“He told you,” Jack said. “I have diplomatic papers.”
“Even though you claim to be a student.”
“I claim to be both.” He smiled. “Is that not allowed?”
“And since when do the English have jurisdiction over the police, which are, if I recall correctly, a part of Russian Internal Affairs?”
Jack swallowed and looked out of the carriage window, no doubt longing to be outside or at the very least away from me — even though just an hour before he wanted nothing better but my company. “Collaboration in the cases of Chinese espionage,” he finally said. “You understand.”
I shook my head vehemently enough to displace my bonnet. “I most certainly do not. If you indeed think they are spies, why did you let them go?”
“But you… ”
“It was not about me,” I interrupted, with Eugenia’s stern tone cutting into my voice. “You did not know who I was… ” A sudden thought struck me and I peered into his face, undeterred by darkness and flopping brim of his hat. “Or did you?”
“I did,” he said. “But that is not why I was there.”
“You were there to help with the arrests?”
He shook his head. “My… my own business, I swear to you. And I just happened by and could not bear to see your distress.”
He seemed sincerely anguished, and I decided to scale back my interrogation. There’s only so far you can push a horse before it collapses, Eugenia used to say. I suspected the maxim applied to bipeds as well as the equine species. We traveled the rest of the way in silence, me smiling as beatifically as I could manage, and Jack hiding under his hat, his nervous fingers worrying an unlit cigar.
The club could rival any of the imperial palaces in the number of chandeliers, candelabras, and score of other contrivances blazing light. It seemed that the Northern Star had one mission — to banish every scrap of darkness and shadow — and it succeeded admirably. Even Jack’s long, narrow countenance, usually hidden by his hat, was cast in stark relief. I could admire the austere hollow of his cheek, like that of an ancient saint. I thought my mother would approve as we entered the club, arm in arm.
In the main hall, as large as any ballroom I had ever seen and probably quite capable of serving as one, the light was dazzling. Men and women spoke and mingled in the excessive illumination, some sitting at the small round tables, others in armchairs and on sofas positioned invitingly in the alcoves of the ornately decorated walls. Soft music was playing, and I had to squint to discern four musicians and their instruments on a small stage at the far end of the hall. Two violins, a cello, and a flute complained about something beautiful and sad, and the music served as a fine counterpoint to the low hum of human voices, tinkling of Champagne glasses, and occasional burst of soft laughter.
“How do you like it?” Jack whispered.
“It’s very bright,” I said.
He took my words as a cue, and led me toward one of the niches in the wall, to an unoccupied table framed by two chairs. I sat down and waited for my eyes to adjust to the somewhat lessened light. A waiter stopped by our table to deposit a bottle of Champagne in a silver ice bucket, a pair of flutes, and a plate of hors d’œuvre, which I found quite welcome. I had forgotten to eat dinner.
Jack leaned back in his chair and drank. His gray eyes searched the crowd and seemed troubled, and I hoped my questioning had not upset him. It is with a small amount of shame that I confess my concern was not indicative of the goodness of my heart but rather worry that if I upset him, he would be less forthcoming with answers.
He nodded at a few men who walked past our table and they nodded back, but showed no inclination to stop and chat. I thought it rather strange that people did not seem to speak to anyone but their immediate companions, and precious little mingling was occurring.
“How peculiar,” I said. “I don’t think I’ve yet seen people change tables or move to talk to someone else.”
“It is by design,” Jack said. “People come here to enjoy a social setting where one is not compelled to interact with one’s fellow men. I find it refreshing.”
I shook my head and laughed. “If one wants to be quiet, then why leave one’s house?”
“As you can see, most come here with their friends. It’s a good way to be alone in a crowd.”
I wanted to say that being alone in a crowd seemed to miss the point of both crowds and solitude, but bit my words back. After all, how would I make Jack like me enough to tell me his secrets if I argued with his every word? I was certain my mother would be proud of my feminine deductive abilities if she only knew.
My self-congratulations were cut short due to the sudden cessation of music which distracted me. I watched as several men wheeled around a piano, and moved it to occupy the stage the four musicians had just left. The mahogany piano gleamed, and its white keys were so bright in the blinding light they seemed to fuse together into a single strip of pearly radiance. They seemed pure light, with an occasional dark gap of the black keys. The smell of burning wax added an almost religious atmosphere to the proceedings.
The men also brought around a chair in which the pianist was already sitting — I thought that it was someone crushed with age or disease, and assumed the upcoming performance would likely be more about honoring the unfortunate than actual entertainment. Imagine my surprise when the figure in the chair raised its stick arms and rained its fingers onto the keyboard in an avalanche of sound, cascades of loud clear notes filled with both passion and precision.
“Bravura” was the only way to describe the performance. All conversation and laughter ceased, and even the waiters dawdled with their trays, reluctant to move for anything as mundane as delivery of drink and food. Even I was enraptured.
My own relationship with music had always been uneven and fraught with doomed romance, much like any good novel. Despite a string of teachers and a variety of instruments from clavichords to flutes, I showed no proclivity toward musical performance whatsoever. My fingers got entangled in themselves and my breath came out ragged and wrong. I could not hit a proper note if my life depended on it. All this was, of course, a cause of bitter disappointment to my mother, who herself was quite an accomplished, albeit infrequent, piano player, and who remembered too acutely it was her skill at the piano that had initially enchanted my father. It took both Eugenia and Miss Chartwell reminding her rather cynically that what I lacked in musical education I more than made up in titles and impending wealth to console my dear mother.
Despite all that, I quite enjoyed music as a listener, and I could not have been happier sipping my Champagne and discreetly tapping my foot under the cover of my bell skirt in tempo with the music.
Jack smiled at me. “You seem to enjoy the music.”
I nodded. “I do.”
He looked sly, almost impish. “Notice anything unusual about the player?”
“Not as such,” I replied. “Unless you consider being carried around in a chair unusual.”
“That’s because he does not have legs.” Jack seemed to enjoy his grisly words.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“And no head,” he added, laughing openly. “Look.”
The music stopped and while the applause still hung in the air, the stagehands approached the pianist’s chair and swung it around. There was laughter from those in the know and a drawn-out “ooooh” from the rest of the audience. The pianist was nothing but a stout metal can, the size and shape of a small water barrel, with two long jointed metal arms attached to it. Each arm ended with a set of ten unnaturally long and flexible fingers.
“That’s cheating,” I said.
Jack laughed. “Still quite a marvel of ingenuity, isn’t it?” he said. “It is quite impressive how much mechanical and engineering talent is gathered in this city and what things they can achieve.”