The Night the Wind Had a Reservation

The wind arrived at the Velvet Lily in a wooden box.

Duke Bartholomew Quackforth IV followed it through the door, walking sideways.

His hat was an arrangement of dark blue silk, silver reeds and one white feather so long that a waiter mistook its tip for a guest waiting to be seated.

Vesper stepped out from beneath it.

‘Your Grace.’

‘A triumph, isn’t it?’

‘The doorway has conceded.’

The duke had engaged her company for supper. He had mentioned the hat. He had not mentioned the duck carrying the box, the second duck carrying a brass tube, or the third carrying a stool.

‘For the feather,’ he explained. ‘It needs movement.’

The first duck opened the box. Inside stood a pair of leather bellows connected to the tube. The second set the tube on a little stand. The third sat down and began working a treadle.

A soft breeze lifted the white feather. It curved above the duke in a languid, magnificent wave.

Vesper watched it.

It was, annoyingly, beautiful.

‘And will all three be dining?’ she asked.

‘Only the wind.’

The duck on the stool stopped pedalling.

The feather collapsed across the duke’s left eye.

‘And its operator,’ the duke added.

The feather rose.

At their table, the apparatus produced exactly the effect intended. Bartholomew looked like a bird in an oil painting whose painter had enjoyed an unusually generous lunch.

Unfortunately, the air did not stop at Bartholomew.

Across the aisle, a lady’s soup developed a current. The parsley travelled steadily toward the far rim. Her companion rotated the bowl to bring it back.

At the next table, Valentino caught a departing napkin before it reached the canal window.

‘Is the weather staying for dessert?’ he asked.

‘I requested a gentle upland breeze,’ said the duke.

‘It has reached the soup.’

The operator lowered the tube.

The duke’s feather sagged. A bread roll began to move.

Vesper intercepted it with a plate.

‘Perhaps the hat could enjoy the evening seated beside you.’

‘Then nobody would see it properly.’

‘Everyone currently has an excellent view.’

From behind the feather came a muffled voice.

‘Not everyone.’

The duke lifted the plume. A small duck at the neighbouring table blinked at him.

‘Ah,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Forgive me.’

He turned his chair. The tube turned with him. The parsley reversed course.

By the second course, the operator had eaten three forkfuls between gusts and was developing a relationship with the soup lady, who timed her spoon to his left foot.

The pianist began a waltz.

For a while, supper and weather managed to coexist. Vesper asked the duke about the hat’s maker. He described a narrow shop, a disastrous first fitting, and a young milliner who had refused to remove the silver reeds.

‘She said it needed something ridiculous.’

‘A fortunate customer.’

He laughed. The feather trembled above him.

‘She meant the whole thing, I suspect.’

Then the operator’s supper arrived.

It was trout. It required both wings and a degree of attention the wind had so far failed to command.

‘A brief interval,’ he announced.

Bartholomew opened his bill to object. Vesper placed the bread basket between them.

‘Your Grace, the weather has been working through dinner.’

The operator removed his foot.

The feather descended into the duke’s wine.

Nobody moved.

A red drop gathered at its tip.

‘Now,’ said Vesper, ‘we have autumn.’

The duke stared at the stain. Then at the trout. Then, with considerable dignity, he took off the hat.

The waiter found a spare stand near the piano. Bartholomew watched the hat being carried away with the expression of a bird whose best remark had just left without him.

Without its breeze, the white plume hung in a sorry curve. The silver reeds lay flat.

‘It really is splendid when it moves,’ he said.

‘I know.’

Vesper looked toward the open canal window. Outside, a boat passed with two red lanterns at its bow. Their reflections lengthened and broke beneath the sill.

She stood.

‘Would you like to see what else it can do?’

They moved the stand beside the window, well clear of the candles. The duke carried the box. Vesper carried the tube. The operator continued eating. Nobody suggested otherwise.

A low electric lamp shone from a shelf behind the hat. When Vesper turned the stand, the silver reeds threw long black lines across the pale wall beside the piano.

Bartholomew worked the treadle.

The white feather lifted.

On the wall, something enormous unfolded.

It had a long neck, six wavering legs and a tail that appeared to be conducting the pianist.

The small duck from the neighbouring table put down his spoon.

‘What is that?’

The duke considered the creature.

‘An extremely rare bird.’

‘It has six legs.’

‘Hence the rarity.’

Vesper tilted one of the silver reeds. The creature bowed.

The pianist repeated a phrase.

Bartholomew pressed the treadle twice. The creature nodded twice.

From her table, the soup lady made a soft, appreciative quack.

Valentino’s guest asked whether they might move closer. They brought their chairs. Two others followed, taking their glasses.

The duke was no longer wearing the hat. Everyone was watching it.

He tried a slow press, then a quick one. The long neck dipped and sprang up. Vesper turned the stand a little, and the creature became a sailing ship with a wildly unreliable mast.

‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew.

He forgot to look at the room.

A waiter crossed the light carrying a spoon. The shadow acquired an enormous bill.

‘Hold that,’ said the small duck.

The waiter held it.

The pianist changed the tune.

The bird sailed. The ship pecked. A passing tray became the moon. When Valentino’s guest raised her lace fan into the light, a forest grew along the wall and the impossible creature wandered through it, stepping over branches that had no business fitting inside the Velvet Lily.

The operator finished his trout and came to see what had become of his employment.

‘You’re pumping too quickly,’ he told the duke.

‘I’m attempting a courtship display.’

‘Then definitely more slowly.’

He showed Bartholomew how to hold the pressure at the bottom of the stroke. The plume floated, nearly still. Its shadow trembled among the lace trees.

For one quiet bar of music, the ridiculous bird looked alive.

Then the waiter needed his spoon back.

Its bill disappeared. The small duck laughed so hard that the forest shook.

They tried a fish knife. It made the creature look disagreeable. They tried two forks. It looked expensive to feed.

By the end of the tune, the duke’s collar was open and his foot was tired. Vesper took a turn at the treadle while he moved the hat. The operator sat down again.

‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘I was hoping to come here socially.’

Later, when the chairs had returned to their tables, Bartholomew examined his hat. The feather was stained, one reed pointed backwards, and a small piece of parsley had found its way into the brim.

‘The milliner will be furious.’

‘Tell her it received an ovation.’

‘She’ll put the price up.’

Vesper returned the hat to its box.

At the door, the duke paused beneath the amber lantern. Without his enormous plume, he fitted comfortably beside her.

‘Do you think I should bring it again?’

‘Ask the pianist.’

He looked back into the room. The small duck was showing the soup lady how to make a tiny bird with the shadow of a folded napkin.

Bartholomew smiled.

‘Next time,’ he said, ‘I shall commission something simpler.’

Vesper waited.

‘Possibly a volcano.’