Fear and His Servant

by Mirjana Novakovic; Terence McEneny

  ‘Hold, master, this was not our agreement,’ Novak interrupted me.

  ‘What do you mean, not our agreement?’

  ‘We agreed that I would serve you, not that I would listen to your stories.’

  ‘But don’t you find my stories gripping and great fun?’

  ‘To tell you the truth, no. Besides that, I don’t like it when you call Our Lord by the name of Fishmouth.’

  ‘Lord, you say? Lord? I am your lord, and for twelve forints to boot.’

  ‘No! You are a lord, but Christ is the Lord. You are my master, but Christ is Our Lord.’

  And that’s how he was always throwing me into confusion. My servant, I mean. Serbian bastard. Just see if I’d give him any money. Let him stay sober. Let him suffer.

  And as I raged within I spotted Schmidlin. I went straight to him and dragged him off into a dark corner. I didn’t want to be seen by Radetzky or those other two idiots from the commission.

  ‘Baron,’ I said, ‘finish your story about the body. I must know.’

  ‘To be clear, I did not see the body myself. At the time I was in Vienna. Yes, it was July, and work had just finished on the Fortress of Kalemegdan. The cost was enormous, you understand, and I am chief commissioner for financial matters.’

  ‘So, you don’t know what the body looked like?’

  ‘I do, though. It was described to me. Only I can’t be sure as I didn’t see it myself. You do understand?’

  ‘Quite, but tell me what you were told.’

  However, no sooner had I said these words than my servant appeared at my side. My faithless servant.

  ‘Master, you must come with me at once!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I have found what you are looking for.’

  ‘You fool, you have no idea what I’m looking for.’

  We were speaking in Serbian and Schmidlin could not understand us.

  ‘But I do know. You’re looking for vampires.’

  FOUR

  Unter Ratzenstadt

  1

  Schmidlin gave a start, as if he had understood.

  ‘You can’t seriously expect me to meet the vampires,’ I said, my legs beginning to tremble.

  ‘Of course not, master. I’ve arranged for you to speak with some men who have seen them.’

  ‘And these people who’ve seen them … they’re not vampires, are they?’

  ‘No, master. They’re just ordinary people like you and me. I mean, like me.’

  ‘There’s no danger then?’

  ‘No, master, none at all. If we take the measures they’ve explained to me, there’s no danger at all.’

  ‘What sort of measures?’

  ‘You’ll see, master. Just don’t get upset. You know you always smell of brimstone when you’re frightened.’

  ‘That’s not true!’ I protested, raising my voice.

  ‘Let’s say no more about it for now, master. They’re expecting you in Unter Ratzenstadt – Lower Belgrade, as we call it in Serbian.’

  I took my leave of Schmidlin, who seemed greatly relieved at not having to answer any more of my questions, and went with my servant out of the hall.

  ‘Wrap up well, master. It’s very cold out. And foggy.’

  ‘And dark. You’re the one who said that no one here goes about at night.’

  ‘I did, but we’ll have protection.’

  He did seem convinced – and, besides, he was coming with me himself. Whatever happened to me would also happen to him. And he was far too fond of his own skin to risk it. I could be sure of that.

  2

  We stepped outside, into the night and the fog. Soon we came to the King’s Gate on the Sava River, the fortified entrance into the Fortress of Kalemegdan and the way out into the town.

  At times the moon would slip behind the clouds. It was only a sliver away from being full. The cobblestones were uneven, and both of us stumbled more than once. Along the narrow, winding lanes we went. I confess I would have got lost had not my servant been there to guide me. Despite his years away from Serbia and Belgrade, he made his way unerringly through the maze of streets. I was not afraid because we were still in Weissburg, the German part of the city. As Novak had explained, the vampires had yet to make an appearance on this side of Prince Eugene’s line. Apparently they respected borders, unlike ordinary mortals.

  But when we reached the outermost gate that separated us from Ratzenstadt, my heart sank. The soldiers let us pass at once, and then we were beyond the pale. Ahead lay only darkness. I could see nothing at all. Not the moon in the sky, not the houses on the ground.

  ‘And now, master,’ said Novak, ‘for our protection …’ And from the folds of his cloak he produced something which was at first hard to make out. But I could smell it. It was a string of garlic bulbs.

  ‘Don’t be stupid! Did you actually think that would be any use against vampires?’

  ‘It’s what saved the people we’re about to meet.’

  ‘But don’t you know it’s also supposed to protect people from me?’

  ‘Yes, master. But just because it’s not true in your case doesn’t mean it’s not true for vampires. Besides, it can’t hurt to wear it around your neck.’

  ‘Of course it can’t hurt. It’s garlic. This whole thing is asinine. And if that’s your idea of protection, I’m not taking another step. If the best you can do is something from the spice cabinet, count me out.’

  ‘Why won’t you trust me, master? Here, I’ll put one on as well. Do you really think I’d put myself in any danger? I’m sure it’s all right.’

  ‘I’m not going!’

  ‘But there’s no danger at all. We’ve got pistols, too.’

  ‘I doubt you’ll find pistols much help in stopping them. And why can’t we meet these Serbs tomorrow in the daylight?’

  ‘They’re hajduks, master, wanted as bandits by the Austrians. Not only that, they’re very keen to meet you.’

  ‘You haven’t gone and told them who I am, have you?’

  ‘That I have. And why not?’

  ‘You’re mad. You’re not supposed to go around announcing it. I like to remain incognito.’

  ‘I admit it, I made a mistake. But you’ve got to appear now. You wouldn’t want to let your devotees down. They’ve done so much murdering, raping, thieving and torturing – it would be a true shame for them not to meet you.’

  ‘But are they vainglorious and proud and grasping and envious and …’

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  ‘All right then. Give me that garlic.’

  ‘Here you are, master. One more thing, though.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Something else you’ll need for protection.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, I don’t quite know how to put this …’ And without another word, he pulled it out. From under his cloak. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was a cross.

  ‘I’ll kill you for this! So help me, I will!’

  ‘Master, remain calm. It’s only a cross.’

  ‘You want me to wear a cross? Me?’

  ‘They go together. Truly, master, that’s what they told me. The garlic’s no good without the cross.’

  ‘You want me to wear a cross? Me, its greatest foe.’

  ‘There’s no need to look at it that way, master.’

  ‘How then?’

  ‘Let’s say that a great sinner was to wear a cross. What would you say to that?’

  ‘I’d say that’s hypocrisy.’

  ‘There you are,’ my servant said triumphantly.

  ‘I fail to see your point.’

  ‘Hypocrisy is a sin. Fishmouth disapproves of it. Doesn’t He even say somewhere “Ye Pharisees are whitened sepulchres” or something along those lines?’

  ‘Aha, so it’s Fishmouth now, is it?’

  ‘Therefore, I see no reason why you shouldn’t do something that will offend Fishmouth.’

  I had to admit it, his reasoning was quite sound. I p
ut the blessed thing on.

  3

  The streets led downwards. In the dark, we headed who knows where, with no obvious rhyme nor reason. But towards a goal. It’s always like that. Never an ounce of sense but with a goal. My servant led me, stopping at every corner to get his bearings, to turn around, to look up at the black sky.

  Placing one foot in front of the other, step after step, down we went into the swirling mists and the pitch dark. In the utter stillness no sound could be heard but my own footsteps. Novak stepped so lightly I could not hear him at all. We did not speak. They were out there. I knew they were. The vampires. Each step might be the last. Should I duck around the next corner? Turn back? Go on? It made no difference.

  I adjusted my pistol.

  We passed windows. Shuttered. Behind them may have been life. Uneasy sleep. But we saw nothing. Down and down we went. Nothing but my footsteps, hollow footsteps, along the empty streets. My tread. The echo. Breathing in and out. On and on. Should I have asked to turn back? But no. To go faster? But no. To stop and rest? But stopping to rest is never the answer.

  ‘Incredible, the smell of brimstone you’re giving off tonight.’

  Heavy footfalls. And heart. I could smell the river. We’d gone as far down as we could. What did the city look like? Or the river? It must be black. There was no gleam of water, no moonlight. When there’s nothing to shine upon it, it isn’t there. It doesn’t exist by itself. But I could smell its oozing mud. I heard the straining of ropes. They creaked and groaned. I heard the water lapping against the sides of boats.

  A shadow. A grey shadow in the black night. Vampire!

  I caught hold of Novak.

  ‘What is it, master?’

  ‘A vampire. In that doorway, straight ahead.’ I squeezed his arm. ‘A vampire, I tell you!’

  ‘I don’t see anything, master.’

  ‘Let’s get out of here!’

  ‘But there’s nothing there, master.’

  The end of days. The final book.

  ‘No, I didn’t say anything, master.’

  A wave splashed against an anchored boat. Again. And again. The shadow bent over the water. Listening to the irregular sounds. Suddenly it straightened up, perhaps recoiling from the spray. And then it vanished.

  For a long time we followed the river. Moving more swiftly. Again and again I glanced over my shoulder.

  ‘Your eyes were just playing tricks on you, master.’

  Were we heading upriver or down? Why, since we were not in the water, it made no difference. The current meant nothing. It flowed along, carrying everything with it. But I was not in it, and it was not carrying me. And it was not in my way either. Upstream merrily, merrily; struggling downstream all the way.

  You should never give in. Never go against it. You should stand outside it all.

  4

  The public house was named after its neighbourhood, Ekmekluk, Turkish for ‘Bakers’ Alley’. There was no sign, but my servant told me that everyone knew it. I could barely see the interior through the thick smoke. The tobacco from around Varaždin is highly spoken of. And here they were, happily puffing away. Rough faces sized us up. We really were rather overdressed. Also, we didn’t stink. Extraordinary how one can always detect, through a veritable cloud of stench, a mere hint of eau-de-Cologne. It offends more than the slightest whiff of a bad smell amid an entire Versailles of perfumes.

  ‘And what brings you gentlemen here among us?’ asked one man, rising to his feet. He was the biggest of all.

  ‘We’re here to see Vuk and Obren,’ answered my servant.

  ‘Austrian spies,’ said another, also standing up. He, too, was huge. His eyes were hidden behind bushy brows.

  ‘Traitors to the Serbian nation,’ chimed in a third. I needn’t mention how large he was.

  ‘Just like that turncoat Branković at the Battle of Kosovo,’ added a fourth. A strapping great figure of a man.

  ‘German swine,’ said a fifth. Quite a small fellow, this one.

  They circled around us. I felt for my gun under my cloak. I’d be able to kill one of them. Novak could take one more. The other twenty would have us. A pistol wouldn’t be much help. I fingered the garlic. But these Serbs weren’t vampires. The cross? Well, they were Christians after all. A cross would hardly protect me from Fishmouth’s own believers.

  ‘Would you look at the crosses on these two!’

  ‘And the garlic!’

  ‘It’s to keep the vampires away.’

  ‘Vampires, Austrian scum.’

  ‘They’ll be wishing it was vampires after they see what we’ve got in store for them.’

  Laughter.

  They were moving in on us. Taking their time, and with pleasure. I drew my gun. I’d be taking at least one of them with me.

  5

  When down they went the field of Kosovo,

  The field of black that nae could blacker be …

  Everyone stopped in their tracks and turned around. In a far corner, in the shadows, sat an old man. He could not have seen us. He was blind. Everyone watched him in silence. For moments on end they stood stock still. Then one of the group stirred and moved towards the old man. The rest followed. And the old man reached deep into the pocket of his rough cloak and took something out. At first I could not tell what it was.

  ‘He’s got a gusle.’

  ‘A gusle.’

  ‘He’s a gusle-player.’

  There were cries of delight. The gusle was an unprepossessing instrument, no longer than the old man’s forearm. The short bow seemed lost in his big hands. He propped the gusle on his lap, tucked the scroll end under his chin, and began to rub resin along the bow while blowing on the end. Only then did I realize that the instrument had no string.

  As if no one else were around, the old man moved with ease and grace. All eyes were upon him. They had forgotten all about me. The first sound filled the air, and the gusle-player began to tune his nasal voice to the non-existent string that scraped and wailed as if it were actually present, would tightly. Then he threw his head back proudly, his Adam’s apple jutting from his throat.

  ‘Sing us a song of Kosovo.’

  ‘How we lost the kingdom.’

  ‘How we lost our lands.’

  ‘Innkeeper. Beer for the old man.’

  ‘Austrian beer, old man – the best beer.’

  Novak and I took the table by the door. No sense looking for trouble. We ordered a beer for good measure.

  The gusle-player began with a drawn-out wail – Aaahaaaaah – then launched into his cryptic verse:

  A hawk took wing, the bird of feather grey,

  He left Jerusalem, the holy place,

  And carried he the little swallow bird.

  It was no hawk, the bird of feather grey,

  But Elias the sainted one was he.

  Nor carried he a little swallow bird,

  A book he from our Virgin Lady had,

  That brought he to the king in Kosovo,

  On royal knee the saint the book did set,

  And the book itself to the king began to speak …

  The Serbs were crowding in around the player, their breathing hushed, their eyes moist. Faster now, the passion growing in his voice, the old man sang on. Or whined, depending on one’s opinion of the gusle. The very fire in the hearth seemed to leap up and burn brighter.

  I regarded my servant. He was straining to follow the gusle-player’s every note, as though something unexpected might happen, as if one of the ten-syllable lines might suddenly turn out to have twelve, as if the pause might land on a different syllable and not just the fourth. Serbian folk music offers no such surprises – never has and never will. Despite its predictability, however, that very song had just saved my life.

  And so I watched my servant and thought about him. Why was he serving me? I am no believer in those tales of selling one’s soul to the Devil. There was that Englishman who wrote about it – Marlowe, I believe. With that awful first name I
’d rather not say. I mean, who sells his soul to the Devil? No one, that’s who. All the men and women who serve me, every last one of them, fell into ruin long before meeting me. Besides, I’m not interested in buying. Like everyone else, I want gifts that come from the heart, the gift without a price. I’ve wandered this earth for such a long time, I’ve worn myself to the bone, but I have yet to meet a soul that will offer itself to me freely and not ask for anything in return.

  ‘It’s love you’re looking for, master,’ Novak said once in the middle of some story I was telling, some tale of woe.

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ I answered. ‘Love is easy to come by. I’m not looking for love.’

  ‘Easy to come by, master? With so many looking high and low and so few ever finding it?’

  ‘It’s quite simple, really. If they’re looking high and low, it’s because they don’t want to find it.’

  ‘You just made that up.’

  ‘So what if I have? Why shouldn’t I? Where does it say that old ideas are always better than new ones? Oh, you humans! Always believing that wisdom is ancient and that the present brings nothing but dross.’

  ‘Isn’t that the way, though?’

  ‘Of course not. Do you really think time is so mighty it can turn any ancient rubbish into today’s great wisdom?’

  And then – I don’t know why, considering the topic at hand – he told me the story of his life and why he had left Serbia and become a drunkard. And become my servant.

  As the story goes, he was the son of a rich and respected merchant. The rich and respected parts always go together. Not right away, of course. At first one is merely rich. Some time goes by, and then one is rich and respected. Unfortunately for Novak, his father was also progressive. And so the man took it upon himself to give his son an education. He found tutors, one after the other, for Greek and Latin and all the other subjects. The boy applied himself and was eager to learn – to his further detriment – and by the age of twenty was already holding forth with priests and even the bishop himself on matters philosophical. For instance, whether my fall was occasioned by envy or a lack of love, and what shall become of me at the end of the world. That’s what happens to people who don’t mind their own business. They end up as the hired help. His studies went well; he learned to keep the books and to handle money. But he didn’t want to go into trade. What he wanted was to read – all the great tragedies, the great passions, everyone in love with someone else and any number of dead bodies piling up at the end. And so, slowly but surely, he got an idea. (He never actually told me as much, mind you; I figured it out for myself.) My man Novak got the idea that his life would be meaningless until he’d been hopelessly in love and all the rest of it, just like in stories. He had worked himself up into a proper Hamlet state of mind. However, there was no one on hand to do the father in, the mother had long since died and the only uncle available for the role had squandered all his money on drink and fawned and cringed whenever the father was around. So much for that plot. And as for an Ophelia, I need hardly mention the unsuitability of the local females. Sometime later he resolved to be Paris and even managed to find a candidate for the abduction – a cooperative young lady who had, in fact, agreed to go with him – but called the whole thing off after overhearing his chosen Helen’s father exclaim, ‘If only someone would take that girl off my hands, I’d give the man five dowries.’ The siege of Troy would be conspicuously lacking in this case, he realized. Not long afterwards he convinced himself that he was another Odysseus. Lacking a Penelope, however – even though many of the Serbian girls had skilful fingers from weaving. (‘Well, not that many,’ he later admitted.) His father, saying that all his plans had gone to Hell – which I can assure you was most certainly not the case, and I should know – resolved to marry him off. He even found a bride for his son, a rich young girl from a good family. But no, the son would not agree. He would not. At least not until the father threatened to write him out of the will. Only then did Novak say to Hell with it all and gave in. The wedding followed, and the first night of married life. The poor girl frightened and miserable. Novak rough and furious. In fact, that’s when he began to beat her. It was all her fault, he thought. And so he cursed her and beat her.