Under the Poppy Read Online Free

Roxy…. I digress. The true poppy itself, opium, is not on open offer at the Poppy, though one can certainly obtain it there; the majordomo—a rough fellow name of Omar—is familiar with all intoxicants. And the whores, while not especially beautiful, are as skilled as one can reasonably expect, and very fairly priced.
    What most distinguishes this brothel from its lower-caste brethren in town is a certain gaiety of intent and execution. Believing the erotic arts already twin to the theatrical, it marries the two, both onstage and in the private rooms: that is, one may watch, or dally with, an angel or a costumed beast, a mermaid from the sea, King Cophetua’s saucy beggar-maid, the barefoot Little Cora; or, if one has certain stories of one’s own devising, the whores will enact them, though this becomes more costly. Especially if it involves the receiving, or giving, of pain.
    Permit me to digress once more, for it has long been my philosophy that pain is a sadly misunderstood phenomenon. In our lives we flee it by a thousand troubled routes, but does it not find us, always, no matter where we may hide? Its very ubiquity argues for our respect, and a closer scrutiny. Yes, certain grosser pangs, those of hunger or cold, are certainly to be despised, and may be successfully avoided with the application of some little industry.
    But the sterner, more refined, most passionate pangs: do we not reach heights of immediacy, depths of contemplation, eternal instants of, yes, stern bliss, when by those pains we lie tautened to our very limits? And is this not happiness? Submission is the key, but not in a fearful or despairing way, as a broken brute gives over to the club: rather we throw wide the doors of our sanctum sanctorum, not only allowing but inviting the pain to enter, and, by giving such invitation, retain our mastery of self and situation, as well as divining more about both in the process.
    Even so at the Poppy.
    So, when business beckons me here, as it often does in the current and unstable situation, I do not drag my feet, I go willingly: into rooms kept chilly with too little coal, to bloody beef instead of foie gras, bouquets of feathers and prairie rose, the nightly parting of the somewhat shabby velvet curtains by a backwoods D’Oyly Carte, to reveal a mute who plays the piano like Monsieur Chopin himself, and the sensual acrobatics of girls who cannot spell their own names. And there is Omar’s pharmacœpia, of course, and the occasional afternoon concerto coerced from that mute, one forgets his name since he never speaks it, but certainly he could have a fine career were he not so maimed, and were he elsewhere: in Paris they would overlook his silence, or even find it piquant; the French are perverse, after all. And there is conversation, too, with the brittle proprietress, Miss Decca, she who sells every vice while tasting none for herself, and time spent with the Poppy’s owner, Mister Rupert Bok.
    We met last winter, as I was traveling through the area, and found myself benighted by a hopelessly snowbound train and a taxi coachman who seemed to speak no human tongue; instead of pressing on to Archenberg as demanded, he brought me here, where boredom drove me from the first, musty embrace of the Europa Hotel—a third-rate hostel, even by local standards—to seek my evening’s entertainment elsewhere. I saw the swing of the black bloom, I accepted a light from a fur-hatted Omar, and smoked my cigar in the Poppy’s lobby, where the mute’s music beckoned me deeper inside. I recall being charmed by the rude vigor of the show, surprised by the decent tang of the brandy. Miss Decca offered me the bill of fare. And then I met Rupert.
    Rupert—is a unique individual. He could easily move among the great, in the highest circles of society, any society anywhere, such is his natural refinement and innate courtesy. He possesses a rare quickness of mind, a brilliance, really; I do not know his equal, even in