Fear and His Servant

by Mirjana Novakovic; Terence McEneny

  The rules of the game don’t matter now. True, Schmettau did seem to be explaining, as far as I could hear, the rules and strategies, what they were allowed to do, what they ought to do and what they must do. I don’t think the other three were particularly keen on playing. Novak the servant had to play, what with being a servant. Vuk Isakovič was an Oberkapitän and therefore subordinate to Count Schmettau, who I believe held some sort of rank in the artillery. The third man was a Serb. His nationality and low birth had landed him in the middle of a game he didn’t know how to win, one that couldn’t possibly interest him.

  Schmettau liked the other players to make good moves, even if it put him at a disadvantage, and he would rap their knuckles for making mistakes. Isakovič was becoming angrier and angrier. Even from a distance I could see him struggling to restrain himself. From afar it seemed that Novak was coming out ahead. He was disciplined less often than the others, and the smile never left his face. It may have been that unseemly grin, or an especially clever move on his part accompanied by a delighted cry from Schmettau, that finally provoked Isakovič into punching Novak in the face.

  ‘You devil!’ shouted Isakovič. ‘No one but a devil could play this! Christians can only lose.’ He finished speaking, stood up, bowed deeply to Schmettau and strode off towards the forest.

  Schmettau gave a great laugh and began to gather up the tiles. Once he’d put them back in the box he got up and walked away as if nothing had happened. The third man also got up as Novak sat there bleeding from the nose, struck him in the chest and ran off after Isakovič.

  I don’t think anyone but me saw this happen.

  Soon afterwards the baron told me we were going to the mill. Von Hausburg and I went first with the other two members of the commission and the baron. When we reached the mill Schmettau was already there, leaning against a dying oak tree that had split into two great trunks. There were also some peasants scattered about, waiting. No one spoke. A strange stillness had fallen over everything. I think even the birds had stopped singing. Schmidlin nodded towards me. I didn’t know what his gesture meant, and in my unease I was the first to break the silence.

  ‘Why doesn’t he come out? Can he still be sleeping?’ I asked the two from the commission. They only shrugged and remained where they were.

  ‘Let’s go in, then,’ I said to Schmidlin.

  He gave no answer and looked away.

  ‘Shall we go in?’ I asked von Hausburg.

  ‘I’ll follow,’ he said, and crossed his arms. His gesture was at odds with his words.

  ‘Shall we go in?’ I asked, turning to Schmettau.

  ‘I have no intention of it,’ he answered honestly.

  ‘Right then,’ I said at last, ‘I’ll do it myself.’

  ‘Don’t!’ said the baron.

  I headed towards the mill. I turned around to look. Not one of them had moved. I stood at the threshold. I turned to look. None of them moved. I opened the door. I turned to look. No one moved. I stepped inside.

  5

  Radetzky was lying on the floor, his arms spread wide and his legs together. His white shirt lay beside him. His body was white, not a drop of blood. Eyes open.

  I screamed.

  Poor man, I thought. He was obviously dead. And then the others came running. People crowded into the mill. Everyone was speaking at once. The man in the red wig fainted. Schmidlin and the other man from the commission carried him outside. Then came the servants. They wrapped Radetzky in a sheet and carried him out. I followed them.

  Outside, von Hausburg asked me in a frightened voice, ‘What now?’

  I didn’t know what to say.

  We all went back to the hut. It felt as though we were coming home. But I didn’t want to go in, I just took a chair at the table, which was set for breakfast. My eyes wandered over the plates, over the forks and knives and spoons, and I realized in an absent-minded way that it was to be a normal breakfast not a Chinese meal. Why had Schmettau ordered it, I wondered.

  Sorry?

  Yes, sometimes, in difficult moments, something entirely different comes to mind, something unrelated to the suffering. Or perhaps it wasn’t a coincidence that I should think of Schmettau just then.

  No, I wasn’t thinking of my husband. I couldn’t say why not. I simply wasn’t. Do I think about my husband? Well, he went to his Maker long ago, you know. But, yes, I did think of him recently. When the revolution broke out in Paris.

  Am I thinking of Alexander right now? No, but when the noble heads began to roll on the Place de la Concorde I remembered something, something that may have some bearing on the story. You know, my husband believed that all the European nobility were descendants of the ancient Roman nobility, who were descended from Aeneas, who came from the Greek and Roman gods. Yes, quite: not a very Christian thing to believe. But that’s what he believed. And that’s why von Hausburg made him so furious. Yes, just a minor incident from the costume ball. Alexander had brought up Aeneas, and von Hausburg began to speak.

  ‘Picture this, if you will: Troy is burning, its towers thrown down, soldiers everywhere, killing, raping, looting. Where there’s no fire, there’s smoke. What I mean to say is, everything is either burning or has already gone up in flames. Cassandra is wailing like a circus performer and everyone is watching and listening to her, paying more attention to her than to the destruction around them. The nobles of Troy have been slain, and Aeneas lies dead in a cellar among great jars of olive oil.

  ‘But there’s one servant, the very same man who carried all of those clay jars into the cellar – no mean feat, I might add – who knows where Aeneas is and what has become of him. I’m not saying the servant murdered the prince. No, he simply knows what’s happened, that’s all. And wrongdoing sometimes begins with knowing.

  ‘With the nimble fingers of all servants he strips the dead Greek of his battle dress and slinks off through the narrow streets towards the harbour. Along the way he runs into several others of his ilk. He eyes a ship that fits all of Homer’s specifications for ocean journeys. When he spots his chance, he climbs aboard, ambushes and kills the sentries and then weighs anchor. It simply must be by night: the flames make such a marvellous picture, lapping at the stars and the moon’s pale crescent. And off he sails, westward.

  ‘Many mishaps and setbacks later he comes ashore. The news of Troy’s destruction has preceded him and taken hold in people’s minds. “Everyone is dead, yes, but I, Aeneas, have escaped.” And from such noble beginnings, the nobility of Rome and Europe.’

  ‘You talk as though you’d seen it with your own eyes,’ said my husband, scoffing but furious.

  ‘Of course not. I heard it from others who did,’ responded von Hausburg, and Alexander punched him in the face. Von Hausburg fell down and that was the end of it.

  I wasn’t surprised. I thought von Hausburg had drunk some courage with his wine and was having a laugh at my husband’s expense, foolishly provoking him.

  That’s what made me think of Alexander. How fortunate it was that he didn’t live to see what happened in France. It’s a great irony, isn’t it? The rabble in Paris clamouring for the heads of those same descendants – just more servants after all, with only a bit more cunning and skill than the rest of them. That is, if you believe von Hausburg. And why not? I don’t see him under interrogation, unlike me. Next they’ll be saying it’s me you can’t believe.

  Get back to the story? But I never left it.

  So there I was sitting at the table and thinking about Chinese cuisine, when the blond one from the commission sat down beside me. I can’t remember his name. Or the red-haired one’s either.

  He looked like a whiter shade of the pale Radetzky.

  I wanted to help him somehow.

  ‘Be not anxious,’ I said. ‘Try to remain calm. Surely you anticipated that this might occur and can now take the appropriate steps. I know that His Imperial Majesty’s commissions are always well-prepared for any contingency.’

  He looke
d at me as if I were raving mad.

  ‘This contingency was not anticipated,’ he answered after a short pause.

  ‘It wasn’t?’ I asked. ‘But if you came here to find out whether vampires exist or not you’d have to account for the possibility – no matter how slight – that they did and that they might even attack the members of the commission.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said, after thinking this over. ‘But our task was not to establish the existence of vampires. Although we have ended up doing just that, rather unexpectedly.’

  ‘What are you here for then?’ I asked in surprise.

  ‘Our assignment was … you can be told now … there’s hardly any point in … We were members of a commission with full imperial authorization, charged with finding the murderer of Count Ludwig Wittgenau.’

  FIVE

  Schmidlin’s Debt

  1

  Now we’re heading into the heart of darkness? Is that what you said? I wouldn’t put it like that. It’s all darkness to you. You can’t see the light.

  Where we’re heading is someplace you’ve never been, and never will be. What good does it do you to wear those vestments and that heavy cross?

  Did I have faith? Yes, make no doubt about it. Why shouldn’t I? Faith can only be lost in happiness and plenty, never in hard times and sorrow. Von Hausburg had something to say in that regard. I don’t remember the occasion.

  ‘Can you imagine what it must be like for him up there? Nothing reaching his ears but complaints and anguished cries. You think anyone turns to him when there’s plenty of food and drink on the table, when love is in the air? He’s the first thing they forget when everything’s going well. It’s the poor and the forsaken who always have his name on their lips. If I were him, it would drive me mad. I’d destroy everything I’d created – the ones crying out and the ones saying nothing.’

  That’s what he said.

  But getting back to the story.

  Baron Schmidlin listened attentively and didn’t seem surprised when I told him about the commission. It did occur to me that everyone seemed to be in the know yet still knew nothing.

  ‘What are we to do?’ I asked him.

  He shrugged and said, ‘Shall we return to the city?’ And just as he was saying this, everyone gathered around.

  Schmettau had returned from who knows where, von Hausburg had been close by the whole time and the two remaining members of the commission had been listening carefully.

  ‘I am for fighting,’ said Schmettau.

  ‘Fighting whom?’ said the baron scornfully.

  ‘The vampires,’ Schmettau shouted.

  ‘Count me in,’ piped up von Hausburg.

  ‘And me,’ I said. ‘Only how?’

  ‘The Serbs know how to handle these things. They’ve got experience with vampires. Let me get my servant. He’s a Serb. He can tell us.’ Von Hausburg went to fetch his servant. He must not have been able to find Novak right away, and the rest of us had to wait uneasily for them to return. No one spoke. I suppose no one had anything to say.

  When they finally came Novak went right to the centre of the circle we’d happened to form. He didn’t know which way to face, and so he eyed each of us in turn, even twisting around to get a better look. This struck me as a piece of impudence on his part. Von Hausburg spoke to him in Serbian, although his servant knew German. Novak would stop and wait for von Hausburg to catch up with the translation. The frown never left the baron’s face as he listened, whether because he could understand Serbian or for some other reason.

  What did he say? Well, you know what he said. What he said is what ended up happening. We’d have to find the vampire’s grave by daylight. And for that we’d need a black horse with no markings. Then we’d have to dig up the vampire, sprinkle it with holy water and drive a stake of hawthorn through its heart – all the while making sure a moth-like creature, something called a leptirak, didn’t escape from its jaws. If we followed all of these rules, the vampire would be destroyed.

  Even so, somehow I still didn’t believe it was vampires we were up against. I was hoping Radetzky’s death would turn out to be the work of other powers, mortal powers closer to hand. That’s why I was glad we were going to dig up the alleged vampire. When we found nothing but bones in the grave instead of a preserved corpse, it would prove that vampires didn’t exist and that Radetzky had been murdered by cunning foes working against Vienna and my husband.

  There was no discussion. We all agreed to do what must be done.

  I don’t know why he chose that particular moment, but von Hausburg came to me and whispered something. ‘Count Schmettau is quite the talker, isn’t he? Have you noticed that he never actually does anything, just wags his tongue?’

  ‘I had noticed, yes,’ I answered frankly.

  ‘That worries me.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘My greatest fear is people who do nothing, who only talk. The ones with nothing to say usually have nothing on their minds either. But the ones with ideas, who only talk and never do anything, they’re the ones who’ll surprise you when they finally spring into action. Can you just imagine all the hare-brained schemes knocking around in the heads of people who spend hours and days doing nothing but thinking? Beware of Count Schmettau, my dear Princess. I am your friend, and I wish to help you. In every way.’

  I didn’t like the way he said ‘in every way’, but I said nothing.

  2

  After everything that had happened I couldn’t sleep. I felt like smoking. I stepped outside, not bothering to conceal myself. What difference did it make? Presumably it was all over by now. For some reason I didn’t want to be near the hut, so I stepped a bit further off – but away from the mill, just to be on the safe side.

  I’d gone a few dozen paces, if I remember correctly, in the direction of the city, and stopped in the middle of a small clearing. The clouds were thick overhead. I couldn’t see the moon, only a hint of its gleam in the western sky. The morning star was nowhere to be seen.

  I filled my pipe and struck a match. No sooner had I taken the first few puffs than I heard a rustling in the undergrowth behind me. I was out in the open, and whoever it was must have seen me already. There would be no point in hiding, and so I decided to pretend I hadn’t heard anything. I stood there puffing away, seemingly cool as a cucumber but actually all hot under the collar.

  The noises were coming closer then suddenly stopped. Whoever it was, they were holding still. Waiting.

  I was waiting, too. Of all the times to come outside for a smoke.

  The noises started up again. Then stopped. ‘Psst!’ I heard.

  ‘Psst,’ I responded obligingly.

  ‘It’s me, master – Novak.’

  Oh, the fool. What a fright he’d given me!

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Nothing. I came outside to have a smoke and stretch my legs. I can’t sleep.’ He came closer, still keeping his voice down. ‘I hardly recognized you. I thought it might be the vampire.’

  ‘You and your vampires!’ I said, raising my hand to strike him.

  ‘Master, no. Here, I’ve brought you something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A bit of hashish. I swapped the Virginia tobacco for it with the hajduks.’

  ‘You did, eh? And how do they come by it?’

  ‘From hajduks in Turkey.’

  ‘Right, let’s have it.’

  We stepped out of the clearing and sat by a good-sized oak tree at the edge. We lit the hashish. For a long time we smoked in silence.

  Clouds like lumps of dough. Bake me no loaves, baker’s man. So much talking, so many heroic verses.

  … Great laughter was in Heav’n

  And looking down, to see the hubbub strange

  And hear the din; thus was the building left

  Ridiculous, and the work Confusion named …

  ‘Doves. Pigeons,’ said Novak, all in a haze.

  Not me. Anybody hear cooing? The Holy Spi
rit? In present company?

  ‘What do you mean, doves and pigeons?’

  ‘Skandaroons. That’s what I mean. Skan-da-roons.’

  ‘Skan-da-roons,’ I repeated, syllable by syllable. Not in metre, though. No metres yet, still yards.

  ‘In Iskanderun, skandaroons. Skandaroons in Iskanderun.’

  ‘Bet you can’t say that three times fast.’

  ‘Don’t pay to play.’

  I gave him a swift backhand.

  ‘Say it.’

  ‘Not gonna. We’re small as hell, but still we fell …’

  ‘Chirp, chirp. Stop singing and start paying. Paying attention, I mean. Go ahead, make my day. Even though it’s still night-time. I think. What’s a skandaroon?’

  ‘A pigeon.’

  ‘Aha. So that’s it, then: a stool pigeon … In disguise, were you? At the costume ball? Hm?’

  ‘Everyone at a costume ball is in disguise. So there.’

  ‘Servants are for serving. No disguises.’

  ‘All right. Let me just get some sleep.’

  Nothing from the sky. All clouds. Where’s the moon? I’ll catch the morning star. The two of them know. They know, and I don’t. They’re not here to sing to me. Soft voices in my ear, in the oak tree.

  ‘Wake up! Wake up, you!’

  Great dumb brute, smoked himself into a stupor. Needs a proper kicking. That’s good for you, that is: better than a shiatsu massage in Japan, cherry blossoms under Fukoyama and all the rest of it.

  ‘Get up, skandaroon. Start singing.’

  ‘The skandaroon’s a pigeon that flies, flies away, fly away home, ladybird.’

  The ladybird was asleep. The Devil was asleep.

  3

  When I came to it was still night-time. My head hurt. I nudged Novak.

  ‘Get up. You’ve slept long enough. On your feet.’

  ‘All right, all right. I’m getting up.’

  ‘Skandaroons! Start talking, I should be getting back to the hut.’

  ‘Skandaroons? Where did you hear about them?’