by Kelly Link
Goce drives in for lunch, in his tan military truck he claims is only for official use. You found your hikers? Goran waves off the question and sits Goce and himself at a new table. He outlines his idea for Goce, you see the tourists when they stop up there, and you think they would come here for a day, an excursion, a break from driving?
I don’t know, Goce says, most of them are on their way to Sveti Bigorski. And it’s not so many as you think, Goran, mostly it’s locals.
Goran drums his fingers on the plastic table cover and looks out at the church. Maybe the bell tower is standing higher now, the water beginning to drop. Hardly an evening thunderstorm this summer. Have you seen them today? Your aunt?
Up by the road when I drove in, says Goce. Just standing there.
What do you think they see?
They just want to see the traffic, I think. Goce lights a cigarette and offers one to Goran. It’s interesting for them, don’t you think?
Maybe, he answers. He wonders if the children see them as they are; or do they just see them as flashes of motion, something they can never quite capture from the corner of an eye? I have to go, he says, dropping bills on the table. Goce shrugs and moves to the other table.
Goran stands by the lake a moment, watching out at the church, water sifting from the pebbles beneath his boots. He cannot swim but for a moment is captured by the idea of floating out on the still water, mask on his face. He could see his old house, maybe, just as it was, or a cluster of lake weeds. Or nothing, just black. He whistles for Metchka to follow him and they walk up through the village, past the store where Lidija buys their rice and milk and eggs, past Goce’s house with its metal gate swinging in the breeze. He walks up and down, tracing the side streets and drifting to the top of the village, a single house that has stood empty for years now but fills with tourists in the winter. Chickens wander loose in their yards and two dull brown dogs nap in the sun of the street, and in one yard a boy and a girl throw a ball hard as they can, trying to freeze each other. There are lights, there is sound. There is smell. Goran feels for a moment that he could gaze down on it all, a village shot through with weeds and roofs drawn off and carried to their third house kilometers away, or a village of complete and perfect homes and some memory of himself roaming the streets, waiting always for someone to come and rediscover him. But then he reaches down to pet Metchka, and it is just a street as it has always been, a dirt street with tire tracks rutted down its middle, empty chips bags caught in the grass at its edge, his neighbor, an old friend of his parents, yelling at him to come for a coffee and has she heard right, there is a baby on the way.
René Descartes and the Cross of Blood
James L. Cambias
Title Card: Paris, 1622
Interior: a dark attic room in 17th-century Paris, crowded with books and alchemical apparatus. We see purple twilight through the shutters. There’s a knock on the door. No answer. Another knock, louder. Still nothing.
Finally the door opens, but it’s just as dark in the hall so all we see is the silhouette of a man with a big hat, wrapped up in a black cloak shiny with rain. He calls out, “Monsieur Pfau?” Still no answer.
The man moves carefully through the dark room to the fireplace, stoops, and reaches for the basket of kindling. Closeup as his hand touches a big rolled-up sheet of paper. He starts to pull it out, then puts it aside and grabs some straw instead. He lights the straw from the coals in the fireplace, then stands up with it blazing in his hand. As he lights a candle we see his face. It’s RENÉ DESCARTES. Cue the famous theme music by Ennio Morricone, quiet and slow.
Descartes looks around, sees something. He kneels. On the floor by the messy bed there’s a body. Musical sting. A man in a pool of drying blood. Descartes touches him gently. “Pfau?” He picks up a cast-lead figure of a ram. It’s bent out of shape and one side of it is bloody. Descartes puts it down again.
He stands and looks around. There’s something draped over the back of a chair. He holds it up in front of him and we see that it’s a black hooded robe, like a monk’s habit. Descartes gazes into the empty face of the hood for a moment, then puts it down. Closeup on the bottom hem, which is streaked with white chalk dust.
He moves back to the fireplace and picks up the paper again. It’s a broadsheet on heavy paper, and he spreads it out on the desk. Descartes bends over and reads, holding the candle to one side so it won’t drip on the paper. Over his shoulder we can see what’s printed on the page, as we hear a lone violin playing an ominous new theme.
WE, the deputies of the
COLLEGE of the ROSY CROSS,
now sojourning, visible and invisible, in this town, advise all those who seek entrance into Our society to become initiated into the knowledge of the MOST HIGH, in whose cause We are at this day assembled, and We will transform them from visible beings into invisible, and they shall be transported into every foreign country to which their desire may lead them. BUT, to arrive at the knowledge of these marvels, We warn the reader that We can DIVINE HIS THOUGHTS, that if mere curiosity should prompt the wish to see Us, he will never communicate with Us, but if an earnest determination to inscribe himself on the register of Our confraternity should actuate him, We will make manifest to such an one the truth of our promises, since simple thought, joined to the determined will of the reader, will be sufficient to make Us known to him, and reveal him to Us.
Descartes studies it for a while and straightens up again. His expression is amused, then gets hard. He glances again at Pfau before taking a little book out of his doublet. “I came to return this.” He looks at it. “I don’t suppose it will do you any good now.” He hefts the book, puts it on a stack of others by the desk. “It was very instructive. I would have enjoyed discussing it with you over a pipe and a bottle of wine. Adieu, Monsieur Pfau.” He blows out the candle and goes out.
Exterior: later that night, at the Palais de Justice. It’s raining. Descartes comes out, arguing with an officer of the city watch, Captain LEBOEUF.
“Nothing was taken, so we cannot trace the killer that way,” says the Captain. “Nobody at the house saw anything. He stayed at the Sign of the Two Brothers tavern until midnight last night, and that’s the last time anyone saw him.”
“Except the man who murdered him.”
“Unless that gentleman is good enough to come confess his crime, there is no way we can find him.”
“You can’t simply ignore what has been done—Pfau is dead!”
LeBoeuf looks sympathetic. “He was a good friend of yours, Monsieur?”
“A friend?” Descartes thinks for a moment. “Not really. I met him years ago, in Prague.”
(Descartes continues in voiceover as we see sepia-tinted flashbacks of the Battle of the White Mountain and Imperial troops marching into Prague. Tragic military music.) “I was with the Duke of Bavaria’s army when the city fell. Some soldiers found his alchemical laboratory and were preparing to hang him as a wizard. I intervened.” (Sepia shot of Pfau struggling with a noose around his neck as three soldiers haul on the rope. One of them pauses and looks alarmed, and we pull back to reveal Descartes holding a pistol to the back of the soldier’s head.)
Cut back to Descartes and LeBoeuf talking in the rain. “We had several conversations about alchemical science, and he lent me a volume of Basil Valentine before the Duke’s army left Bohemia—The Triumphal Chariot of Antimony. That’s the book I was returning earlier this evening when I found him.”
“If you hardly know the man, why do you care so much about finding his killer?”
“His murder offends me. He was a wise man, an educated man. Now all his knowledge is lost to the world. And since no one else seems to care, I take it as my own duty.” Descartes raises a forefinger. “Let us apply logic, Monsieur LeBoeuf. The killer did not steal from poor Pfau, therefore he must have had some other reason for murdering him. Find the reason and you find the man.”
LeBoeuf just shrugs. “A reason to kill him? I can think of a hundred—and I’ve seen any number of murders done for no reason at all, Monsieur.”
Descartes shakes his head irritably. “All actions have a cause. What about that proclamation? Surely that suggests something?”
“Proclamation?” LeBoeuf looks Descartes straight in the face as the ominous violin theme returns. “I saw no proclamation in Pfau’s room,
Monsieur—and neither did you.”
“But I—”
“There was no proclamation, Monsieur. That is what my superiors have told me, and it would be foolish for you to claim otherwise. Understand? Monsieur Pfau was killed by some common brigand, and that is the end of the matter.”
Furious, Descartes pulls his hat down to shelter his face from the rain and splashes away into the darkness.
Exterior: later still. It’s still raining, but now there’s wind, and somewhere a clock chimes midnight. Descartes sees a tavern sign swinging in the breeze. It reads “Les Deux Frères,” and there’s a much-weathered painting of Cain clubbing Abel.
A gust blows just as Descartes goes into the tavern. All the candles flicker, and half a dozen people look at him. He coughs uncontrollably as he makes his way to a seat by the fireplace.
The tavern is a quiet, collegiate kind of place. A well-stuffed bookcase stands by one wall, and a couple of customers are playing chess. A tired-looking serving-maid, JEANNE, comes over to Descartes, and he asks for cider. Then, more loudly, he asks her “Have you heard about poor Monsieur Pfau?”
“No,” she says, not really interested. She just wants to get his cider and maybe catch some sleep.
“He’s dead,” says Descartes.
Jeanne looks up, shocked, and crosses herself. “God rest him,” she says. “What did he die of?”
“I don’t know why he died,” says Descartes.
“It’s terribly sad,” she says. “Still, my master will be pleased.” She nods her head sideways at the tavern-keeper, a thin, scholarly-looking guy dozing by the wine kegs at the back of the room.
“Pleased that he is dead?”
“Oh, no, Monsieur—I didn’t mean that. I mean he will be pleased that Monsieur Pfau paid his account in full just a couple of days ago. It’s always so hard to collect when someone dies.”
Descartes picks up the iron fireplace poker and stirs the coals. “It would have been better if he had died owing money. Then at least someone would miss him.”
Jeanne goes off to fetch his cider. Descartes closes his eyes.
“Did I understand you to say Monsieur Pfau has died?” says a voice, startling Descartes awake again. It’s CLOVIS MARIN, a beefy bald man who never seems to blink. He sits down across from Descartes.
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“He was a learned man. It is a great tragedy.” The two of them shake their heads over it, then Marin continues. “Pardon me for asking, Monsieur, but is it true you are recently returned from the wars in Germany?”
“For now,” says Descartes. He’s already starting to look bored.
“And you are said to be a gentleman of great learning yourself. Tell me: in Germany did you hear anything of the invisible Order of the Rosicrucians?”
Descartes looks sharply at him for an instant, then tries to act casual. “The fellows from that proclamation a few days ago?”
“Exactly. Have you seen it?” Marin takes out a folded copy of the proclamation we saw in Pfau’s room. The lone violin theme sounds again as he opens it. We can see the page is the same as Pfau’s, only Marin’s copy is a bit more beat-up, with holes in the corners and water stains.
“Yes,” says Descartes, still watching him closely.
“They are here, in Paris! Right at this very moment! Perhaps even here among us, unseen.”
“I should think they would have better things to do. You seem very interested in these invisible Rosicrucians, Monsieur Marin.”
“I am! I have read all the writings which discuss them—the Confession, the Alchemical Wedding of Christian Rosenkreutz, the works of the Englishman Fludd, and others. They possess the secret of the Philosopher’s Stone and the Universal Medicine. They can multiply gold and pass through walls.”
Descartes is losing interest again. He picks up the bellows from the fireplace beside him and begins puffing little jets of air at himself as he speaks. “It always seemed odd to me that an unseen order should go to so much trouble to make sure everyone has heard of them.”
“Perhaps they are seeking new members,” said Marin, and he leans close to Descartes and looks around. “It strikes me that a man of great learning, who has recently been to Germany, might know more about the Rosicrucians than he is telling.” He raises his eyebrows significantly.
“Ah, but Monsieur Marin, I cannot be a member of the invisible college of Rosicrucians,” says Descartes.
“Oh? Why is that?”
“I am not invisible,” says Descartes, and puffs at Marin with the bellows. Jeanne comes up just then with his cider. He thanks her and gives her a coin. He takes a swig. “Ah, much better. Tell me, Monsieur Marin—were you here last night?”
“Yes. I come here often. I enjoy the conversation of educated men. In fact, I have prepared a little thesis of my own, about the Great Work of alchemy, which I hope—” Marin starts to take a folded sheaf of paper out of his doublet.
“Was Pfau here? Was anyone with him? Or did he leave with anybody?”
“I didn’t notice,” says Marin. “Now as to my thesis: I undertake to demonstrate the proposition that—”
Descartes polishes off his cider. “Perhaps he went out with one of those unseen Rosicrucians!” He gets up and pulls on his damp cloak again. “Good night, Monsieur!” he says, and hurries away before Marin can get a word in.
Exterior: A dark Paris street. The rain has stopped. Descartes hurries along, splashing in puddles. He stops to cough some more, and when he finishes he cocks his head, listening. Somewhere out in the darkness there’s the sound of splashing footsteps. Descartes moves on some more, now looking about him alertly.
The other footsteps sound louder now, closer. Descartes picks up the pace. After a moment, the other steps quicken. The tempo of the background music matches their speed. Descartes ducks down an alley. As he emerges into another street we can see behind him a cloaked figure silhouetted against the other entrance to the alley. The figure pauses, then comes hurrying after Descartes. The footsteps are louder now, echoing.
Descartes rounds a corner and stops. His house is just up the street. A couple of lackeys with an ornate sedan chair stand outside the front door. Descartes collects himself and walks toward the house. We hear the approaching footsteps stop, then recede again.
The lackeys stop leaning against the sedan chair when they see Descartes approach. When he looks quizzically at them, one says “Madamoiselle is inside.”
More curious than ever, Descartes climbs the stairs to his rooms. His lackey, GASTON, meets him on the landing. “Monsieur, it is a lady. She would not give her name, but what with the rain I thought it best to put her in the study to wait.”
“Good man,” says Descartes. “Now it is late, so off you go. I will manage for myself.” He opens the door to his study.
A masked woman sits by the fireplace. She wears an expensive dress of green silk, and her mask is decorated with an embroidered crab in copper thread. Muted brass music picks up when we see her.
“Monsieur Descartes. Forgive me for calling at such a late hour. Your valet was kind enough to let me in.”
“I would have thrashed him for making a lady wait outside,” he replies. He takes off his own cloak and hangs it by the fire. The green of his doublet exactly matches her dress. “What shall I call you?” he asks her.
“Sophia de Montsegur,” she answers. “I am here to ask about my cousin, Chr
istian Pfau. They say you found him.”
Descartes sits in a chair across from her. “I did. I was returning a book.”
“Did he—say anything?”
“He was cold and stiff—forgive me for speaking so bluntly. I have been much in the company of soldiers and mathematicians.”
She dabs at her eyes through the holes of the mask. “And do you know who killed him?”
“No, do you?”
She looks at him a moment, eyes wide behind the mask. Then she forces a polite laugh. “More of your mathematical bluntness, Monsieur?”
“I notice you do not answer my question.”
She drops her arch pose and flippant manner of speaking. “No, Monsieur Descartes. I don’t know who killed Pfau.”
“Who is not your cousin. He was a German from Wittenberg, and your accent is pure Gascon. Unless your family is unusually widespread, I think you are no more related to him than I am.”
“Forgive me, Monsieur. Most of the men I meet are fools, and I have fallen into the habit of thinking they all are equally thick-headed.”
“You flatter me. If I differ from other men it is only because I know I know nothing. Now, why are you so curious about Pfau?”
“A person of some importance—don’t ask me to name him—has taken an interest in the affair. You were the one who discovered Pfau; you may know something about it.”
“Someone smashed him over the head with a lead statue. Someone he trusted enough to welcome into his rooms late at night.” He gets up and lightly touches his fingers to her bare palm. “I don’t think it was you. These hands are accustomed to gentleness.” His fingers remain where they are. The brass music turns seductive, almost jazzy.
Her face is close to his. “You are venturing into dangerous territory, Monsieur.” Her voice is a little breathless.