Undermajordomo Minor

The Strange and Terrible Ballroom Goings-On

The Count, in his negligence, as if to intentionally cultivate his negligence, was eating the tart from the cup of his palm, with all the aplomb of a hog lapping slop. Clenching his hand to a fist, he watched the remainder push between his fingers, watched the drabs fall to the floor; he wiped his palm on his trouser leg and regarded the assembled group with glazed eyes. Said the Baron to the Baroness, “Our guest is happy with the tart, my love.”

“It would seem so,” said the Baroness.

“And if he is happy, then we are happy also, isn’t that right?”

“We most certainly are.”

“For what is the function of the host, after all?”

She spoke as one performing elocution: “The function of the host is to ensure the comfort and amusement of his guests.”

He patted her hand, and they shared a look of wholesome admiration. Now the Baron addressed the others. “I wonder if the rest of our friends are as well pleased as the Count?”

The Duke said, “I’m feeling very well, myself.” He turned to his wife. “Is there anything you’re in need of, dear?”

The Duchess shook her head emphatically.

“Nothing at all?”

She continued shaking her head, and smiling — it seemed she was too intoxicated to speak. In fact, all in the group were by this point thoroughly drunken, their cheeks aglow with wine and good cheer; it was quite natural that they should, in spite of their societal positions, abandon formalities. Still, it was troubling to Lucy that the Count, presently grinding the tart droppings into the carpet with his spat-covered boot, should behave in such a way and receive nothing in the way of reprimand; for surely he had crossed the line which separates the ready celebrant from the boor. And so Lucy was pleased when the Countess spoke up from her perch on the settee, saying, “Oh, but you’re making a mess of it. Don’t you see that you’ll spoil it for the others?”

The Count ceased grinding the tart. He was staring at the Countess. She ran her finger along the lip of her glass, regretful of having spoken up, apparently. “Well, I’m sorry,” she said, “but it did seem to me you were ruining the dessert for the rest of us, after all.”

His gaze drifted away, and across the room, as though he were taking in the furnishings. An awed expression appeared on his face; one would have thought some profound knowledge had arrived at the forefront of his mind. Regarding the tart, then, he took up yet another handful and crossed over to the Countess, walking with the deliberate steps of a man who was compromised by drink but focusing with all his might on purposeful movement. Standing before his wife, he held his tart-dripping fist out between them. His breathing was erratic.

“And just what do you intend to do with that?” she asked.

The Count reared his hand and slapped her viciously in the centre of her face. She reeled backwards on the settee and lay still awhile, silent but in a fair amount of pain, it would seem. The Count was pleased with the blow, and returned to his post beside the tart, exhibiting the pride of one having done his duty. The Countess sat up. Though she was bleeding freely from her nose, no one rose to assist her; actually, no one seemed to feel anything at all like concern for her, and it struck Lucy that that they were each of them watching the scenario unfold as though it were some type of entertainment or diversion; and indeed, judging by their rapt faces, their reverent silence, that is precisely what it was for them. Lucy had the impression that this spectacle of violence was something which had happened before, and perhaps many times before.

The Countess rose and stepped away from the settee, the smear of tart over her face soaking up the blood, the crumbs crimson and plumped. She did not appear displeased, or in any way offended; quite the contrary, she wore a look of regal defiance, as though she thought herself the most bewitching woman in the room. She began to undress, and the moment she did this, the Duchess and Baroness came to her side to assist her, wordlessly helping her from her gown and untying her corset. Soon she stood naked before the assembled ladies and gentlemen, blood dripping from her chin and decorating her bare bosom, pooling in the slit and snaking down her rounded belly. She moved to the tart and took up the entire tray, delivering this to the Duke with a bow of her head. He accepted the tray automatically but his face expressed dubiety. He turned to the Count.

“And what shall I do now, old friend?” he asked.

“A gentleman must do as a lady wishes,” said the Count.

“You’re certain of it?”

“I’ve never been more certain in my life.”

And so the Duke, too, grabbed a handful of tart and, just as the Count had, jammed it over the Countess’s face.

“Harder,” she told him.

Yet another handful, and this applied with increased forcefulness, which sent her toppling, her feet in the air like a tumbler. As before, she lay still awhile, translating her pain, during which time the Duchess began undressing, as did the Count, and Duke. Lucy noticed that when the Duchess stepped from her gown it stood independently, stiff, truncated, to ghostly effect.

And what of the Baron and Baroness? Lucy had been so transfixed by the others he hadn’t thought to check their reaction; when it occurred to him to look he was surprised to find the pair, whom he had come to regard with something like veneration, were likewise disrobing, pawing at each other and staring into each other’s eyes with an animal craving. The group as a whole were evolving or devolving, becoming increasingly alert and agitated, and there was in the room the most terrible sense of expectation which drew Lucy’s stomach taut, a crab-apple knot of abhorrence. He wished to quit the room, but there was no way to achieve this. He wanted to look away but he could not. He watched the proceedings with a dumbstruck sense of horror. A numbness spread in his mind and body as he waited for the filthy pageant to pass.

At a certain point the salami, which had been gradually pushing proud of his cuff, dropped away, hitting the ground with a slap and thud; and while no one noticed this happening, Lucy felt that if an errant salami were spied on the floor, and so nearby his person, it would surely invite investigation. He dared not bend down to retrieve it, but decided to kick it away; alas, he did this over-enthusiastically, and the salami rolled halfway across the room, coming to rest mere inches from the Count’s naked foot. The Count caught sight of the salami and stared at it; its appearance was disturbing to him in some way. He looked up and around the room, as if for any further clue. Finding none, he nudged the salami with his toe, then stepped uneasily away to rejoin the others.

The Duke was leading the Countess by the hair to kneel before the Baron.

“Why not have a go yourself, Baron?” he asked, and he handed over a plateful of the tart.

The Baron smiled good-naturedly at the Countess; to the Baroness, he said, “What shall I do, my love?”

She scooped up a piece of tart and deposited it in his palm.

“You’re certain?” he asked.

She nodded, and the Baron lightly slapped the Countess’s cheek. The Countess wore a deflated expression; she looked to the others, as if for intervention.

“No, no,” said the Count.

“We’re doing it harder than that, Baron,” said the Duke.

“Much harder,” said the Count.

“Try it again, but with more force,” said the Duke.

“Just as hard as you please,” said the Count.

But the Baron hesitated. “You’re certain you want me to?” he asked the Countess.

“Hard,” came her breathless reply.

Now the prevailing abandon took hold of the Baron, and eschewing the tart, he offered up a grand wallop which found the Countess sprawled on the floor yet again. This was roundly applauded; you would have thought by the group’s reaction that the Baron had shared some great witticism or insight. The Countess clambered back upright to kneel once more before the Baron, who instructed her to open her mouth, and when she did this he began pushing in handfuls of tart, one after the other, until she gagged and retched, involuntarily spitting the tart out and onto the ground. She was told to eat this up and she acquiesced with great eagerness, as though there was nothing she had ever wanted to do quite so badly. By this time the group were all completely naked, their circle shrinking to a cluster.

There came a phase of general copulation among the partygoers. Lucy did not know and could not deduce what format or protocol they were guided by, but it did seem there were invisible cues of etiquette being adhered to: the manner in which they came together, the labour itself, the business-like briskness with which they parted. Perhaps the most shocking aspect of all this was the absolute lack of humanity in the room, for there was never so much as a kiss shared, never a caress. At a certain point the Count momentarily broke away from the Duchess to fetch the salami. He returned, re-entering her, this time from behind; wielding the salami like a truncheon, he fell to flogging her all about the back and buttocks and head. The others had completed their transaction and now were gathered around to watch this final spectacle. As the Count’s thrusting became more frenzied, so too did the whipping, and when he was through, the salami was mutilated, a mere stub in his greasy grip. He stood away from the Duchess, his body blotchy, clammy, his chest and stomach rising and falling in counter time. The Duchess was perfectly spent; she lay groaning on her stomach, her back coated in welts and bits of meat. The Count threw the stub of salami at her head; it ricocheted off her skull and bounced away, under the settee. In this way the matter was settled.

“Now,” said the Baron, “who is ready for a cigar?”

At the mention of this, the Duke and Count expressed enthusiasm which struck Lucy as outsize to the proposition, clapping their hands and hurrahing. The Baroness, too, was acting strangely, her cheek and neck gone red, her face drawn to a tight smile, as one withholding a private pleasure; she approached the table in the centre of the room and climbed atop it. The Baron distributed cigars from a cedar box and the men drew closer to her, stepping luxuriously, as if strolling the promenade of a fine spring morning. The Baroness was in position, her face pressed to the table-top, arms splayed out before her, backside pushed high into the air; the Duke and Count appraised her naked behind while the Baron clambered onto the table, reaching up to the chandelier and removing a lit candle, careful as he descended to preserve the flame.

The moment he had put his hand to the candle, then Lucy had an inkling of what was to come, and he hoped with great sincerity that he was incorrect, but he was not, and when the unlit half of the candle disappeared up the Baroness’s rear passage, he found himself wondering at the dark state of man, pondering the notions of freedom, and battling with a distant nausea. One by one the men leaned in and lit their cigars, then stood back to smoke and stare reverently at the woozy candle-flame. Perhaps a minute passed. The Baron asked the Duke,

“Whatever became of the shipping situation in your township?” The Duke stuck out his lower lip and shook his head.

“Tempest in a teapot.”

“You seemed concerned when I saw you last.”

“All for nothing. The union organizers were run out of town, and peace has been restored.”

“I’m happy to hear it. And how have your profits been this year?”

“Better all the while.”

“And the weather?”

“We’ve had a mild winter, thanks to God. And you, what of your interests?”

“As before.”

“Money always came to you.”

“It always has, actually.”

“Money comes to money, they say,” the Count offered.

“They say it and it’s true,” the Baron said appreciatively.

The Duchess and Countess, meanwhile, were warming themselves by the fireplace. There was a copious bouquet of yellow roses on the mantle; they began to take up the flowers, one by one, and toss them into the flames. The Baroness had lain still for some minutes but now removed the candle and walked to stand beside her friends. Reaching for a rose, she likewise cast this over the flames, and then again. And so: three naked and unspeaking women threw roses into a fireplace, one after the other, until the bouquet was gone. The men had returned to the settee; they watched their wives perform this mystifying endeavour with sombre expressions on their faces. When the roses had gone to ash, and the cigars had been snuffed out, the group dressed, bade one another goodnight, and retired in twos, first the Duke and Duchess, then the Count and Countess, and finally the Baron and Baroness.

Once alone, Lucy pulled up his trousers and stepped from behind the curtain. Agnes entered as he approached the door.

“Where in the world have you been?” she asked.

“Here, ma’am. The others have gone to bed.”

“Yes, the Count mentioned they were done. Did it seem that they enjoyed themselves?”

“Yes.”

“And did they enjoy their dinner?”

“Yes.”

“Did they enjoy the tart?”

“Yes.”

“They found it tasty?”

“Yes.”

“Did they actually say as much?”

“No.”

“But you got the impression they liked it, is that it?”

“Yes,” said Lucy. An unpleasant thought came to him. “When did you speak with the Count, ma’am?”

“He came into the scullery just now. Looking for a nibble, he said.”

“Where is Klara?”

“She’s also in the scullery, washing up.”

“Who else was with them?”

“No one.”

Lucy quit the room. Clear of the doorway, he started running. Agnes stayed behind, pouring herself a brandy, and sitting with a sigh on the settee. She sipped her drink, looking about the room with a wary expression. There was something about the ballroom that had always bothered her.

When Lucy entered the scullery the Count had Klara pinned in the corner. He was pulling up her dress, rubbing her underside, and licking her face; when she struggled to free herself he began to thrash her, shaking her about, that her head might roll from her shoulders. Lucy crossed the room in broad strides, as though he were floating, almost, or sliding across ice; snatching up Agnes’s marble pestle from the butcher’s block, he swung this at the back of the Count’s head, thinking to knock the man out, but at the last moment the Count turned, and so caught the pestle in the mouth. His skull was ricocheted off the stone wall and he dropped to his knees in a halted stupor. His top row of teeth was gone and rich, red-black blood drew down his face and into his shirtfront. It was moving faster than Lucy thought blood could move. He gestured to Klara, and she came and stood behind him. He was holding the pestle so tightly that his fingernails were sinking into the meat of his palm; when the resulting pain of this occurred to him he loosened his grip, and the pestle fell to the ground, breaking in two. He hadn’t struck anyone in his life before this.

The Count stood, leaning against the wall and watching Lucy and Klara with a divine confusion, as though he’d never seen them before — as though he’d never seen anyone before. He drew a finger across his chin and looked at it. Staggering to the basin, he inhaled, then spit out the shards. Straightening his lapels, he swivelled on his heels and addressed Lucy, his words made spheroid by the thick blood and dearth of teeth.

“How do I look, boy?”

“You have blood all down your face, sir.”

The Count pulled his kerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed at his cheek. “And now?”

“There is still a good deal of blood.”

He wiped the kerchief all around his face, smearing the blood and disimproving his state considerably. He offered Lucy a questioning glance.

“Much better, sir.”

The Count bowed to Lucy, and then to Klara. “Well, now,” he said, “the Sandman is calling me, and so I shall retire. Thank you both for a pleasant evening.”

“You’re welcome, sir,” said Lucy.

“You’re welcome,” said Klara.

The Count left the scullery, and Lucy and Klara watched the empty doorway. The Count reappeared, and Klara gripped Lucy’s hand.

“Which is my room? I can’t recall.”

Lucy pointed. “Up the stairs, sir, and second on your right.”

The Count left again. Lucy felt faint; he found himself blushing, and so was shy to face Klara. He closed his eyes as she wrapped her arms about his waist and pulled him closer. They held each other, and kissed, and were so very much in love.

In the morning, the Countess opened her eyes to find her husband’s face a butcher’s display of dried blood and flesh so raw and swollen as to produce a shine. She began to scream, and she continued screaming for a good long while.

The Count had no recollection of the incident with the pestle. Lucy had cleaned away the blood and tooth fragments in the scullery, as well as the button-like droplets which ran down the hallway and to the base of the stair. When this was deduced to be the blood’s point of origin, it was assumed the Count had tripped. The guests and their hosts re-enacted this happening the next morning, and they were very excited to be doing so, all except the Count, who stood back from the others, purple and ghastly. The Baron knelt to touch the blunt edge of a stone step, perhaps the very same one the Count had collided with, and a collective shiver ran through the assembled. The Count attempted to speak but his words were unintelligible. He repeated them, but only the Countess could understand, and she translated:

“He wonders where his teeth went.”

The Duke leaned forward. “Likely you ate them, my good man!”

The Count winced at the thought, then winced from the wincing.

“I suppose you’ll find out soon enough!” said the Duke.

The Duchess, who was suffering from a headache, said, “He’s not gone deaf, dear. Please keep your voice down.”

They moved to the breakfast table, where it was decided a medical presence was necessary. The Count agreed but would not consider seeing any doctor other than his court physician. The Baron said he would have a letter sent at once to fetch the man; but no, the Count preferred to recuperate in the comfort of his own estate. This point was argued but the Count was immovable, and now a pall settled over the table, for the premature departure of he and the Countess signalled the collapse of the group. And what of the Duke and Duchess? Yes, it would seem that they, too, were formulating plans to leave; already they were speaking of future meetings, and the unfortunateness of the Count’s taking a fall — the pity of it all. The Baron looked on, aggrieved, and a glint of desperation flashed in his eye. He pleaded with the others to stay, speaking of grand dinners and as yet untapped kegs of the finest wines; but none could be persuaded, and now all was silent save for the clattering of cutlery.

Something had gone wrong the night before, something which wouldn’t be mended. Who could say whether this was a shared sense of loathsome shame stemming from the ballroom happenings, or some lingering hostility which had taken hold of the group permanently — Lucy wasn’t sure the performance of the evening prior was not ongoing. But whatever the reason, the joy vanished from the guests, and also the Baron, and most acutely, the Baroness, who, upon recognizing that the happy times had once more ended, left the table without saying goodbye to her old friends, disappearing into her private chambers and locking herself in.

Lucy and Mr Olderglough were kept busy all that day and into the late afternoon, assisting the guests with their packing, and transporting their baggage to the station. The Count was acting the infant, but was clearly relishing being the centre of sympathetic attentions. Lucy was made uncomfortable by the man, fearful he would suddenly recall how he had come to be injured; but he only looked to Lucy as another body to lean upon and moan at. Lucy and Mr Olderglough escorted the Count onto his train; when this pulled away, Mr Olderglough said, “It looks like we’ll have a quieter time, boy, and I dare say we’ve earned it.” Lucy noticed he was smiling but trying to hide it.

“What is it, sir?”

Mr Olderglough cleared his throat. “Well, I find myself wondering what exactly happened to the Count last night. You wouldn’t have any idea, would you?”

“Ah, it seems he fell, sir.”

“That is the theory, yes. Must have been a nasty fall, eh?”

“It must have been.”

“If it was indeed a fall, that is.”

“Yes.”

Mr Olderglough paused to ponder. “And I wonder, too,” he continued, “just what happened to Agnes’s pestle?”

“Her pestle, sir?”

“Her pestle, yes. Didn’t you know that she found it this morning, split in two?”

“Is that right?”

Mr Olderglough nodded.

Lucy shook his head. “That’s a shame.”

Mr Olderglough nodded. “Lastly,” he said, “I am curious as to what happened with young Klara’s uniform.”

“Her uniform, sir?”

“Agnes tells me it was ripped at the neck and sleeve. I hope she hasn’t come to any harm?”

“No, sir, she hasn’t.”

“She got home safe, then?”

“Safe and sound.”

“Well thank goodness for that. She seems a very nice girl.”

“She is, sir. And thank you for saying so.”

They walked for a time in silence. They were both smiling, now. Mr Olderglough said, “Would you agree that the most appealing thing about a mystery is the fact of its mysteriousness?”

Lucy considered this. “Perhaps I would, sir.”

“But also the most frustrating, wouldn’t you say?”

“Perhaps it is. But as is not unrarely the case, sir, I must admit to not knowing quite what you’re talking about.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Well, no matter.” He looked away. “You may take the night off, if you wish.”

“I would like that very much, sir, and thank you.”

“Yes, boy. Off you go, now.”

Lucy walked towards the village then, listening to the chirring of crickets in the dusky air. He found himself drawn once again to the sight of the smoke spilling from Klara’s chimney. He wished he might live forever in that wonderful hovel.

As he came nearer the village he noticed a crowd had assembled outside the shanty. Stepping to the front of the pack, now he saw the focus of their attentions: Adolphus stood before Klara’s door, famished and decrepit, in filth and bloodied rags, held up on either side by two of his comrades. One of these men knocked, and Klara answered, standing in silence and stillness, regarding Adolphus as though he were a spectre. When she took him in her arms, a burst of jubilation came up among the villagers. She led him inside, and the crowd dispersed, all except for Lucy. When he recognized it was not possible for him to enter the shanty, he turned and walked away.