City of Lost Dreams

TWENTY-EIGHT

“You can only grasp me with one arm,” said Harriet. “Because you lost the other one in the Battle of Santa Cruz de Tenerife in 1797.”

“Right.” Max folded one arm behind his back. The linen shirt Harriet had given him to wear was itchy, the white wool vest smelled of mothballs, the dark blue wool jacket with epaulets had a disturbing bullet hole in the breast, and the flap-front trousers were just plain silly. And that was before you got to the two-cornered hat that looked like a giant black banana.

Harriet was doing a kind of interpretive dance around Max’s living room. She was a good dancer and looked very pretty in her linen shift.

“I’ve just done my performance of Medea for you, the King and Queen of Naples, and a select few other guests”—Harriet was slightly out of breath—“and of course my husband, the British ambassador. You’re lounging on the sofa, exhausted after your long journey from Aboukir Bay and defeating Napoléon in the Battle of the Nile.”

Max lounged and tried to look exhausted.

“You’re suffering from malaria, and since we last saw each other five years ago, you’ve lost all your teeth, an arm, and one eye.”

“Jesus. How old am I?” said Max.

“You’re only forty, but you’ve fought a lot of battles. You’ve earned a reputation as being exceptionally brave, but also headstrong. You once chased a polar bear.”

Max nodded approvingly and, using his left hand, sipped rum out of a tiny antique glass.

“That rum comes from Jamaica, where you were nursed back to health after a life-threatening bout of dysentery.”

“Dysentery is not sexy,” said Max, hoping Harriet wasn’t going to want him to enact that part.

“Not to worry. I suffer from amoebic dysentery and so does my husband, Lord Hamilton, probably contracted right here in Naples.”

“Okay, so we all have dysentery,” said Max.

“I’ve been secretly in love with you for five years and awaiting your return.”

“How does your husband feel about you putting me to bed?”

“In later years, we will all live openly in England in a ménage a trois. It will be an enormous scandal.”

“Let’s skip that part.”

“Oh, Lord Nelson.” Harriet fanned herself. “I haven’t laughed this hard since playing charades with Goethe.”

“Please, call me Horatio,” said Max, doing his best imitation of an eighteenth-century British naval hero, downing the rest of his drink.

“Don’t forget to keep one eye closed and one arm behind your back,” Harriet whispered.

Max suddenly felt very tired. Very, very tired. Harriet swam before him. She kissed him. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Max was dreaming. He was taking a bath with Sarah, but they were not alone. There were several other people there, including Harriet, which was awkward, and Beethoven and Mozart, which was just weird. He started to slip under the water and found he couldn’t use his arms or legs to hold himself up. I’m drowning. No one else in the tub noticed him slip under or moved to help him. I’m dying, he thought, unable to fight his way to the surface. Gasping, Max struggled to open his eyes and finally pulled himself awake. He felt groggy and hung over. He was still wearing his Lord Nelson costume. Had he passed out after sex? But he hadn’t drunk that much. Harriet had insisted on a period glass, quite small, for the draft Lord Nelson needed to take for his malaria. Wait. Had she actually given him eighteenth-century medicine? He struggled to sit up.

Moritz was pacing the floor. Max hauled himself out of bed, pulled on a robe against the chill, and padded over to let the dog out. He stepped into the hallway, then paused. Someone else was up. He could hear someone moving about. Pols? Harriet? The music room was empty. His office door was closed, but he heard the creak of his desk chair. Pols wouldn’t be in his office, nor would Harriet. A thief? He gave Moritz the hand signal for silence, then went to his room and retrieved the small pistol he kept in his dresser. Just in case. Max returned to his office and opened the door silently, just a crack, and was at first relieved to see that the person was Harriet. He could just make her out in the light from the small penlight she was holding. But before he could say, “You scared the crap out of me,” he thought to himself, Why is Harriet in my office at night?

Her back was to him. She was being very cautious, he could see that. Looking at everything on his desk, but putting it back exactly the way it was. Looking for something. She opened the drawers one by one, then pulled something out. From the size he guessed it was the Star Summer Palace folio. Harriet took the folio and tucked it under her coat. She turned toward the door.

Max flicked on the lights and strode into the room, grabbing Harriet by the arms. The folio fell to the floor. Moritz ran into the room, growling and showing teeth.

“What are you doing?”

“My God! My God, Max, What? I . . .”

“What are you doing?”

“Max, you’re hurting me. Please.”

Max let go of her arms and bent to scoop up the papers. Harriet stooped, as if to help him, and Moritz’s growl went up a notch. The dog began backing her into a corner.

“Max, really, call him off. I couldn’t sleep and I was looking for something to read. I didn’t think you’d mind. I’m sorry . . . I didn’t think.” She reached out a hand.

Moritz bit Harriet. Right on her outstretched hand. Quickly, and without hanging on, but a nice solid puncture.

“Bloody hell!”

“Get out,” Max said to her.

Harriet held out her hand, incredulous, as two red spots began to swell.

“He bit me.”

“You drugged me. Get out.”

“Max, don’t be ridiculous. You’re overreacting. Think.”

“No. You’re done here.”

“I haven’t done anything!” Harriet cried. “Just . . . looked. I am a curious person, darling. You know that. I’m a historian. It’s what I do. Darling, this hurts like hell. There could be nerve damage. Put some clothes on and we’ll talk in the car.”

Max wished he had bitten her himself. It must have felt really good, he thought.

“Get out,” he repeated quietly. “Right now, or he’ll bite you again.”

Moritz growled again and took a step toward her.

Harriet backed toward the door that led to the rest of the palace. “You’re not thinking straight,” she said. “We’ll talk in the morning. You’ll see this was all a silly bit of nonsense. And you owe me an apology.”

Max marched her out of the office and down the stairs to his private entrance, Harriet protesting the whole time. He shut the door in her face.

Back in his office, Max put the folio down on his desk and slumped onto the sofa, his head in his hands. He had a pounding headache from whatever drug Harriet had given him to knock him out, and now that the adrenaline was abating, he felt groggy and exhausted. And angry and disappointed and embarrassed. What had Harriet been up to?

Whatever she wanted, she wouldn’t get it now.

Moritz whined and licked his hand.

“Thank you,” said Max. “God, I’m an ass.”

“You were lonely,” said a voice.

Max froze and looked up at the dog. Moritz was standing in front of him, wagging his tail, staring at him.

No. It was the drug. Max sighed, rolled onto his side, and closed his eyes.

“Sleep it off,” said Moritz. “You must rest the spine you recently grew.”

Max sat up again. “What the—?”

Moritz sat down in front of Max.

Max stood and slapped his own cheek.

“All right. Let’s get back to bed.”

“You could ask nicely.” Max wheeled around.

Nico.

The little man emerged from behind the curtains at the window.

“How long have you been there?” Max demanded.

“Long enough. I was just about to surprise dear Harriet myself when you did such an admirable job.”

“She drugged me,” Max said defensively.

“So I gathered,” said Nico. “Luckily she didn’t drug your dog.”

“He didn’t do a very good job of telling me you were here.”

“Maybe you should feed me more biscuits,” said Moritz. And weirdly, the voice really did seem to come from Moritz and not from Nico.

“You little bastard,” said Max. “I should have known.”

“I’ll teach you the art of ventriloquism if you like. It’s quite useful. And now let us examine what Harriet was so interested in.”

“It’s drawings of Ferdinand’s Star Summer Palace. And lots of notes and the usual alchemical hoo-ha. Maybe you can make sense of it.”

“I will look. You should go back to bed and sleep off whatever Harriet gave you. From the smell I am guessing laudanum.”

Max struggled to focus his sleepy brain. “Okay,” he said, then turned back to Nico. “Did you see Sarah in Vienna?”

“Of course.”

“How is she?”

“Same as you,” said Nico. “Tall and stupid.”