“Trained, qualified, personnel…” said Severian, clapping approvingly. “Since you Tony are the one who has been at the Vatican Library handling medieval manuscripts, I’d say it’s now up to you to decide if we should open the bottle.”
“Well, my superiors have supplied a special box, as you can see. The membrane gloves in the glove compartment cannot be too thick for softness and so as to allow precise manipulation. Whatever is inside the cylinder could be as fragile as the ‘Book of the Dead’ pieces found in some of the Egyptian tombs…”
“…Or the Turin Papyrus…” said Severian, chuckling, and looking in the direction of David, who now turned beet-red.
“Could you please…cut it out?” sighed David.
“Haim!” chuckled Severian.
“Don’t go rummaging in our minds like that, could you?” said Haim annoyed.
“Guess your sex life is wanting, Severian…” joked Tony.
“Yours I’m sure is far more interesting…” Severian hit back, now making Tony blush.
“Gentlemen,” scoffed David, “or should I say children: are we starting to act like adolescents? What is this? I stayed late because my wife and I decided to make up for some lost time. It was hot and steamy. We had champagne. It was lovely. I apologize for my delay and my radio silence. Can we now please move on?”
“Alright. My bad,” admitted Severian. “So, you were saying that whatever is inside the cylinder might be as fragile as an Egyptian papyrus but the gloves cannot be too thick. So…?”
“We have a large argon tank to flush the interior. While the bottle is unopened, the purge is easy. Once opened, some oxygen might enter, permeating across the special rubber the gloves are made of. Inside the box, there are also oxygen scrubbers. Now the scrubbers won’t last forever, and if we intensify the influx of argon too much, to purge and help the scrubbers last longer, the gas flow might as well damage the manuscript. Also, should the manuscript be dusty or, worse, heavily loaded with spores, the scrubber particle filters could get clogged, and become useless sooner than expected. In short, once we open the damn bottle we’d better understand what’s inside. Because, if we don’t, and fumble too much trying to find out, we might irreparably damage these scrolls…” finished Tony, taking a deep breath.
“So, why don’t we take them to the Vatican Library, get an archaeologist or someone like that open the bottle there…Or, instead, take it to some museum, approved by the Vatican, of course…” suggested Haim.
“The Vatican does not officially know any of this exists, does not officially know those swirls exist, is not officially trying to prevent pagans to do whatever is they intend to do to Jewish souls tormented by death in extermination camps, and I officially don’t work for the people I work for, who also do not exist…” mumbled Tony shaking his head.
“I see. We’re all delusional, experiencing an identity crisis. In that case, let’s get on with it,” said David.
“There is,” interjected Severian, very serenely, slightly rocking his hands with both indexes pointing forward, “however, another option…”
“What option…?” said Tony, suddenly emerging from his brief ‘identity crisis’ torpor.
“Freelancers,” replied Severian.
“Freelancers who open nitrogen bottles with mysterious manuscripts, scrolls or whatever these might be…?” doubted Haim. “Could we not open this bottle, photograph what’s in it, and then, study it?”
“Suppose pieces are layered, stuck on top one another, and they break off upon unfurling, like pulling apart baklava; or worse, altogether collapse, and become dust…” speculated Tony, shaking his head.
“Who are those ‘freelancers’ you have in mind, Severian? I suppose if you suggest such a thing, you have already someone in mind…” David asked.
“Some two in mind, actually. Two extremely competent clients of mine…”
“You want a kickback…?” asked Haim, puzzled.
“No, Haim. I am wealthy enough. And they are wealthier than all of us put together. They don’t need the ‘extra buck’—but they surely would love the challenge. Between the two, they have enough expertise to study things from the days of the Sumerians to the Vikings and anything in between. They are also very professional, quite discrete, and love studying any artifact ‘exotic’ enough they can find. Also, they are very loosely attached to museums and history departments, and prefer working for wealthy patrons.
More often than not, financed by three foundations—two of them created by his grandfather, and another started by his father—they take on the strangest missions. He is a brilliant archaeologist, as was his father, and many of their forebearers. She is the daughter of a rather maverick, yet brilliant archaeologist, who, after courting some very well connected people at the summits of present day German archaeology, fell in love with him,” explained Severian.
“And what are the names of those two archaeological wonders?” asked Tony.
“Her name is Sól-Freja von Wotaanborg-Wanzkauer, the daughter of Professor von Wotaanborg. Her fiancé’s name is Siegfried-Maximilian Augustus de Foehn-de Groslac,” said Severian, a playful smirk in his face, like someone who’s expecting the listeners to be uneasy, if not altogether shocked or angered after hearing someone’s name.
“This is quite something,” spat David. “You said over and over again that your are on your side. We are swimming in an ocean of Wotanists. Even our friend, the surfer-dude, is a fake ‘Yaron’, whose real name is Heinrich—like the Saxon king who conquered the Slavs on the tenth century, Himmler’s idol. His handler even had a Volknut in his key chain. We were almost raped by who knows who, people we don’t know whether just kinky Wotanists or just rapey, but can take your word they were…how did you call them? Ah, yes: freelancers!
Then you found those other pagans who were having an orgy for the ages, and got me to go give them pizza supposedly laced with something to make them suffer more pain and avenge Philippe. Granted, I saw lots of Nazi paraphernalia there; but I don’t know who was inside that place. We only know that after you and your friend Mircea—or his twin—went there, there was carnage, and some of those people, the police eventually suggested might have something to do with neo-Nazis.
After all this bloody rigmarole, we eventually found this Endre guy. You took Haim to his place; and then some people arrived, and you butchered them dead, hence winning Itzák’s son’s trust—and so, getting the big prize: our message in a bottle.
It might seem, the way Father Lajos was killed in Budapest wasn’t very different from the way our attackers in Bucharest, or the partying neo-Nazis in Paris, or the people that dropped in on the penthouse in Palos Verdes, met their end.
And now, after all this odyssey, when we have to find out what this message in a bottle all means, you suggest two new ‘freelancers’, who just by accident are called Freja and Siegfried, very suggestive Germanic family names? Why not Freja and Odin, since we are at it?” ranted David, only at the very end of it realizing he indeed had had too much champagne—and fearing, after figuratively losing his head, he might now lose it for real.
A long, uncomfortable, deathlike silence followed David’s outburst, broken only by the increasingly irritating hiss of the argon purge.
Tony turned the purge off. Sullen and, at the same time, afraid, David let himself drop on a nearby couch. Haim fiddled with his lips, playing with them as if imaginary strings stretched over them, turning his mouth into a balalaika of sorts. Tony kept holding the argon purge actuator and shaking his head, his face a frowning mask of incredulity—the reason for it, still quite unclear.
During the entire tirade, Severian had listened impassibly, softly pressing the side of his half-open fist against his lips. During much of David’s rather accusatory and inelegant tirade, Haim had noticed Severian’s fangs come out. Nonetheless, he had also watched him, with obvious relief, managing to slowly get them to retract.
“It is quite useful,” Severian began, erecting his
index, “that you, finally, let all your misgivings out. And no, it wasn’t too much champagne today and yesterday that loosened your tongue: I purposefully removed your inhibitions, so you could let it all out. And no, I’m not going to lop your head off—precisely because, for one, you are just a human; and, also, because I played an enabling role on your tirade.
Now, how is this helpful?
It is useful, in the sense that, for now, we had been quite lucky. People like Father Lajos could have been—probably were—killed by another undead. We are not totally convinced that it was ‘one of ours’.
For one, we, vampires, are quite tribal as well. We form “Covens” like witches, not “dens” like lycans—werewolves; some, hostile to totalitarian extermination; others, ‘elated’—one of Eichmann’s favorite words—when human herds are corralled, hence made an even easier prey—like safe safari places where humans just go shoot birds made flightless, declawed lions, and such handicapped prey, from armored vehicles, inside fenced enclosures, to show their bravery and self-worth.
Some of us object to that sort of predation—although, these days, I freely admit, would be far easier to join the leisurely group.
But, after almost six hundred years, I respect the hunt. Respect is healthy. That is why I also respect humans with enough cojones to defy a beast that could rip them like a straw doll, with a careless swing of its claws.
And I also respect your misgivings about poorly chosen friends.
It is true, during the earlier days of the III Reich (of course, no comparison with the Judenräte) but there were many Jews who thought Nazis were their allies, if not their friends—allies who would help them fight the Arabs, so they could go colonize Palestine—if for no other reason, because they wanted your ‘Biblical people’ out of Germany.
To make room for a farm to train young Jews in farming—so they could become colonists in Palestine—Eichmann went as far as kicking out a convent of nuns. And, indeed, he forbade the desecration of Herzl’s tomb in Vienna in 1939. Since he looked dark, and his entire life many called him “Jew”, and he even studied Herzl’s writings, one could understand how effective his deception was.
When he decided he wanted to get more immersed in Judaism, Reinhard Heydrich had to tell him there was no logic in doing that. But then, one day in 1939, with the borders closed because of war, and the need to make Germany “Judenrein”, after supposedly trying mass slow deaths at the swamps near Radom in Poland and such—and failing—Eichmann very efficiently made possible to cart hundreds of thousands of Jews in trains, helped Einsatzgruppen gas them in movable gas chambers, went as far as suggesting to shoot them if there was no other method. Now, that’s what friends are for, isn’t it?” snarled Severian; and before David or Haim could say anything, he kept going, full steam ahead: “The III Reich was like a collection of insatiable vampires, each group of bureaucrats awash in blood and in lies, for different reasons, all willing and rivaling in efficacy, ready to execute whatever madness Hitler might conjure up. Such was not an ideal environment to cultivate friendships: any of them, who might relent on the orders of the Führer, would be denounced, and eventually cannibalized by the others—survival of the sneakiest.
You know that story all too well not experience some sort of déjà-vus nowadays.
But our situation is vastly different: many of my clients are wealthy Jews. Some are very nervous about this rebuilding of a Fourth Reich. Their wealth keeps me wealthy. Some are almost friends, even though I scrupulously try not to mix business and friendships—otherwise, when things go wrong, one tends to lose both. Then there is my personal preference for hunting only criminals—never in short supply—preferably free range, organically fed and locally sourced.
There are even more reasons for you to be apprehensive about my experts: the family claims ancestry all the way to Theodosius II, the very same very anti-Semitic Byzantine emperor who built the walls of Constantinople and wrote the ‘Codex Theodosianus’. Consider that piece of free information a gesture of good will.
To further allay your fears, I will tell one more thing: during the war, there was someone I fell madly in love with, a long agony, something even now painful to admit and to remember. You don’t casually give your love to someone you positively know you’re not only going to survive, but to also see wilt, age, get sick, crumble—like an Egyptian papyrus left by some sloppy handler in a humid atmosphere with 20% oxygen.
But I once did.
We had discussed the matter thoroughly. Over three months we had hesitated. I was going to make him my blood child, turn him into a vampire. So, he went to see his mother, to bid her au revoir, one last time. It was dangerous. He was a member of the Résistance. All the same, he wanted to spend one last day with his mother, the very day when, after sunset, I was going to make him my blood child. But, someone—one his ‘friends, who wasn’t a friend after all—denounced him. His mother, whom I visited that night when he did not show up to our rendezvous, had wept all evening, unable to understand why her son had screamed my name as they dragged him away, tortured and beat him at the interrogation post, and finally shot him dead at the police station, when he made a final, supreme effort, to try to escape. So I went to that station and, in a fit of rage, butchered everyone inside, everyone, innocent bystanders as well. Not happy with the result, I then went to the Kommandantur, and massacred everyone there; and then, went to the barracks of the foot soldiers, and left a Dantesque scene, doors blocked by piles of strewn body parts, imbibed in a sponge of blood and ripped innards—a blockade that came down and was discovered only when one of those doors was destroyed with an axe to allow another regiment’s entry.
Massacring them felt pointless. The emptiness was there, and had remained intact since—but at least the rage was momentarily appeased.
To make matters worse, appeasing my rage caused horrible reprisals: people in the town were shot, raped, tortured with rats, boiled alive, electrocuted for a few more months. This kept happening until, one day, tired of this horror, someone got to the stockpiled weapons, and blew the entire remaining force, and most of the town, to pieces. The idea was Mircea’s—and it worked. Guess they decided another reprisal wasn’t worth it. Also, by then, they clearly had started losing the war. Soon after that, Paris was liberated.
So, to put it succinctly: no, I am not suggesting we put two Wotanist spies in charge of this most delicate job. And I am not infiltrating our group. And I’m not doing this for the money either.
Siegfried’s mother is a very, very devout Catholic, who also lost people she loved to “les Boches”—even though she married and fell in love with a Franco-German nobleman, who narrowly escaped being killed for having relatives involved in the Operation Walküre, the attempted assassination of Hitler. And Sól’s father is a devout Lutheran, but her maternal grandmother is Jewish—so she, technically speaking, is Jewish too. Those additional references are, also, just for your peace of mind.
Aside from being fluent in Hebrew, Aramaic, Syrian, Armenian, Turkish, Arabic, Latin, Greek, ancient Egyptian and what not, plus all languages of the European Union—minus four or five, I believe—what makes them really invaluable, is that, for example, Sól is one of very few people who can read cuneiforms in a number of languages, even when the scribe who created those cuneiforms was dyslexic. Both are archaeologists, both excellent in their domains of expertise. Also, I have worked with the parents of both of them, and—though less—with both of them as well. So far, also, they have never taken from me one gold coin more than initially agreed—never, not one, ever.”
“So, what do you think, Father Antonio?” asked Haim.
“It’s not what I think, Rabbi Haim, since we’re on a funny first name basis now. It’s the reason why I didn’t want to get into that building in Long Beach. We protect people who have helped us recover things, valuable things. Someone in that building helped us recover a few priceless objects, stolen by the Nazis during the Second World War. At the same time, that perso
n has seemingly ‘kept souvenirs’—at first, unbeknownst to us. We agreed with our helper not spy on her—and that includes not hacking anything in ‘her’ building. That deal is now gone overboard, and the Titanic has sailed over it and met the iceberg.
Worse, one of your two antiquities luminaries’ father, and his French countess mother, during a lovely gala, carried out a perfect heist of one of those misbegotten ‘souvenirs’, a ‘souvenir’ that is probably hidden somewhere in the vaults of a Swiss bank—or, even more complicated, if that were possible, at one of their two châteaux, in France.
Even though my superiors and the Order don’t exist, our esteemed, nonexistent, helper has asked us to discretely ‘recover’ that particular ‘souvenir’. My bosses have flat-out refused, on the basis that, one thing is being protective of our ‘esteemed helpers’—which might yet help us recover other precious artifacts, transiting the dark corridors of plundered artwork—and, a very different one, would be helping them steal back what they already had stolen from us, and then was stolen from them, by a now deceased thief and his very well connected French countess widow.
Since we are ‘almost’ Pope-independent, we cannot change stance whenever we want. Hence, given that tangled web I just briefly described, were we now to ‘hire’ Siegfried and Sól—sounds like tiger tamers, doesn’t it? —the whole operation would have to be done in perfect secrecy; and the Order, never be, even tangentially, implicated as their ‘sponsor’.
Now, our ‘esteemed helper’ has also very long tentacles, extending all over the dark web: She’s said to have ‘eyes like flies, in every palace and toilet under the skies’. When she finds out—not if—she, of course, will express ‘no hard feelings’, because she needs our ‘assistance’ to stay alive. But, from then on, we can kiss our chances of getting her help to recover anything else goodbye,” sighed Tony.
“Well, well, well…A few days ago I was a simple rabbi, baking burekas, working hard to make my home and my congregation’s temple as green as possible, as progressive as possible, as respected—and respectful—as possible. Now I’m consorting with vampires who disembowel neo-Nazis, and priests that give mafia-style protection to grand-larcenists who stole from Nazis. I used to have a friend, also a member of my congregation, also a fellow recruit at IDF, who later in life was just a weather geek, in love with blintzes too much, married to both Earth’s weather and his wife, constantly worried about which of the two would abandon him first. Now, I have dragged him into the criminal underworld, and made him accessory to mass murder. Eloha! I even have put my modest synagogue in danger of being blown up by these criminals. I am a true master, a really good leader, a true example for my congre-gashon. I definitely have to put that in my memoirs!” said Haim, burying his face in his hands, and sighing as if he had three lungs.
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