Patrick deWitt - Undermajordomo Minor

“Now, the question has come up in my mind oftentimes over the years: just where did this sympathy come from? My mother and father never so much as told a lie, and I had been raised to believe that the more you toiled, then the purer you became, and so were well poised to receive God’s favour when you passed into His kingdom. I had no reason to doubt my parents, both of them being good, kind people. Be that as it may, from the moment I saw that scallywag making away with Father’s money, I was transformed.”

Memel took a sip of wine from his goblet, seemingly chewing it before welcoming it into his stomach. He took a second sip, and made a sound like “Ah” or “Hah”.

He said, “It was not just the fact of the man’s thieving which was attractive to me, it was also the way thieving apparently made him feel. How I longed to cross a threshold in just the same manner as he! I couldn’t get him out of my mind, and began to live my life in such a way that my following after him became an inevitability. And so it went, children. I devoted my every energy to play, to shirking, to laughing, to non-working. I ran from every type of responsibility presented to me, be it chores or schoolwork or what have you. My mother and father battled valiantly against my rebellion, but I would not be discouraged, and soon embarked on my own career as a pickpocket — and a deservedly storied career it has been, if you don’t mind my saying.

“All through my apprenticeship and my eventual mastery of the art of thieving, you may be interested to learn I never for a moment misplaced my religion. In actuality, I became more devout all the while, though my God was not the God of my elders. For it had always been unattractive to me that He should reward his servants for drudge work — indeed, that he should desire servants in the first place. Being dissatisfied with their God, then, I created a God of my own, and mine was not one to honour labour, but one who repaid the bold.

“The farmer, upon seeing a healthy crop in his fields, kneels and gives his thanks. A shopkeeper will gaze with gratitude at the profits recorded in his ledger. For my part, whenever I came upon a wealthy merchant passed out in his first-class compartment, this was the instant I would pause to reflect, to praise my saviour. It was He who had guided me to these fruitful pastures, to these half-men crying out to be robbed. God wished them taught a lesson, and I, brave Memel, was His instrument.”

He looked away from the children, and to a spot high on the wall. “Even now, when I dream, I dream of a compartment filled with the slumbering bodies of wealthy men. I am a younger version of myself, and my energy knows no limits, and I am afraid of nothing in the world. I strip them of their possessions, and their red faces are so peaceful and glad as they sleep, for they themselves are dreaming, of a full table, let’s say, a banquet held in their honour, and their hands grasping at this, at that.

“My Klara has spoken over the years of a time of reckoning for me. A day when I would feel my feet in the flames, at which point I would repent, and beg forgiveness. But it would seem that time is approaching, now, and I can say it truthfully: I was right, and my mother and father were wrong. I loved them both, but they were fools. There is nothing noble in suffering, nothing worthwhile in mindless labours. And if you see something you want, children, you should take it. Because the fact of your wanting it renders it yours.”

Memel closed his eyes. “That’s all I wanted to say to you,” he said. “Thank you for listening to me.”

The children left the room in a peaceable and orderly fashion.

Memel soon was sleeping, and so Klara and Mewe left him alone, with Lucy following after. Lucy asked what was the matter with Memel; neither Klara nor Mewe answered for a time. Finally Mewe stirred, and said, “We don’t know what.”

“How long has he been ill?”

“It’s been coming and going for months. But not so bad as this.”

A pause, and Mewe said he was tired; now Klara led him to the front door, whispering in his ear as he left. Mewe nodded, and they shared a sad look. After Mewe had gone, Klara began chopping an onion for a stew. Lucy approached but didn’t touch her, sensing something was wrong beyond the fact of Memel being unwell. He said her name, but she only continued chopping, as though he weren’t there at all.

He asked, “Are you angry with me about something?”

“No,” she said.

“Will you tell me what’s the matter?”

“Nothing is.”

Lucy was watching the side of her face. “Has there been some news of Adolphus?”

Klara ceased chopping. She was shocked he had simply asked it. It took a moment for her to answer: she shook her head, no.

“Is it very hard for you, Klara?” said Lucy.

Another pause, when she set her knife aside and turned to Lucy, clutching him, pressing herself against his chest. She was trembling; he thought she was crying, though she made no sound. He asked her again what was the matter but she only said that she was sorry. She wouldn’t say why she was sorry.

Later that night they drank some of Memel’s wine, after which she became friendly and loving once again. She was simply tired, she explained, and she had missed Lucy, and was worried for her father. They retired to her room, and all was as it had been before. In the morning Lucy fed Memel some broth, along with the castle gossip; the old man was pleased for both, and did seem heartier when Lucy bid him good morning.

Klara kissed him at the door, helping him into his shirt. She framed his face with her hands, peering into his eyes with a determined adoration before saying her fond goodbyes. Lucy’s heart was full as he crossed the village, and he told himself he mustn’t let so many days pass without visiting, as the time apart was not healthy for his and Klara’s courtship. That was surely what the problem had been, he decided; and yet, some small voice doubted his reasoning. And then, too, why did the wily butcher leer at him so knowingly as he passed the stall?

The Baroness sat upright in her bed, reading a book. Lucy entered with her breakfast tray and stood at a distance. She knew he was there but didn’t raise her eyes right away; exhaling sharply, she clapped the book shut and said, “I for one find it an annoyance when a story doesn’t do what it’s meant to do. Don’t you, boy?”

“I’m not sure I understand what you mean, ma’am.”

“Do you not appreciate an entertainment?”

“I do.”

“And would you not find yourself resentful at the promise of entertainment unfulfilled?”

“I believe I would, ma’am.”

“There we are, then.”

“We are here,” Lucy agreed.

The Baroness set the book on her bedside table and looked at Lucy. “So, this is the infamous letter writer.”

“Am I infamous, ma’am?”

“In that you’ve been on my mind, yes. May I ask what prompted you to write it?”

“I felt it justified. Are you displeased with me?”

“Shouldn’t I be?”

“I suppose you must.”

“It upset me greatly, your letter.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am.”

“I dislike urgency of any kind.”

“Neither am I fond of it. But all was not well here, and as your absence seemed the source of the problem, then I took my small liberty.”

“You call it a small liberty.”

“I do, ma’am.”

“I spilled tea over my dress reading it.”

“He was eating rats, ma’am.”

“What?”

“The Baron was eating rats. All was not well here.”

She gave him a queer look. “Is that meant to be funny, boy?”

“It’s not meant to be, no.”

“You’re a strange one.”

“Possibly I am, ma’am, yes. Probably I am.” He considered it. “I am,” he said.