The Pleasure Merchant

  “Tanzer’s first novel is a splendid page-turner of a Weird West adventure [...] This hugely entertaining mixture of American steampunk and ghost story is a wonderful yarn with some of the best dialogue around.”

  —PUBLISHERS WEEKLY on Vermilion

  “Old West steampunk has another appealing heroine in Lou (pair her with the equally winsome female lead of Elizabeth Bear’s Karen Memory) to go along with the delightfully over-the-top villains. The pages turn themselves in this debut novel from a small press that deserves a big audience.”

  —LIBRARY JOURNAL on Vermilion

  “Lou is one of the most delightful and charismatic fictional creations in recent memory. Her compelling blend of world-weary wryness and wide-eyed vulnerability makes for some firecracker dialogue, but it also reflects Tanzer’s kaleidoscopic view of the Old West, a place that’s far more dazzling and diverse than most history books have led us to believe. ... Vermilion is a unique, hearty, thought-provoking romp that rewrites history with a vivacious flourish.”

  —NPR on Vermilion

  “All too infrequently do I encounter a new voice as delightful, compelling, and intelligent as that of Molly Tanzer. Or, for that matter, an author with such a range. But here, in A Pretty Mouth, is that shining gem that keeps me sorting through the rubble. If this is only the beginning of her work, I can hardly wait to see where she’s headed!”

  —CAITLIN R. KIERNAN on A Pretty Mouth

  “A Pretty Mouth is a fine and stylish collection that pays homage to the tradition of the weird while blazing its own sinister mark. Tanzer’s debut is as sharp and polished as any I’ve seen.”

  —LAIRD BARRON on A Pretty Mouth

  “If Hieronymus Bosch and William Hogarth had together designed a Fabergé egg, the final result could not be more beautifully and deliciously perverse than what awaits the readers of A Pretty Mouth. Molly Tanzer’s first novel is a witty history of the centuries-long exploits of one joyfully corrupt Calipash dynasty, a family both cursed and elevated by darkness of the most squamous sort. This is a sly and sparkling jewel of a book, and I can’t recommend it enough—get A Pretty Mouth in your hands or tentacles, post-haste, and prepare to be shocked, charmed, and (somewhat moistly) entertained!”

  —LIVIA LLEWELLYN on A Pretty Mouth

  “Molly Tanzer is a prose Edward Gorey, decadent, delicious, and ever so slightly mad.”

  —NATHAN LONG on A Pretty Mouth

  Lazy Fascist Press

  PO Box 10065

  Portland, OR 97296

  www.lazyfascistpress.com

  ISBN: 978-1-62105-194-7

  Copyright © 2015 by Molly Tanzer

  Cover Copyright © 2015 by Matthew Revert

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written consent of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  All persons in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance that may seem to exist to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction.

  Printed in the USA.

  For Sabrina,

  and for Lucretia,

  and all disappointing Galateas

  I have a story to tell you.

  It is not a love story, but there is love in it. True love, even.

  Neither is it a revenge tale, though it contains plenty of that, too.

  It is a story about pleasure.

  Everyone thinks something different when they think of pleasure.

  Most people immediately consider the carnal—‘pleasures of the flesh.’ They imagine bodies pressed against bodies, wriggling or pumping, diddling or caressing, moaning and releasing. Shuddering, trembling encounters, be they sweet or savage, between two lovers in the secret darkness of a boudoir, or shared among many, before onlookers, in a brilliant ballroom, a shadowed schoolroom, a candlelit church… or some place yet more scandalous.

  Others, when they think of pleasure contemplate a table, laden—no, groaning under the weight of every delicacy. Fruits from all seasons, meats from every creature, spices from the East or from the Indies, sugared treats, piping hot teas from Formosa, coffee from the Americas, the tenderest vegetables, the rarest cheeses; the flakiest pastries and the richest gravies.

  Some think of revenge. It is a dark pleasure, yes, but a pleasure nonetheless. That most loathed of rivals—how hated are her success; how despised, his triumphs! What many would give to see someone brought low before all and sundry, kneeling, red-faced and humiliated, tears running down a running nose, furious but sorrowful, embarrassed but impotent…

  Others still think of freedom. Freedom to, sometimes; other times, freedom from.

  If there is one thing I know well—intimately, even—it is pleasure. It is my trade, as it has been since I was very young indeed. I have made a fortune selling people their pleasure, as my master promised I would—it is how he made his fortune, and his mistress, too. There is money to be made in pleasure, something any courtesan, chef, or crook knows quite well—money to be made in the procurement or someone’s pleasure, and money to be made in keeping the secret of what that person’s pleasure turns out to be.

  When one deals in pleasure, one must also deal in the reverse. In pain, in sorrow; in anguish, misery, and despair. I confess I know all of those sensations intimately, as well.

  You only truly know a man when you know his pleasure.

  That is what my master told me when I decided to become his apprentice, and my extensive experience has proven this statement true. When you know a man’s pleasure, you hold him in the palm of your hand. You know his truest self—his darkest secret and his brightest dream. You have a power over him… which is why my master and I enjoyed safety and security, along with our wealth.

  Violate our contract at your peril. Never ours.

  But even truer is something my master never said, which accounts for its lack of pithiness (I have exceeded him in various ways, but never in producing bons mots):

  Sometimes, a man only thinks he knows what his pleasure is. And when you know not what a man believes his pleasure to be, but what it truly is, well… then you know him better than he knows himself.

  Ah, but I promised you a story, not pages of rambling, oblique speculation. It is just, now that I have resolved to write down this story, I don’t quite know where to begin. I have kept so many secrets for so long—lived a secret life for so many years. It is overwhelming to sit here, putting quill to parchment, to tell, well… any of it.

  There is no way to do this without betraying many people, all of whom trusted me. But my master, the only person whom I can say with certainty I have never betrayed, is dead. No harm can come to him. And anyone who recognizes themselves in these pages would do worse damage to their reputation by protesting their depiction—to come forward would only serve to confirm any suspicions that might potentially be aroused.

  And yet, I possess such a volume of information about the entire affair that I know not how I shall organize it all into a compelling narrative. Life is not a story. It must be shaped for the page—which is why, in the end, this effort of mine will likely be accused of beggaring belief, possessing as it does similar motifs to popular novels of the day.

  But my story, unlike said novels, has the benefit of being true.

  Having said all this, it is time to begin in earnest. And I shall begin… in a wig shop.

  It was the peak of that year’s season and the entertainments were so constant it seemed at times there was more to be enjoyed than people to enjoy it all. Among the delights to be taken in, Artaxerxes was drawing tears from every eye at Coven
t Garden, and David Garrick was still playing Jaffer in Venice Preserved at Drury Lane. Ranelagh Gardens were pleasant enough, in spite of the cold, and on the Strand there was a dancing pig, and a chained giant who would snap whole logs in half, hurl boulders out into the Thames, and drink any man under the table who dared challenge him. Bethlehem Hospital was not wanting for inmates, nor parties for society; the clubs were all packed with gentlemen, and young ladies in London for their first season were popping up everywhere like early roses, their new swains buzzing about them like eager bees.

  Even with so much to occupy the crowds, there was one soirée that stood out among all the rest; if half the rumors proved true, it would be the affair of the century. Lord Chandoss’s imminent fancy-dress party was discussed daily in parlors and bedrooms, courtyards and mews, and everywhere else you might imagine. Every tailor, draper, milliner, and costumier was completely booked up until the day of the grand event. Those who waited too long or were of lesser means had to sew or embroider anything that was wanted—and out of whatever they had on hand, for nothing of worth could be purchased in shops, not a scrap of lace nor a nicely-trimmed feather. It seemed that everything had been bought by those with invitations for a wild night spent among highwaymen and angels, harem girls and savage devils, pirates, bacchantes, knights, caesars, bards and queens.

  Busier than usual, too, were the wig-shops—shops such as Dray’s, a small but exclusive barber-cum-wiggery in St. Martin’s Lane. Dray’s had received so many orders that Tom, Mr. Dray’s almost-nephew and journeyman apprentice, wondered at the sheer volume of hair they had lying about. Given the trade at the back door of the shop, he was convinced none of the prostitutes in St. James, St. Giles, or Marylebone could possibly be wearing their own hair; it wasn’t only Dray’s paying three times the usual rate for locks of any quality and any color. Add to that all the women who were a few inches short of making ends meet and you had yourself a city of bald-headed females, all for the sake of one night.

  The wig upon which Tom currently labored was, at least in terms of volume, the grandest of the recent orders. Mr. Robert Mauntell was attending Lord Chandoss’s party as John Wilmot, 2nd Earl of Rochester, and Wilmot had certainly been a bigwig in his day. Thrilled to be in charge of such a grand commission, Tom had spent hours in the back room of the shop, painstakingly dying every luscious lock a shade of winsome oak-brown before curling them with hot irons. The finished ringlets he had affixed with the special proprietary serum designed by Mr. Dray to help hair keep its shape. It also made the whole affair shine and glimmer—under candlelight, it would be spectacular.

  That morning, Tom was dusting the curls with scented powder. He was alone in the shop; Mr. Dray, Mrs. Dray, and their daughter Hizziah were still upstairs, enjoying their breakfast, but Tom didn’t mind working while they lingered over their rolls and tea. He liked being alone in the shop. It meant he could talk to his wigs.

  “You’re a beauty,” he said. “You look soft as a kitten and natural as mother’s milk. What a shame you’ll be worn once and discarded. Taken off halfway through the night, given your weight, I’d wager. A few hours gracing the head of Mr. Mauntell and pouf! You’ll be torn off and tossed on the back of a…”

  A knock at the front door startled him, for it was early yet. Dusting off his hands and hanging up his apron, he hurried to the front of the shop. A youth in a wide-skirted coat and a tricorn hovered in the street, craning his neck to try to see in past the glare of the shop-window. Tom hoped it was someone coming by to check on a current order instead of another last-minute party guest trying to squeeze in a request; yesterday, Mr. Dray had said they must turn away any new clients needing work done before Saturday. The responses of those who had called afterwards ranged from disappointed to irate.

  As he reached the door the youth knocked again.

  “Just a moment,” called Tom as he unlocked the door; opening it, he bowed. “Welcome to Dray’s. How may I be of help?”

  “Shockingly enough, I need a wig.” The boy winked at him as he swept off his hat; he was as cheerful and smiling and handsome a fellow as Tom had ever seen in his life. “I do hope that’s all right? Ah, but how rude of me—I am Callow Bewit. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “The pleasure is mine, Master Callow,” said Tom, for he reckoned the boy at ages with him, around sixteen—though it was hard to tell, with all that powder and rouge. “My name is Tom. I’m Mr. Dray’s apprentice.”

  “Very good. Well! About this wig—you make all kinds?”

  “Yes, we do… but Master Callow, if I might ask… how soon would you need this wig?” Better to let him down quickly, if he wanted something for Lord Chandoss’s ball.

  “Saturday. Is that a problem?”

  Tom winced. “I’m very sorry, but I’m afraid we’re not able to accommodate any more commissions at this time.”

  “Damn.” Callow sucked his teeth and leaned on his stick. “That’s what I get for waiting until the last minute. And it was such a good idea for a costume…”

  “What are you going as?” Tom had been cataloguing all the different customer’s notions.

  “A woman.”

  “What?” Tom knew his tone was impertinent, but he was just so surprised. “Really?”

  Master Callow pursed his lips together, making them appear fuller, as he raised his shoulder coquettishly. “With some false bubbies it should look all right. I think I can pull it off—don’t you?”

  “Well…”

  “Come on—tell me honest.”

  Tom chuckled. “I fear you have me at a disadvantage, Master Callow, for I do not know whether it would be more polite to agree or disagree.”

  Callow laughed merrily. “I see! Ah, it doesn’t really matter, I suppose, it will make people laugh either way. Oh, if only I hadn’t forgotten about the wig! I have everything else at hand, even the bubbies. The dress is so lovely, it would have been sensational… but I can’t go wearing my own hair. It’s too short.”

  A quick inspection of Callow’s waving chestnut locks inspired Tom. “Actually, perhaps we can help you, Master Callow…”

  “Oh?”

  “Most ladies don’t wear wigs,” he said. “They just wear locks of false hair dressed into their own, lightly powdered to make it all the same color.”

  “I say, really?” Callow looked impressed. “I’d no idea.”

  “In France, women will often wear full wigs, but that style is a bit too European for most English girls of good breeding and taste. False locks create the illusion of fullness without being so vulgar.”

  “Clever creatures, aren’t they—the fairer sex, I mean? They’d dupe us all with their wiles… if it weren’t for the honest tradesmen willing to betray their secrets.”

  “Too true, sir! But, I mention this because a lady just yesterday returned three pieces. She overbought, and knew we were wanting for hair. Mr. Dray hasn’t decided what to use them for as they’re of a distinctive shade, but it’s not too far off from your own. If you bought a bit of… let’s say, pink-tinted wig-powder, it should do you all right for a fancy-dress party if you’ve a lady’s maid to pin it all for you.”

  “I do; my aunt’s,” said Callow thoughtfully. “She’d agreed to cinch my corset-strings and whatever else, so surely she can help with my hair. Yes, that’s just the thing! I’ll take the hair and the powder both. Thank you very much—you’ve saved me!”

  “You are most welcome, I’m glad we could help. Excuse me a moment, and I’ll fetch them for you.” With a bow, Tom repaired to the back room. Retrieving the locks from the shelf where the thick braids sat coiled like serpents, he swaddled them in tissue, tied it all with a ribbon, and then wrapped the parcel and the wig-powder together in brown paper, tying it with twine.

  “I say. Look at the size of that wig!”

  Master Callow had followed him; he was peeking into the workroom and staring at the massive hairpiece on the stand. Tom opened his mouth to request that he leave—cust
omers were not typically allowed in the back room—but bit off his protest, afraid of seeming rude.

  “Is the owner going as Charles the Second?”

  “No, John Wilmot,” said Tom absently as he tied the knot on the parcel. “Mr. Maun—ah, the gentleman’s tastes run to the poetic rather than the political. But, I say, would you mind not…” Callow was thoughtfully fingering one of the perfect curls he’d been laboring over, and it took all Tom’s willpower not to strike the boy’s soft hand away from it. The nerve! Even though he could see no harm had been done, it annoyed Tom that the young scoundrel had put his hands on it in the first place.

  “I beg your pardon!” Callow dropped it and raised his hands, backing away slowly, making a show of it. “Well, it’s a very fine piece; I imagine it will cost him a pretty penny. Speaking of which, how much will my odds and ends be?”

  “The hairpieces? Altogether, ten guineas, with the powder.”

  “Ten guineas? I bought myself a decent enough wig for seven pounds just last month!”

  “Hair is very dear right now…”

  Master Callow sighed. “I suppose it serves me right. Well… I only have five on me…”

  “Does Mr. Bewit have an account here?”

  “I expect we’ll open one as you’ve been so kind in my time of need. Will five be enough to…”

  Tom hesitated. Mr. Dray did not like to extend credit to strangers, but neither would he want Tom to refuse service to gentlefolk. “Of course, Master Callow.”

  “Good, good.”

  Tom thought the lad was reaching for his coin purse, but instead he withdrew a fine pocket watch. It was silver, with a rose inlaid in what looked like carnelian and jade. Callow checked the time.

  “How nice, I’ll be early for my next appointment,” he said, sounding most satisfied. He noticed Tom looking at the watch. “Pretty little thing, isn’t it? It was made in Versailles, for my mother.”