Henry
He awoke from a dream of owls. Gliding down from swirling skies, alighting on the parapets and balustrades of some remote collection of islands and bridges, the owls had fluttered and flailed, sending up squalls of feathers.
It was almost pleasant at first, the owls hooting gently, some even landing on his outstretched arm. But with little warning the dream became frightening. There were suddenly too many of them, he was surrounded, deafened by their incessant screeching; one sniped at him... he was awake.
Padding over to the window, he slipped a robe over his shoulders. The rain he remembered from the morning had stopped but in the dusk light the streets still glimmered, Douglas lamps shining star-like, the Garfield’s Biscuits advertisement across the way muted in the mist. A double decker streetcar bearing the words Tyson’s Boots across its top level crawled by, while around it Tuffty Town’s Grand Centre intersection played out its various dramatic movements, its workaday pedestrian flow, its theatres’ red-carpet processions, its thread of limousines and carriages, its cycles of order and tumult.
He would need a bath, a fresh suit, sock garters, wallet, watch. Stopped. He shook it, set the time to the old clock tower visible from his desk window, and bounded down around three flights of thickly carpeted stairs to grab an overcoat and join the world, in the wind, on the street. He tapped his cane, smiled, and set off.
Above him, above the scuffling masses and clopping horses, above the streetcars and belching autos, loomed the hallmarks of Grand Centre, the advertisements painted over sidewalls and in some cases entire front edifices in green and white, pink and brown, red and gold: James’s Stout, Oedwenwallop Cure Tonic, Gunn Whiskey, Lucky’s Candy and, of course, Garfield’s: Garfield’s Tea, Garfield’s Cakes, Garfield’s Sliced Bread.
On a dark and narrow side lane he often used as a shortcut, a sad sack figure approached from the opposite direction. The man’s shoulders slumped, he lumbered, he muttered to himself; his coat was ripped, his mouth bled, tears streaked over reddish cheeks.
Our young fellow was about to step off the walk and give the unfortunate soul uninhibited right of way when recognition lit his freshly shaven visage.
“Lester!”
“Oy,” said the other, flinching. “Ah, it’s you, Henry, is it.”
“Whatever’s happened, Lester?”
“Eh? Oh. Gave me the sack, they did.”
“Who, Dad?”
“No, Wingrove.”
“But why?”
This Lester sheepishly kicked at a loose cobble in the walk.
“You know how it is, carrying on with a chambermaid and whatnot.” He brightened. “Nice bit of crumpet, too.”
“Oh, Lester, it can’t be.”
“Afraid so, laddie. And I got into it with Roy on me way out.”
“But you and Skutchy are friends!”
“And still is. But with me slandering the place to all and sundry on the way down the steps, well, Roy was forced to show me what-for and, you know, bloodied me lip a little and ripped me coat. Don’t blame poor Roy. He didn’t enjoy it.”
“I should hope not. Will you be all right, Lester?”
“Oh, I’ll muddle through.”
Producing his pocketbook, the younger man removed several bills and held them out.
“Take it, Lester, for god’s sake.”
Lester hesitated.
“I mustn’t,” he said finally.
“For lord’s sake, don’t let me stand here with my arm out like this. Bent my elbow fencing yesterday and it hurts like the devil.”
A smile from the beaten soul.
“All right. I’ll pay it back, mind.”
“I wouldn’t hear of it.”
Henry watched the ex-sous-chef limp off, briefly contemplating Fortune’s swift vengeance. Then he clicked his heels and with a whistle emerged from the dark and narrow lane onto a brilliant avenue. Lined along its spotless sidewalks were fine restaurants and art galleries, its battlemented apartment buildings accented in baroque crown molding, ivory capped, iron gated, resplendent. There were watchmakers, hat shops and jewelry boutiques, and hidden here and there among them a disreputable bookmaker, as if to act as ballast.
A familiar figure emerged from one of these latter establishments, its familiar gait ambling toward Henry with a cane raised in friendly salute.
“Hullo, Huvvy.”
Henry grinned.
“Imagine my luck, finding a Galen Garfield aprowl at this time of night.”
“Stepping out for a spot of breakfast?”
“Something like that.”
“White Birch bound?”
“Aye.”
“Accounts and whatever?”
“Aye. And you look as if you’ve just got in on something good.”
“Oh, but I have!”
“Do tell.”
“You’ve heard it spoken of, this Ryadzyyn Princedom, what?”
“No.”
“Some fabled monarchy toppled by a people’s rebellion and such?”
“Not a word. But go on.”
“Three hundred years of divine rule with nary but a tea shortage against it, when suddenly these uppity blokes bung in with an insurrection and a bloody coup. A firing squad and other untold atrocities.”
“By geez, Gally, it doesn’t sound like the Sermon Handicap on vicarage sports day, does it?”
“Not by a damn sight, Huvvy. But wouldn’t you know, the whole thing hinges on a missing princess.”
“A what?”
“Odds are 20-1 she pops in from the fog of anarchy and sets things right again.”
“Well, here’s a fiver says she doesn’t. Safe as houses.”
“Say, you haven’t seen Addy, have you?”
“Not since Ruck’s this morning, why?”
“He’s run off wearing my topper.”
“Oh, blast.”
“With my pocket watch inside of it.”
“Pish and pother. Isn’t that just like Addy.”
“Isn’t it. Well, see you, Huvvy.”
“See you, Gally.”
A few more steps and he stood before the White Birch.
Wet pavement in the glare of Douglas Gas streetlamps; a green awning over green-carpeted stairs; three steps leading up to a mahogany-panelled foyer; deep, wide, floral armchairs and brocaded benches in mauve; felt-topped cherrywood end tables.
And scurrying this way and that, guests young and old, royal and gentle, haughty and proud; the melancholic, anxious and crestfallen. The hopeful.
The blessed.