had a ride photo made of the four of them: Zakiyyah’s mouth gaping open, her eyes huge, the other three exhilarated and laughing. They gave it to her as a keepsake of her first time on Space Mountain, a real artifact from an imaginary place.

“Maybe next time we can try Peter Pan,” Ashton said as they were leaving the park after the fireworks.

“Who says there’s going to be a next time?” said Zakiyyah.

“Thank you for making this happen,” Josephine whispered to Julian in the parking lot, wrapping herself around his arm. “I know it didn’t seem like it, but she had fun. Though you know what didn’t help? Your Ashton pretending to be a jester. You should tell him you don’t have to try so hard when you look like a knight. Is he trying to be funny like you?”

“He’s both a jester and a knight without any help from me, believe me,” said Julian.

Josephine kissed him without breaking stride. “You get bonus points for today,” she said. “Wait until we get home.”

And other days, while she walked through Limbo past the violent heretics and rowed down the River Styx in Paradise in the Park, Julian drove around L.A. looking for new places where she might fall in love with him, like Disneyland. New places where his hands could touch her body. They strolled down Beverly and shopped for some costume jewelry, they sat at the Montage and whispered in nostalgia for the old Hotel Bel Age that overlooked the hills. He raised a glass to her in the Viper Room where not long ago someone young and beautiful died. Someone young and beautiful always died in L.A. And when the wind blew in from Laurel Canyon, she lay in his bed and drowned in his love and wished for coral trees and red gums, while Julian wished for nothing because everything had come.

But that was then.

Part One
The Master of the Mint

“Gold enough stirring; choice of men, choice of hair, choice of beards, choice of legs, choice of everything.”

Thomas Dekker, The Humors of the Patient Man and the Longing Wife

1
Fighter’s Club

ASHTON WAS AFFABLE BUT SKEPTICAL. “WHY DO WE NEED TO paint the apartment ourselves?”

“Because the work of one’s hands is the beginning of virtue,” Julian said, dipping the roller into the tray. “Don’t just stand there. Get cracking.”

“Who told you such nonsense?” Ashton continued to just stand there. “And you’re not listening. I meant, painting seems like a permanent improvement. Why are we painting at all? There’s no way, no how we’re staying in London another year, right? That’s just you being insane like always, or trying to save money on the lease, or … Jules? Tell the truth. Don’t baby me. I’m a grown man. I can take it. We’re not staying in London until the lease runs out in a year, right? That’s not why you’re painting?”

“Will you grab a roller? I’m almost done with my wall.”

“Answer my question!”

“Grab a roller!”

“Oh, God. What did I get myself into?”

But Julian knew: Ashton might believe a year in London was too long, but Julian knew for certain it wasn’t long enough.

Twelve months to move out of his old place on Hermit Street, and calm Mrs. Pallaver who cried when he left, even though he’d been a recluse tenant who had shunned her only child.

Twelve months to decorate their new bachelor digs in Notting Hill, to paint the walls a manly blue and the bathrooms a girly pink, just for fun.

Twelve months to return to work at Nextel as if he were born to it, to wake up every morning, put on a suit, take the tube, manage people, edit copy, hold meetings, make decisions and new friends. Twelve months to hang out with Ashton like it was the good old days, twelve months to keep him from drinking every night, from making time with every pretty girl, twelve months to grow his beard halfway down his chest, to fake-flirt sometimes, twelve months to learn how to smile like he was merry and his soul was new.

Twelve months to crack the books. Where was he headed to next? It had to be sometime and somewhere after 1603. Lots of epochs to cover, lots of countries, lots of history. No time to waste.

Twelve months to memorize thousands of causes for infectious diseases of the skin: scabies, syphilis, scarlet fever, impetigo. Pressure ulcers and venous insufficiencies. Spider angiomas and facial granulomas.

Carbuncles, too. Can’t forget the carbuncles.

Twelve months to learn how to fence, to ride horses, ring bells, melt wax, preserve food in jars.

Twelve months to reread Shakespeare, Milton, Marlowe, Ben Johnson. In her next incarnation, Josephine could be an actress again; he must be ready for the possibility.

Twelve months to learn how not to die in a cave, twelve months to train to dive into cave waters.

Twelve months to learn how to jump.

Twelve months to make himself better for her.

It wasn’t enough time.

Every Wednesday Julian took the Overground to Hoxton, past the shanty village with the graffitied tents and cucumber supports to have lunch with Devi Prak, his cook and shaman, his healer and destroyer. Julian drank tiger water—made from real tigers—received acupuncture needles, sometimes fell into a deep sleep, sometimes forgot to return to work. Eventually he started taking Wednesday afternoons off. Now that Ashton was his boss, such things were no longer considered fireable offenses.

Ashton, unchangeable and eternally the same on every continent, lived as if he didn’t miss L.A. at all. He made all new friends and was constantly out partying, hiking, celebrating, seeing shows and parades. He had to make time for Julian on his calendar, they had to plan in firm pen the evenings they would spend together. He flew back to L.A. once a month to visit his girlfriend, and Riley flew in once a month to spend the weekend in London. When she came, she brought fresh flowers and organic honey, marking their flat with her girl things and girl smells, leaving her moisturizers in their pink bathroom.

And one weekend a month, Ashton would vanish, and was gone, gone, gone, Julian knew not where. Julian asked once, and Ashton said, seeing a man about a horse. When Julian prodded, Ashton said, where are you on Wednesday afternoons? Seeing a man about a horse, right? And Julian said, no, I’m seeing an acupuncturist, a Vietnamese healer, “a very nice man, quiet, unassuming. You’d like him.” Julian had nothing to be ashamed of. And it was almost the whole truth.

“Uh-huh,” Ashton said. “Well, then I’m also seeing a healer.”

There were so few things Ashton kept from him, Julian knew better than to ask again, and didn’t.

He was plenty busy himself. He took riding lessons Saturday mornings, and spelunking Saturday afternoons. He joined a boxing gym by his old haunt near Finsbury Park and sparred on Thursday and Saturday nights. He hiked every other Sunday with a group of over-friendly and unbearably active Malaysians, beautiful people but depressingly indefatigable.

He trained his body through deprivation by fasting for days, by going without anything but water. Riley would be proud of him and was, when Julian told her of his ordeals. He continued to explore London on foot, reading every plaque, absorbing every word. He didn’t know if he’d be returning to London on his next Orphean adventure, but he wanted to control what he could. After work, when Ashton went out drinking, Julian would wander home, six miles from Nextel to Notting Hill, mouthing to himself the historical tidbits he found along the way, an insane vagrant in a sharp suit. In September he entered one of the London Triathlon events in the Docklands. One-mile swim, thirty-mile bike ride, six-mile run. He came in seventh. An astonished Ashton and Riley cheered for him at the finish line.

“Who are you?” Ashton said.

“Ashton Bennett, do not discourage him!” Riley handed Julian a towel and a water bottle.

“How is asking a simple question discouragement?”

“He’s improving himself, what are you doing? That was amazing, Jules.”

“Thanks, Riles.”

“Maybe next year you can run the London Marathon. Wouldn’t that be something?”

“Yeah, maybe.” Julian stayed noncommittal. He didn’t plan on being here next year. The only action was in the here and now. There was no action in the future; therefore there was no future. Devi taught him that. Devi taught him a lot. The future was all just possibility. Maybe was the appropriate response, the only response. Maybe.

Then again, maybe not.

“But what exactly are you doing?” Ashton asked. “I’m not judging. But it seems so eclectic and odd. A triathlon, fencing, boxing, spelunking. Reading history books, Shakespeare. Horseback riding.”

“My resolve is not to seem the best,” Julian said, “but to be the best.”

“Why don’t you begin being the best by shaving that nest off your face?”

“Ashton! That’s not judging?”

“It’s fine, Riles,” Julian said. “He’s just jealous because he’s barely started shaving.”

She came to Julian during the new moon, her loving face, her waving hands.

In astronomy, the new moon is the one brief moment during the month when the moon and the sun have the same ecliptical longitude. Devi was right: everything returned to the meridian, the invisible mythical line measuring time and distance. When the moon and the stars were aligned, Josephine walked toward him smiling, and sometimes Julian would catch himself smiling back. He knew she was waiting for him. He couldn’t pass the time fast enough until he saw her again.

To be on the meridian was life.

The rest was waiting.

A reluctant Julian was dragged back to California by Ashton to spend the holidays with his family in Simi Valley. In protest, he went as he was, heavily bearded and tightly ponytailed like an anointed priest.

Before he left London, Zakiyyah called to ask him about Josephine’s crystal necklace. Josephine’s mother, Ava, kept calling her about it, Z said. Could he bring it with him to L.A.? Julian lied and told her he lost it. For some reason she sounded super-skeptical when she said, are you sure you lost it? It’s not in some obvious place—like on your nightstand or something?

It was on his nightstand.

“Please, Julian. It belonged to her family.”

And now it belongs to me.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Julian said.

“Who was that—Z?” Ashton said, overhearing.

“Yes, still bugging me about the stupid crystal.”

“The one on your nightstand?”

“Yes, Ashton. The one on my nightstand.”

Over Christmas break in Simi Valley, his parents, brothers, their wives and girlfriends, his nieces and nephews, and Riley all wanted to know when the boys would be moving back home. Not wanting to hurt his mother’s feelings or get her hopes up, Julian deflected. That was him: always dampening expectations.

He cited ethics: they couldn’t break their lease. He cited family: Ashton’s father, after some health problems, had finally retired from the news service, turning over most of the daily operations to his son. He cited friendship: someone had to help Ashton be in charge. Ashton’s livelihood once again depended on Julian.

“Someone has to be Ashton’s wingman,” is what he told his mother.

“Are you sure you’re my wingman, Jules?” But Ashton backed Julian up. It was true, they weren’t ready to leave England yet. “I can’t navigate London without Jules,” Ashton said. “Your son is insane, Mrs. C. Riley will tell you. He’s like an autistic savant. His psychotic knowledge of London is both random and shockingly specific. He has no idea what the exhibits at the Tate look like, but he knows precisely when it opens and closes. He knows the hours and locations of nearly every establishment in central London. He knows where all the pubs are and all the churches, and what stores are next to each other. Though he’s never been on a double-decker, he can tell you the numbers of every bus route. He can tell you what West End theatre is playing what show. He knows which comedians are doing standup. He knows where the gentleman’s clubs are—though he swears, Mrs. C, that he has not been inside, and from the monastic growth on his face, I’m inclined to believe him. He can’t tell you what the best vanilla shake in London tastes like, but he sure can tell you where you need to stand in line to get one—Clapham apparently.”

“Explain yourself, Jules,” Tristan said.

“Because he’s still walking everywhere, isn’t he?” Julian’s mother said, shaking her head, as if suddenly understanding something she didn’t want to about her fourth-born son (or as Julian liked to call it “fourth-favorite”). “Jules, I thought you were better?”

“I am, Mom.”

“Then why are you still looking for that non-existent café? You’re not still dreaming that awful dream, are you?”

Julian was spared an answer by his father. “Son, Ashton told us you’re boxing again,” Brandon Cruz said. “Please tell us it’s not true.” After nearly forty years in the California educational system, the senior Cruz had retired and now kept busy by trying to save Ashton’s flagging store. “Your mother is very concerned. Why would you start that nonsense again after all these years?”

Once, to be in the ring was life. It’s not nonsense, Dad, Julian wanted to say. It’s not nonsense.

“Son, I hate to say it, but your father is right, you shouldn’t be boxing, you’re blind in one eye.”

“I’m not blind, Mom. I’m legally blind. Big difference.” He smiled a weary smile of a man being assailed.

“Still, though, why?”

“He’s trying to improve himself, Mrs. Cruz,” Riley chimed in with fond approval, patting Julian’s back. “He’s boosting his self-confidence, increasing his fitness levels—and muscle mass.” She squeezed his tricep. “He is de-stressing and revitalizing himself. Staying healthy, you know? He’s doing much better, honest.”

“Oh, Ashton!” exclaimed Julian’s mother, “it can’t be easy, but you really are doing a wonderful job with him. Except for the hair, Riley is right, he looks much better. Thank you for watching over him.” Julian’s entire family bathed Ashton with affection and praise. Joanne sat him at her right hand and gifted him a tray of homemade cardamom shortbread! Ashton took the cookies, looking altruistic and put-upon.

Wordlessly, Julian watched them for a few minutes. “Tristan, bro, earlier you asked me for a London life hack?” he finally said. “I got one for you.” He put down his beer and folded his hands. “If you want to display a head severed from the human body, you need to weatherproof it first. Otherwise after a few weeks, you’ll have nothing but a bare skull. You want to preserve the fleshy facial features at the moment of death, the bulging eyes, the open sockets. So, what you do is, before the head starts to decompose, you partially boil it in a waxy resin called pitch—are you familiar with pitch, Trist? No? Well, it’s basically rubber distilled from tar. Very effective. You waterproof the head by boiling it in tar, and then you can keep it outside on a spike to your heart’s content—in all kinds of weather, even London weather. How long will it last, you ask? A good hundred years.” Julian smirked. “Someone said of William Wallace’s preserved head at the Great Stone Gate on London Bridge that in his actual life, he had never looked so good.”

It was Ashton, his mouth full of shortbread, who broke the incredulous silence of the Cruz family at Christmas by throwing his arm around Julian, swallowing, and saying, “What Jules is trying to say is he’s not quite ready to return to the fun and frolic of L.A. just yet.”

“In London in the old days, they used to break the teeth of the bears in the baiting pits,” Julian said in reply, moving out from under Ashton’s arm. “They broke them to make it a more even fight when the dogs attacked the bear. They did it to prolong the fight, before the bear, even without the teeth, ripped the dogs apart.”

“Settle down, Jules,” said Riley, passing him her smart water. “Believe me, we got the message at the parboiled head.”

“Man is more than his genes or his upbringing,” Julian said, refusing the water and picking up his beer instead. “A man is a force of the living. But—he’s also a servant of the dead. As such, he’s an instrument of some powerful magic—since both life and death are mystical forces. The key,” Julian said, “is to live in balance between the two, so as to increase your own force.”

Don’t worry, Riley whispered to a miserable-looking Joanne Cruz. He just needs time.

To be on the meridian, in the cave, on the river, was life.

The rest was just waiting.

Finally the Ides of March and his birthday were upon him. And that meant that after a year of training and boxing and fencing, the vernal equinox was upon him.

“I wish I could bring some money with me,” Julian said to Devi a few days before March 20.

“How is money going to help you?”

“If I’d had money in 1603, I would’ve asked her to marry me earlier. We could’ve left.” It would’ve been different. “I’d just feel better if I had some options.”