The Mysteries of New Orleans (The Longfellow Series of American Languages and Literatures)

by Baron Ludwigvon Reizenstein

  Jenny was already in bed when Frida and Lajos entered. She had just snuffed out her light.

  Without saying anything, Lajos went to the door and turned the key twice in the lock.

  Frida looked at her husband’s maneuver with astonishment, for she could not understand his conduct.

  “Why did you shut the door, Lajos? Jenny will pass the night in distress.”

  “My sister-in-law is not a child anymore. Being when a door is locked—it is really ludicrous!”

  “Don’t speak so loud, Lajos, she can hear you,” Frida begged.

  “So what if she does hear it? One has to learn to do without this childishness—if she would just think about it, she would be ashamed of herself. It’s really very boring, this eternal fooling around …”

  “What’s the matter today? Did something unpleasant happen? Come, Lajos, tell me … don’t be such a growling bear.”

  “It is no marvel a man is upset when he has to go begging.”

  “Tell me, what’s the matter?” Frida asked nervously, becoming extremely tense.

  “All my efforts gone to hell!”

  “You don’t need to swear, Lajos—did you lose your job? Are you in a dispute with your employer? That would not be such a great disaster that you need to be rude. A man such as you can always find something—and even if this were not the case, I could teach in the college every day. They would be glad to have me, I’m sure, Lajos …”

  It would be superfluous to remind ourselves that, at the very instant Lajos was complaining to his wife about losing his job, he was carrying in his pockets the large sum of money he had found under the bed in Merlina’s bedchamber. But one consideration must be stressed at this point, since it enlightens us about the Hungarian’s conduct toward his wife. Why had he always shown such delicate self-denial and care around his wife, despite his repellent character and crudeness in his other relationships? At his arrival in New Orleans, as well as during the first months after his return to his wife, it was obviously money that had compelled him to this. He had no profession, but Frida had some property and was teaching—though it was often a burden, why should he not play the complete charade, since his support depended on it? But by the time he became a clubman of the Hamburg Mill, he was making so much money that he could afford to import the finest and costliest wines, such as had never come to New Orleans before. Despite that, he voluntarily continued to wear the straitjacket of a solid married man and tender father. And even now, when he had the entire treasure of the mill in his possession, he kept up this tender and yet perverse reserve. This might seem unbelievable to many, since they have no way to see it from the Hungarian’s point of view.

  The facts were this:

  Jenny and Frida had not written to their parents in Germany since the disappearance of their husbands. This was either due to shame at admitting that they had been wrong in their choice of spouses or—more likely—because they wanted to wait until their relationships could become clarified and ordered enough for them to return to their parents’ bosom. Three letters had arrived from Germany. The first, which Emil had kept from his wife, came from Emil’s parents, as we learned in the second volume. This letter reported that they had decided to emigrate with the entire family, owing to the threat of revolution. They indicated that they did not appear entirely satisfied with Frida’s marriage, since it had been completed without the parents’ consent, and they mourned over the unhappy death of Emil’s brother.

  The second letter came from the sisters’ parents, yet it was not addressed to them but to the prince of Württemberg. They begged him to let them know something about the situation of their beloved daughters, Jenny and Frida, with all the honesty of an old and trusted friend. In the very last lines of this letter they specifically said that, even if their situation was not exactly splendid, they were not incapable of sending some money if he felt it necessary. This letter, which had come into the prince’s hands before the Hungarian had returned to Algiers, was forwarded to the two sisters. The prince also committed the error of taking counsel when he should have given it. Jenny and Frida would not consider authorizing a response on the prince’s part, nor would they write anything themselves. If they were frank, their dear parents would be devastated and suffer great sorrows—and they did not want the burden on their conscience that would result if they described their circumstances other than they were. They would rather give no answer whatsoever than lie: that was the sum total of their decision after several meetings on this matter with the prince.

  The third and as yet last letter had been addressed by the sisters’ parents to Emil. Since he had given them an address in English, the letter was announced in the list of an English-language newspaper.31 The prince of Württemberg, meanwhile, was spending several days in Adayes, an old Spanish town on the Red River, to look for a rare beetle, the Scarabaeus Theophilus, which has violet-blue wing covers and copper-colored stripes and bears a dramatically curved horn on its broad neck-plate. It had only recently been discovered. The sisters seldom looked at an English-language newspaper, so the announcement was unknown to them. As it happened, however, the Hungarian always read the letter lists and saw the notice. This was eight days after his acceptance into the club of the Hamburg Mill. He went straightaway to the post office and received the letter, then he went to the nearest coffeehouse to read it carefully. His face lightened visibly as he turned the first page and began reading the second. It was concerned with no less a matter than that an uncle who, long lost from view, had returned from India a wealthy man. He had visited the sisters’ father as soon as he arrived in the capital, and he was quite upset when he did not find his Friderle—this is what he called Frida—the gold-topped little girl he had once bounced in his lap and kissed. When he heard—the letter went on—that Friderle had gone to America with her sister, the old uncle had been in despair, and had he not been ill he would have made the journey to a foreign land at once to see his Friderle, whom he worshiped like an archangel. The uncle—it said at the end of the letter—lay ill for months, and he never ceased fantasizing about seeing his Friderle. He was always about to send this or that splendid gift to her, but he hesitated to do so until he got well. Although the uncle had no doubt that he would eventually recover, he had recently composed his will, declaring Friderle as his universal heiress—the uncle’s estate was supposed to be worth between ten and twelve million dollars.

  The Hungarian destroyed the letter on the spot, for several reasons. The destruction had no effect on Frida’s inheritance, of course, which would come to her sooner or later. Frida would be one of the richest heiresses in the world, without having the slightest notion of her impending great wealth.

  One would think that the Hungarian would have avoided placing himself in peril as a murderer and arsonist, considering his future fortune. That did not occur to him. His life as a clubman of the Hamburg Mill pleased him so much at the outset that he seemed willing to risk everything. In the end, however, sated by all possible enjoyments, he set about winning the treasury of the Hamburg Mill and burning down the mill itself. But whenever he was about to set this plan in motion, some insurmountable hindrance always appeared. Yes, there was even a time when he let the plan go completely, as the Lady Merlina and the pale mestiza held him tight. Yet what he had earlier not been able to accomplish with his slyness now fell to him as a result of accident, in a remarkable series of astonishing scenes. Think simply of the chapter “Under the Bed.” This deed was to be the capstone of his crimes, and then he could live solidly, take up an apparently honest occupation, and quietly await his wife’s inheritance. To be everything to his wife, to appear literally to carry her in his hands, was part of his current plan.

  Since Frida as yet knew nothing about her expectant wealth, she could not have the least suspicion that he was kind and helpful only because of the money. During the crossing on the boat, he’d decided to display irritation over the loss of his supposed employment, something he intended to be a tr
ansition to a life that would exceed his wife’s fondest dreams. His unpleasantness about his sister-in-law’s fears was also nothing but part of this planned feint.

  Let us return to that night.

  “Look, Lajos,” Frida continued, “if it is nothing more than your losing your job, I am really distressed with you for upsetting me so much.”

  “No, it’s nothing more, Frida, but that is enough to upset me. The thought of unemployment, even for a short time, is unbearable to me. I am so used to action, to producing like a machine, that I already feel very unhappy.”

  “But Lajos,” Frida responded in an almost motherly tone, “you complain about my sister Jenny because she is so childish and is afraid when a door is closed to her—tell me, isn’t it just as childish of you to be so upset about being unemployed for a little while? And then, Lajos, there are so many things you could do—in our garden, in our yard, even in the house—or, if you prefer, music and reading. You see, there is no danger of you having nothing to do.”

  It was a characteristic of Frida’s trusting character that she never penetrated this monumental guise for a moment. Even though the unfortunate woman was intelligent and clear-thinking in many regards, she was easy to mislead once she had granted someone her trust. And although Lajos had so grossly abused her trust once before, she still allowed herself to be cheated again, blinded by his penitence along with his seemingly unshakable dependence and love. In addition, she was unable to deny her husband tolerance when he returned so late, usually at one or two o’clock in the morning, exhausted from supposed labor in a factory. If it had ever occurred to her to look at his hands or check his cleanliness, she would have learned otherwise. And yet, with all her good will, Frida still would not have thought much about it. The little scolding she gave him demonstrated the purity of her character and goodness of her heart.

  “We shall see what there is to do here—perhaps it will go better than we think,” Lajos said with affected placidity, unconsciously touching the pocket where the mill’s treasure was hidden.

  “As you think, Lajos,” Frida responded.

  Lajos went to the cradle and lifted the mosquito netting enough to look in. Then he closed it and said: “The child looks strikingly like me, doesn’t he?”

  “He is the spitting image of his father’s face,” Frida said happily. “Even that!” she continued, stroking Lajos’s scar.

  “The Mexican desperado who gave me this wound certainly had no idea that it would be used to recognize the father in the son,” the Hungarian remarked so quietly and comfortably, as if he was happy with his whole heart over his similarity to his child.

  “Say instead,” Frida said softly and confidentially, “that God loves your wife so much that he granted her a second husband in a son.” Then she clung to his neck so intensely that he had to lean over, causing something to fall out which made a sound when it hit the floor.

  Frida heard it fall.

  The Hungarian felt it.

  Frida searched for a long time around the floor while Lajos watched with a smile on his lips.

  “It is nothing, Frida, we were imagining things.” he said. He had already seen that it was lying under the cradle, close to the rear rocker.

  “I see it, Frida,” the Hungarian said with affectedly childish enthusiasm, but a Satanic smile was on his face.

  “Tell me, Lajos, where is it, what was it?” Frida begged, gathering her long nightgown up in front in order to kneel more easily.

  The Hungarian ducked down and raised up what she sought.

  Frida saw it the instant Lajos reached for it. Now that he held it high, where she could examine it, she raised herself on his outstretched arm and cried out: “Oh how pretty these splendid colored lenses! Did you bring me that, Lajos? Oh, I have wanted a pretty night lamp for a long time! Ours looks so sad and ugly.”

  It was the lamp-head he had stolen from the Italian Lombardi after suffocating him with the Hotoohs’ tar mask.

  Lombardi didn’t need it any more. Now the Hungarian could let it shine in his own house without any hesitation.

  The pipo Lombardi is dead, but Lajos, the officer of hussars, lives. The living have always enjoyed what the dead leave behind—it is ancient custom.

  “My dear husband,” Frida said with a tone of voice that cannot be reproduced by words, “tonight we shall sleep by the light of the pretty, pretty little lamp—look how perfectly it fits in the base—we should throw the old thing here right out the window, it’s no good any more.”

  Frida took the old lamp-head and threw it out the window.

  Lajos had taken a seat at the cradle. He looked dreadfully pale. This was not unusual for him, but when Frida looked at his face this evening, it seemed to her that she had never seen him quite so pale. At first she thought it was due to the colored lamp, since the green lens was pointed at him. She turned the top so that the pure white lens, between two ruby-red ones, was pointed at him, in an attempt to give a truer illumination—but to no avail. Her husband’s face remained as dreadfully pale as before, almost gray-green. Was it because of that hair-raising episode in the zambo negresse’s bedroom? It must have been, for when Frida said, “tonight we shall sleep by the light of the pretty, pretty little lamp,” he thought it best to declare he felt unwell and ask permission to spend a few hours in the garden, in the open, in the cool. Frida gave in reluctantly, and after her husband had departed the bedroom with a buffalo robe under his arm, she unlocked the door into Jenny’s little chamber and let her sister in until her husband came back.

  Let us leave the two sisters alone with the baby in its cradle, as we follow the Hungarian.

  He went to that side of the porch that surrounded the façade of the cottage, then spread out the buffalo robe and stretched his whole length out on it. He turned his face in the direction where the smoke still rose from the fire, sometimes stronger, sometimes weaker. The firemen had withdrawn a quarter hour before, and here and there crowds of people could be seen curiously observing the gutted Hamburg Mill, gawking at the ashes and ruin. The moon beamed bright light down on the site, so that it could easily be seen from the lovable cottage.

  After the Hungarian had lain down for a good while, he suddenly sat up, reached in his pocket, and took out the banknotes that he had carefully bundled. He folded them in half and fingered them as if he were trying to count them. He did this not once but several times in succession, like someone who could not believe he was in possession of such a vast sum. He weighed the notes on his flat hand, and made several other maneuvers with them. Then he heard a squeaking, like the sound of new shoes. He looked quickly about and saw Gabor von Rokavar, who greeted him with the sort of bow peculiar to ordinary members of the Hamburg Mill. The Hungarian, who was usually so aloof at surprises, started at this. For the appearance of this person, banned by the Hamburg Mill, was all too unwanted at this moment. But in the next instant he regained his full presence of mind. He rose quickly and turned to Gabor, growling in a contemptuous tone: “You dog, why are you disturbing the peace of your former master?”

  “The doggy would like a bit of the pretty banknotes his master has in his hands,” Gabor responded with a sweet smile but still rather bravely.

  “Damned soul, I’ll cut your throat if you don’t tell me what brings you here and why you were spying on me!” Lajos said in a bitterly cold voice.

  “Go ahead and talk, Lajos,” Gabor urged. “I think it would be better for us to make an agreement, and you give me half of your itty-bitty profits.”

  “Itty-bitty profits? What itty-bitty profits? damned Hungarian Scandonicz!”

  “Why are you cursing about Hungarians, Lajos, aren’t you a Hungarian yourself?”

  “But I am no Scandonicz—tell me, what do you mean with itty-bitty profits? Do it quick, or I’ll slit your throat.” Lajos drew his long Bowie knife on saying this.

  “Don’t speak so loudly, Lajos, the ladies will not be able to sleep, and they might disturb us before we have come to an
agreement,” Gabor responded, without showing the least disturbance over Lajos’s manipulation of the Bowie knife.

  “Death or Merlina, damned Scandonicz, what is your nonsense all about?”

  “It doesn’t mean a thing, Lajos. Your doggy only wants half of the pretty banknotes you were just counting out—nothing more, Lajos—such a poor, rejected doggy as myself is satisfied with very little …”

  The Hungarian would have jumped at Gabor and run him through with his long Bowie knife, but he understood quite well that such a violent act on an open porch would be dangerous for him. And who could guarantee that this cunning Jew Rokavar—his grandfather, a banker to the court, had bought a patent of nobility from the Habsburgs—did not have several persons hiding and ready to charge in if anything happened to Gabor? Wasn’t his current brave attitude, which he had never displayed a hint of before, proof enough of this? He was sure that the Jew had seen him leaving the Hamburg Mill, and, if so, then he must know that he was the cause of the fire that immediately followed. Obviously Gabor wanted to learn from him precisely how it had happened.

  Rokavar was made fully aware of Lajos’s hesitation from his handling of the Bowie knife. He saw Lajos throw a cutting, distrustful eye over the garden, as if he feared that Gabor had allies hidden away. That was to Gabor’s advantage. Indeed, he tried to reinforce Lajos’s insecurity by throwing a few sideways glances about the garden himself, particularly where the shadowy, tree-lined walk vanished into overgrown bushes. But this sudden change of conduct only demonstrated that Gabor von Rokavar had no help hidden away. The Jew, who was trying to act important, had caught himself in his own trap, showing the Hungarian his real situation.

  “Good, Gabor,” Lajos now said, “you saw me with a bundle of banknotes?”

  “Yes, worth over a hundred thousand dollars,” the Jew responded dryly.