KEEP PLANNING – Ryan Napier

This is an excerpt from Nicely Done, a screwball historical novel set in July, 18––, in the Grand Duchy of Werdenburg. It is a generation since the fall of Napoleon. Revolution is a distant memory; dull conservatism reigns. A small, frivolous elite sit atop a rigid and static order. Nothing seems to change, yet everything seems to be getting worse. Such a world will, of course, be entirely unfamiliar to the contemporary reader. Our narrator, Friedrich Graber, is a minor biblical scholar at the University of Werdenburg. He lives in not very-genteel poverty, and because of an archaic clause in the university charter, he isn’t allowed to marry. He thinks he might be unhappy, but hasn’t found time to figure it out. Graber has been dispatched to Bruyant, a shabby town in the French-speaking province of Werdenburg, to investigate a rare manuscript. The local abbot, however, refuses to let him see it. As Graber tries to figure out how to access the manuscript and save his position at the university, he meets Mathilde Saverne, a young lady who lives with her father on a large estate near Bruyant. Mademoiselle Saverne, it turns out, is engaged to the nephew of the bishop of Werdenburg; Graber decides to ask her to ask her fiancé to intervene with the bishop on his behalf. But when he dines at the Château Saverne, Graber finds his problem crowded out by others: for instance, that M. Saverne is a tyrannical hypochondriac who keeps fires burning in every room, even at the height of summer, to ward off melancholy. And that Mademoiselle Saverne, who is exasperatingly vigorous and very beautiful, is only marrying M. Jauffret, who is thirty years older than her and a collector of spoons, in order to settle a dispute about the line between their properties. And that M. Jauffret’s cousin Captain Jauffret has written abominable love poetry about Mademoiselle Saverne. . . * The next morning, I lay in my lumpy bed at the Three Bulls, waiting for the hot water. A bar of sunlight crept across the wall and onto the writing table, where I had left my letter to the bishop. I had to make progress today. I would go back to the Château Saverne this morning and return the coat that I’d borrowed, and I wouldn’t leave until I’d got Mademoiselle Saverne to ask M. Jauffret to write to the bishop. But why would Mademoiselle Saverne help me? Why had I started talking about telos? Beautiful women didn’t want to hear about telos. Someone clambered up the steps, dragged something down the passage, and stopped in front of my door. “Hot water!” called Annette. “Leave it,” I said. “If I leave it,” she said, “you’ll let it get cold. And then I’ll have to warm it up again.” I got out of bed and opened the door. Annette was struggling to hold the water-bucket in both her hands. (She was, after all, only ten.) I took it from her. “You shouldn’t sleep in your coat,” she said. “It’s all wrinkled.” “It’s not my coat,” I said. “It’s M. Saverne’s.” I held out one of the rumpled sleeves. “I can’t give it back like this. Is there a laundrywoman in town who can—” “Give it to me.” “You have enough to do.” (I felt bad enough that she had dragged the water upstairs.) “You’re a guest. How would it look if guests were taking out their laundry?” “As a guest—” “The water’s getting cold.” I took off the coat, gave it to Annette, shut the door, and shaved. Pursing my lips in the mirror, I wondered if I was handsome. I thought about this sometimes, although it didn’t matter, since I didn’t have anyone to be handsome for. Still, I wondered. I might be handsome. I wasn’t obviously unhandsome. If someone saw me with a beautiful woman, they wouldn’t say, “What is that beautiful woman doing with such an unhandsome man?” I was certainly more handsome than M. Jauffret. There was a knock at the door. “Come in!” I said. “That was quick.” “Good morning, Dr. Graber.” It was Captain Jauffret, in his uniform and peaked cap. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I thought it was Annette. She has my coat.” “She said it was M. Saverne’s coat.” “Well, yes—” “May I come in?” One of my cheeks was covered in lather. “If you give me a minute—” “This won’t take long.” Captain Jauffret shut the door and took out a small notebook. His whiskers and mustache had been recently oiled; the smell quickly filled the room. “As district registrar, I am required to record all guests at the inn. May I see your internal passport?” “It’s in my bag,” I said. “Please get it.” “It’s at the bottom. I’ll have to take everything out.” “Yes, you will.” I wiped off the lather and unpacked my bag. “You should keep your passport at the top,” said Captain Jauffret. I gave him the passport. He copied the information into his notebook. “It says you’re a tutor,” he said. “I am.” “You said you were a scholar. You called yourself ‘Dr. Graber.’” “Charlot said that.” “You didn’t correct him.” “I am a scholar,” I said. “I’m revising Dr. Vedastus’s annotations. I teach at the university. I’ve taken a vow of chastity. I just—don’t have my doctorate. Yet.” (Vedastus said that he didn’t have time to read my dissertation until after we’d finished the annotations.) “A man can always do one thing,” said Captain Jauffret, “and that is to tell the truth.” “I’m just tired of explaining it,” I said. Captain Jauffret wrote something in his notebook. “How long,” he said, “will you be in Bruyant?” “I don’t know,” I said. “I was supposed to leave on the evening mail-coach.” “What is your business in our town?” “I’m trying to see a manuscript at the abbey.” “Why were you at the Château Saverne?” “Mademoiselle Saverne invited me.” He clutched his pencil. “And how do you know Mademoiselle Saverne?” “We met yesterday. On the road.” “Did you tell her that you were a scholar?” “I am a scholar.” Captain Jauffret closed his notebook, but held on to my passport. “This isn’t Werdenburg, M. Graber. We do things differently here.” “I’m learning that,” I said. “Mademoiselle Saverne is engaged to M. Jauffret.” “We met.” Captain Jauffret looked at me with the same glare that he’d been giving to the goat’s-head hanging on the wall of the public room. “An engagement means something in Bruyant,” he said. “We respect it. No matter what we think of it. We believe in the sacred bond of marriage.” “So do—” “A woman’s greatest treasure is her honor. And when she is beautiful, like Mademoiselle Saverne, and lofty in character and spirit, and so much higher than all other women—” He stopped himself. “She has to be careful.” “She is,” I said. “Of course she is,” said Captain Jauffret. Someone knocked at the door. “You know,” said Captain Jauffret, “that lying to a district registrar is perjury?” “I haven’t lied,” I said. “Why are you in Bruyant?” “To see a manuscript at the abbey.” “You have no designs on Mademoiselle Saverne?” “I’m a scholar.” “Lying to a district registrar—” Someone knocked again. “Come in!” I said. It was Annette, carrying M. Saverne’s coat on one arm and my good coat (now clean) on the other. “I didn’t know which one you wanted to wear to the Savernes,” she said. Captain Jauffret dropped my passport and strode out of the room. “You shouldn’t anger Captain Jauffret,” said Annette. “He’s the district registrar.” * The day was bright and green and warm, again. On the avenue that led up to the château, a light wind rustled the leaves of the birches and oaks. When the house came into view, I had to shield my eyes: the facade faced east, and its rows of windows caught the morning sun. Georges answered the door. A blast of heat came from inside. “Good morning, Dr. Graber.” “Good morning, Georges. I’m here to see Mademoiselle Saverne.” “Mademoiselle Saverne doesn’t receive visitors in the morning.” “It’s not a social call,” I said. “I’m returning M. Saverne’s coat.” “I can take it.” “If it’s not too much trouble, I think I should give it to Mademoiselle Saverne myself.” “Mademoiselle Saverne doesn’t receive visitors in the morning.” “Don’t tease him, Georges!” called Mademoiselle Saverne from the top of the stairs. “I think Dr. Graber is in love with me.” “What?” I said. Mademoiselle Saverne came down the stairs. She was wearing a yellow pelisse-robe and a silk turban. “Did you forget the coat on purpose so that you could come back and see me?” “Your father—” “It’s flattering,” she said. “I was wondering whether I was in love with you too. I don’t think I am. Would you like to see the orangery?” “I do need to talk to you—” “Give my father’s coat to Georges. And Georges, get Dr. Graber’s coat. The ratty one. Leave it in the vestibule. We’ll pick it up later.” To get to the orangery, Mademoiselle Saverne and I crossed a large, gated park behind the house. Everything in the park was alive and blooming: pin peonies, white foxglove, purple iris, dozens of other flowers whose names I didn’t know. Even the hedges glowed green. “I don’t think it will work,” said Mademoiselle Saverne, as we walked along the gravel path. “Us being in love.” “We’re not in love,” I said. “Last night, you told me to break off my engagement.” “I didn’t—” “In so many words. You made some good points. For about an hour this morning, I thought I was in love with you.” “We just met.” “Yes, but you were so pathetic. I pictured you in your garret, wearing your ratty little coat and squinting at your manuscripts.” “Who said I live in a garret?” “Do you?” “Yes, but—” “And I was there too,” said Mademoiselle Saverne, “with you. We were married, and poor, and I helped you with your work—sorting your papers, sharpening your pencils, arguing with the landlady about the rent. I was wearing a horrible dress, but I looked very well in it.” “Should we be talking about this?” “There’s nothing to not talk about,” she said. “I’m not in love with you. Even if I were, I couldn’t leave my father. And I don’t think I’d like being poor for long. My cousin Sophie didn’t. I was telling you about her last night—the one who ran off with her tutor.” “And you’re engaged,” I said. “And I’m engaged,” said Mademoiselle Saverne. At the center of the garden was a marble fountain, topped by a statue of Venus rising from the waves. Mademoiselle Saverne and I leaned over the water and watched the goldfish and minnows. “It’s too bad that I’m not in love with you,” said Mademoiselle Saverne. “There would have been so much to do: writing secret letters, planning meetings, pining. I’m always looking for things to do. I’ve already catalogued the flowers and cleaned all the old graves in the churchyard.” “There is something you could help me with,” I said. We were still looking down into the water; instead of meeting each other’s eyes, I looked at her reflection, and she looked at mine. “It’s the manuscript,” I said. “The abbot won’t let me see it, because he’s under orders from the bishop. I can’t change the bishop’s mind. But M. Jauffret could.” Mademoiselle Saverne frowned. “You want me to ask M. Jauffret.” “Would you?” “It doesn’t sound like much of a project.” “What do you mean?” “I’ll ask M. Jauffret, and he’ll do it. Where’s the fun in that?” “It’s—” “I’ll do it, of course,” she said. “We can go see him this morning. But it’s not much to do. Come on—you haven’t even seen the orangery.” She set off. I hurried after. The orangery was a long brick-and-glass building. Mademoiselle Saverne unlocked the door with a key that she kept on the clasp around her waist. We walked up and down the rows of citrus that grew in tubs. The glass inside the orangery was wet with humidity, though it was cooler here than in the house. “Do you have a theory about the origin of property?” said Mademoiselle Saverne, walking ahead of me. “Sophie’s tutor said that the creation of private property destroyed our natural liberty.” “What happened to your cousin and her tutor?” I said. “They got married.” “After that.” “Oh, lots. The family won’t talk about it, but Abbé Choux told me everything.” Mademoiselle Saverne picked a leaf off a lemon tree, crushed it, and held it under her nose. “Sophie and the tutor were already so poor, and then he decided to start a newspaper. It was awful for Sophie. But it was the tutor who left her, in the end. He’d developed some ideas about ‘complex marriage.’” Mademoiselle Saverne looked back at me. “What do you think?” she said. “Just because it didn’t work for your cousin Sophie—” “About the orangery, I mean.” My cheeks burned. “It’s nice.” “I think so.” “Humid though.” “It’s an orangery.” “I’m not in love with you.” “Of course not,” said Mademoiselle Saverne. “You’re a scholar.” “If I weren’t—” “But you are.” She tossed away the leaf. “Should we see M. Jauffret now?” * From the back door of the orangery, we followed a steep path down to a meadow, which was bordered by a sunken fence. I hopped down and helped Mademoiselle Saverne after me. “That’s the property-line,” she said. “It’s straight here.” M. Jauffret’s house was on the other side of the meadow. Mademoiselle Saverne and I walked toward it, swerving between the grazing sheep. “It’s convenient,” said Mademoiselle Saverne, “that the houses are so close. That made it easier for M. Jauffret to come live with us after the marriage. He can visit his spoons whenever he likes.” “He’s not bringing them?” “They take up so much space,” said Mademoiselle Saverne. “He keeps them in special boxes. I had to put my foot down.” The meadow ran up to the side of the house. Mademoiselle Saverne tried the door. It was locked. She rapped on the glass until a scullery-maid with wet hands let us in. We went past the kitchen, up the stairs, and into a hall. A butler and a locksmith were squatting in front of a door, looking into the keyhole. “Good morning, Philippe,” said Mademoiselle Saverne. The butler stood. “Good morning, Mademoiselle Saverne.” “Where’s M. Jauffret?” “The gallery,” said Philippe. “It’s just arrived.” “What?” “The Mazarin egg spoon.” “Oh.” “M. Jauffret is very excited.” “Thank you, Philippe.” Mademoiselle Saverne and I went down a long, paneled corridor to the back of the house. “We’ll have to admire the spoon a bit,” said Mademoiselle Saverne. “Act impressed.” “Maybe it will be impressive,” I said. “Don’t be rude.” The gallery had a light parquet floor and a high modelled-plaster ceiling. Glass cases stood throughout the room, displaying M. Jauffret’s collection. Lining the walls were shelves piled with wooden boxes. M. Jauffret was bent over one of the cases, adjusting a spoon on a red velvet pillow. He wore white gloves. “It came!” he said. “Philippe told us,” said Mademoiselle Saverne. “I’ve brought Dr. Graber.” “Yes,” I said. “I’m excited to see the spoon.” “Is that it?” said Mademoiselle Saverne, nodding to the one that M. Jauffret was adjusting. “This is the Meymac,” said M. Jauffret. “You’ve seen it a hundred times.” “They’re all so similar,” said Mademoiselle Saverne. “I’ve told you how to identify a Meymac,” said M. Jauffret. “Don’t you remember?” “Something about the stem?” M. Jauffret shook his head. “There are fifty spoons with this stem.” “It’s your collection, M. Jauffret.” “It will be our collection,” said M. Jauffret, shutting the case. “And you’ll need to know how to take care of it when I’m gone.” “Which is the new one?” I said. We went to a case on the other side of the room. “There,” said M. Jauffret. He put his face close to the glass. “Look at the serration.” “Exceptional,” I said. “I can’t see anything,” said Mademoiselle Saverne. “That’s the point,” said M. Jauffret. “The serration is so fine that you can’t see it. I told you about this, Mathilde.” “It’s just that we talk a lot about spoons, so it’s hard to remember what’s most important.” “This is the Mazarin egg spoon,” said M. Jauffret. “If you knew anything about my collection—” “There you go,” said Mademoiselle Saverne. “Your collection.” “It’s an impressive collection,” I said. M. Jauffret walked over to another case, pointed at a spoon, and looked at Mademoiselle Saverne. “What’s this?” “Is it new?” she said. “This is the most important spoon in the collection,” said M. Jauffret. “What is it called?” “I don’t think you’ve shown me this one.” “I have. Dozens of times. I took it out last week, to show you the depth of the bowl.” “I’m very busy, M. Jauffret, with—” “I’m bringing them with me,” said M. Jauffret. “We talked about this.” “We said—” “They take up so much space.” She waved her hand at the stacks of boxes. “We said—” M. Jauffret put his right hand to his chest. “I can’t get my breath.” “Is it starting again?” said Mademoiselle Saverne. “I need to lie down,” said M. Jauffret. “Breathe slowly.” “I need to lie down.” Mademoiselle Saverne took M. Jauffret’s arm and helped him shuffle to the sofa. “Get Philippe!” she called over her shoulder to me. I ran back to the hall. The locksmith was still there, working on the door, but Philippe was gone. “Where’s Philippe?” I asked the locksmith. “The stable.” “M. Jauffret’s had some kind of attack.” “I’m the locksmith,” said the locksmith. “Where’s the stable?” “Behind the house.” I ran out of the hall, through a courtyard, into the house again, out through an open French window, across a graveled yard, and into a steepled stone building. It was dark inside, but it smelled like a stable. “Philippe!” No answer. “Philippe?” I ran back to the hall. The locksmith was gone, so I continued down the corridor, back to the gallery. No one was there. I stood, catching my breath. The sun came in through the high windows. The spoons gleamed in their cases. “There you are,” said Mademoiselle Saverne, coming in behind me. “We met him in the corridor.” “Is M. Jauffret ill?” “He’s not supposed to get overexcited,” said Mademoiselle Saverne. “His heart races. It passes. He said he’ll write to the bishop, by the way.” “You asked him?” “He’s always so sweet after his attacks.” “Well,” I said, “thank you.” “I told you it wouldn’t give me much to do.” “More time for you to spend overthrowing the grand duke.” “I’m waiting to hear back from a professional revolutionist,” said Mademoiselle Saverne. “An Italian in Brussels. He’s not quick in replying.” “Are you being serious?” I said. “I wasn’t being serious.” She leaned over the case that contained the Mazarin egg spoon. “We could take it,” she said. “I don’t think—” “Temporarily. As a joke. Wouldn’t that be funny?” “M. Jauffret wouldn’t think so.” “That’s what makes it funny.” “The letter to—” “Oh, I know,” she said. “But if we did, I have the perfect hiding-place.” “Do you think that M. Jauffret will be well enough to send the letter today?” “You’re being very German.” “It’s just that Dr. Vedastus expects—” She sighed. “M. Jauffret will send the letter today.” “I’m sorry to insist. But I can’t go back to Werdenburg without—” “Of course,” said Mademoiselle Saverne. “You’re a scholar.” She started to go. “It would be funny,” I said. She stopped in the doorway. “You know how to get back to the hall. Follow the sunken fence until you get to the road, then turn left. It’s about a mile to town.” “I could walk you back to—” “I have to check on M. Jauffret.” “I’m not doing anything this evening,” I said. “I could use some more practice at cassino.” “I’m sure you’ll find someone to play with at the inn.” She left me alone with the spoons. * As I walked back to town, following the sunken fence, I calculated that it would take a day, at least, for M. Jauffret’s letter to arrive at the episcopal palace in Werdenburg, and another day for the bishop’s response to reach the abbey. That meant I couldn’t see the manuscript until Friday, at the earliest. Now I was the one looking for something to do. I would write Mademoiselle Saverne a note—to thank her. I tried composing it in my head as I walked, but everything sounded too German. When I got back to the Three Bulls, a traveler was waiting in the entry. He must have come in on the coach: his coat and trunk were covered in brown dust. We exchanged good-mornings. “Have you seen the landlord?” said the traveler. “He told me to wait here. Fifteen minutes ago.” “I don’t think he’ll be much help,” I said. “I’m looking for a room,” said the traveler. “You want Annette,” I said. “She helps her father. But she has enough to do.” I went behind the desk, opened the ledger, and passed it to the traveler. “It’s six gulden a night. That’s what they’re charging me, at least. Hot water included.” He hesitated over the ledger. “Is this a good inn?” “It’s the only one in Bruyant,” I said. The traveler signed the ledger “Hans Freitag.” We carried his trunk upstairs, to the room across from mine. There was no linen on the bed. “I don’t know where they keep it,” I said. Freitag took off his hat and tossed it onto the mattress. He had long, thinning hair and eyebrows that were so blond that they were only visible when the light hit them at a certain angle. “How long have you been in Bruyant?” he asked me, in German. “Since yesterday morning.” “What do you think?” “They do things differently here,” I said. “I thought it would be larger,” said Freitag. “There’s a nut market in the fall.” “Do you know Mademoiselle Saverne?” “What have you heard?” “So you’re a friend?” said Freitag. “Yes,” I said. “Or no. I shouldn’t say. A woman like Mademoiselle Saverne has to be careful.” Freitag nodded. “We should shut the door.” “What?” “I’m a friend too,” said Freitag. “Or rather, a friend of a friend. In Brussels.” “The one that she wrote to?” “We’re sorry for the delay.” “I’m not—” “Lower your voice.” “I’m not a revolutionist,” I whispered. “I’m just a scholar.” “Exactly. I’m just a birder, here in Bruyant to see the black-tailed thrush.” Freitag stepped past me and shut the door. “We can’t be too careful, after what happened to Mittwoch and Sonntag. Did you hear?” “No,” I said. “I’m not—” “They were meeting at Mittwoch’s rooming house. Sonntag caught the landlady listening at the door. She promised not to tell, so they let her go. She went straight to the police, of course. Are you armed?” “Are you?” He opened his coat. Sticking out of his trousers was the butt of a pistol. “You can’t let them go to the police.” “Ah.” “Mademoiselle Saverne says that all of Bruyant would rise against the grand duke. What’s your assessment?” “Does Mademoiselle Saverne know that you’re here?” “We didn’t know if our letter would be secure,” said Freitag. “I’ll call on her tomorrow.” “I don’t think Mademoiselle Saverne should be involved,” I said. “In whatever you’re planning.” “Women can do this work just as well as men,” said Freitag. “Better, sometimes.” “I don’t doubt that,” I said. “But we’re in the middle of something right now. It’s—delicate.” “What?” “Mademoiselle Saverne is writing to the bishop. Actually, it’s her—” “We never thought of the bishop,” said Freitag. “But I see the logic. He fought for the emperor when he was young. They say he’s still a liberal, at heart. And he hates the grand duke.” “We just need a few days.” “I’m at your service,” said Freitag. “So you won’t call on the Savernes?” Across the passage, someone knocked at the door of my room. Freitag put his hand on his pistol. I looked through the keyhole: it was Annette. I opened the door. “That’s not your room,” said Annette. “I know,” I said. “I was helping the new guest—” “What new guest?” “She heard us,” Freitag whispered behind me. “She didn’t,” I whispered back. “She doesn’t even speak German.” To Annette, I said: “He was waiting, so I—” “You can’t do that,” said Annette. “I was trying to help,” I said. “You’re a guest,” she said. “What would people think?” Annette took some bedding from a closet in the passage, pushed past me, and began making the bed. “It’s six gulden a night,” she said to Freitag. “Hot water included.” “Did you hear us talking?” said Freitag. “She didn’t,” I said. “Yes I did,” said Annette. “Dr. Graber said Mademoiselle Saverne’s name. He’s in love with her.” “I’m not,” I said. “She’s a child, Freitag.” “Did you hear anything else?” said Freitag. “No,” said Annette, shaking dust off the pillow. “Good,” said Freitag. “You’re right: Dr. Graber is in love with Mademoiselle Saverne. He confessed it to me.” “But he can’t marry her,” said Annette, “because he’s a scholar.” “It’s a tragedy,” said Freitag. Annette smoothed out the coverlet. “How long are you staying?” “A few days,” said Freitag. “At least.” “The weekly rate is forty.” Annette took a letter out her apron and gave it to me. “It came this morning.” I knew the handwriting on the address: Vedastus. “I have to go,” I said. Freitag followed me across the passage. “What can I do in the meantime?” he whispered. “I don’t know,” I said. “Look for the thrush.” “Good thinking,” Freitag whispered. “Establish a plausible identity.” I shut myself in my room, sat at the writing table, and opened the letter: Graber, Ehlinger has circulated a paper on imperfect contrition. Must respond quickly. _____1. Consult manuscript again. Copy fourth verse of second chapter exactly as it appears. Note spelling of θέλησιν _____2. Ask to see the abbey’s chronicle. Find what year the papal legate visited _____3. Return to Werdenburg on the mail coach (not stage) Printer wants a fair copy by Monday. V. “Annette!” I said, running out of my room. She was halfway down the stairs. “When does the mail coach leave for Werdenburg?” “Six,” she said. “Get me a ticket.” I gave her money for the fare. As I waiting counting out the coins, Annette looked into my purse. “You still have to pay for the room,” she said. “I have enough.” I did, though I wouldn’t be able to buy a meal when the coach stopped to change horses. “I thought the abbot wouldn’t let you see the manuscript.” “Who told you that?” “It’s a small town.” “I’ll figure something out,” I said. I didn’t know what I would do, but as I rushed out of Bruyant and toward the abbey, I was pleased. My real problems had returned. In a few hours, I would be clinging to the mail-coach, racing away from women and revolutionists and spoons. * It was hot. In the fields outside Bruyant, the peasants sat in a line at the edge of the wheat, eating their lunches in the thin strip of shade. The fires would still be going at the Château Saverne—poor Mathilde. Mathilde? I had to get back to Werdenburg. At the door of the chapterhouse, I was met by a novice. “We only receive—” “I need to see the abbot,” I said. “Please. It’s urgent. He knows me. We’re working together on—something very important. And I’m sure he’ll be upset if I can’t speak to him.” “He’s in his cell,” said the novice. “But I’m not going to—” “Where’s the cell?” I said. The novice humphed and led me to the cells. The abbot’s was at the end. My steps echoed in the stone passage. I knocked at the abbot’s door and waited. “Father?” I said, after a moment. “I’m sorry to disturb you.” I knocked again. “The bishop said that I could see the manuscript. Or is going to say it. So if you could—” “Go in!” shouted the novice from the other end of the passage. The abbot’s room was almost bare: a cot, a trunk, a stool, a writing desk. In the corner, the abbot kneeled on a prie-dieu, clutching a crucifix. His eyes were closed; his lips twitched. “I’m sorry to interrupt your devotion,” I said, “but—” The abbot snored. “Father!” I shouted. He opened his eyes. “Who are you?” “We spoke yesterday,” I said. “By the well in the garden.” “Oh yes,” said the abbot. “You were there to fix the bucket.” “No, I’m a scholar. I’ve come to see your manuscript of—” “That’s right,” said the abbot, rubbing his eyes. “You did wake me, you know.” “I’m very sorry,” I said, “but I have to see—” “You can’t. The bishop said—” “Yes, but he’s changed his mind. Or will change his mind. It’s—” “I got a letter,” said the abbot. “I’m supposed to burn the manuscript before I let you— “But you’re going to get another letter, in a few days, that says the opposite.” “So come back then.” “I have to take the mail coach back to Werdenburg at six. And I can’t go back without seeing it.” “No one’s looked at that manuscript in four hundred years,” said the abbot. “What’s the harm in a few more days?” “Another scholar has challenged Dr. Vedastus’s interpretation of the concept of imperfect contrition. Not exactly his interpretation: Dr. Vedastus has never fully articulated his interpretation of imperfect contrition. But Dr. Vedastus’s has criticized Bommersbach’s interpretation of imperfect contrition, and another scholar is criticizing that criticism.” The abbot looked at me with his mouth open. “I know it doesn’t sound urgent,” I said. “But it is to Vedastus. If don’t do this, he’ll drop me. He might drop me anyway, but if I don’t do this, he definitely will. No one comes back from being dropped. At best, I’ll be stuck helping first-years cram for their Latin exams. At worst—” “That’s nothing,” said the abbot, “compared to what the bishop will do if I show you the manuscript.” “You’ll get a letter on Friday—” “Come back then.” “But—” The abbot rang the bell. “I’ll get M. Jauffret to send you a copy of his letter,” I said. “What does M. Jauffret have to do with it?” “He’s writing to his uncle on my behalf.” “So M. Jauffret doesn’t know?” “Doesn’t know what?” “That you’re in love with Mademoiselle Saverne,” said the abbot. * As the church-bell struck six, the driver climbed onto the box, and the mail-coach left for Werdenburg. It would speed through the night, into the forest and across the plain, and reach the gate of the Old Town by the afternoon. I stood in the door of the Three Bulls and watched the coach go. I had decided to stay. I had to stay. It probably wouldn’t work. But neither would coming back without seeing the manuscript. So I would pretend that I hadn’t received Vedastus’s letter, and tomorrow I would try—something. I hadn’t eaten anything all day. But when I looked into the public room, I saw Charlot and the Abbé Choux at one table, sharing a bottle of wine, and Freitag at another, staring at his reflection in a knife. I stepped back before any of them could see me—and collided with Annette. She was carrying a pile of felt and a cup of buttons. They scattered everywhere. “Will you want dinner?” said Annette, kneeling to pick up the buttons. “Let me help,” I said, kneeling too. “You’re a—” “Guest, I know.” The buttons were tiny, round, and gold. “What are these?” I said. “There should be thirty-eight,” said Annette. Sticking out of the felt-pile was a pair of stuffed, straw legs. “Annette,” I said, “are these for your doll?” “No.” “They are.” Annette continued to pick up buttons. “You’re a ten-year-old girl, Annette. It’s all right to have a doll.” “I don’t play with it.” “It’s all right to play with it. That’s what it’s for.” “It just wears the uniforms. I don’t do any pretending.” She dumped the buttons from her hand into the cup. “I have twenty-six.” “I have ten. What uniforms?” “That means there’s two more.” She felt around under the umbrella stand. “Can I see them?” I said. “Why?” “Because I’m sure they’re very good.” “Of course they are.” She lay on her stomach and put her arm as far under the umbrella stand as she could. “I can’t reach.” “If I get them,” I said, “will you show me the uniforms?” “No.” “I’ll get them anyway.” I got onto the floor, retrieved the buttons, and dropped them into the cup. “You can’t tell anyone,” said Annette. “I promise.” “Not even Mademoiselle Saverne.” “Not even Mademoiselle Saverne. Though I have no reason to tell her anything.” Annette and I went into the yard behind the inn and around to the side, where the stone steps led down to the cellar. Annette unlocked it. Ducking, I descended after her into a large, cool room. In the faint light, I could make out bottles of wine and sacks of potatoes. In one corner, next to a small, square window, was a pile of empty sacks. Annette moved them aside, revealing a stool and a small workbench, covered in fabric. There were scissors and knives and an unbound book, held down by a potato. Annette put the felt and buttons on the workbench and handed me the unbound book. “Go to page seventy-three,” she said. It was an illustrated guide to the uniforms of the last war. Page seventy-three showed an imperial grenadier’s dress uniform, front and back. Annette held up a doll, wearing the same uniform. “Look at the cuffs,” she said. “They’re piped, just like in the book.” “Impressive.” “Go to two hundred thirty-one.” As I turned the pages, she removed the grenadier’s uniform and put on a cuirassier’s. It too was just like the book. She had even trimmed a lock of hair to make the mane on the cuirassier’s helmet. “You’re talented, Annette.” “Go to one hundred sixty.” We looked at others. She had done most of the imperial army. “What about him?” I said, stopping on a picture of the emperor. “I need white silk.” “Your grenadier has white silk.” “That’s taffeta,” said Annette. “The emperor wouldn’t have worn taffeta.” “I’m sure that we could get you some silk,” I said, “if we tell Mademoiselle Saverne—” “You promised.” “I won’t tell her what it’s for.” “I don’t play with them,” said Annette. * I’d left the letter from Vedastus on the writing table in my room. I read it again, hoping that there was a postscript or nuance I’d missed. There wasn’t. I shoved the letter under my unwritten letter to the bishop and stood up. The room began to spin. I’d been walking in the heat all day, and I still hadn’t eaten. I lay on the bed. I should take off my coat, I knew. I just needed to gather my strength. One minute—no more. I counted out the seconds. When I reached sixty, I was still on the bed.

*** Ryan Napier is the author of Four Stories about the Human Face (Bull City Press). His work has appeared in Columbia Journal, Jacobin, and elsewhere. He lives in Massachusetts and teaches in the Harvard College Writing Program. ryannapier.net 13 June 2025