‘From you. Before you fell asleep.’
‘I fell asleep?’
‘Of course you did. If you’re just waking up now, try to imagine what had to happen first.’
‘I fell asleep.’
‘Right you are.’
‘But hashish doesn’t make you fall asleep. It must have been laced with something. And the hajduks told me to make sure you had some, too.’
‘Would that be the two with the Rs?’
‘Yes, how did you know?’
‘I know everything. Now start talking. Skandaroons.’
‘I used to keep pigeons back in Belgrade. Carrier pigeons. I remember there was a Turk once who came with some birds. They were skandaroons. That’s what they call them because they’re from Iskenderun …’
‘You mean İskenderiye?’
‘Well, I don’t know every last detail. They’re only found in northern Africa, and they’re only kept by the Ottoman army. And you know how they train them? They take the mother-bird out to sea and release her, and she has to find her own way back to her nestlings. Each time they take her further and further out, right to the middle of the deep-blue Mediterranean …’
‘I see. Now pay attention. You’ve had quite a pipeful. What about the skandaroons?’
‘Nothing, except I’ve seen them here in Belgrade, at the fortress. Up at the top near the cistern, there’s a coop.’
‘You say they’re only kept by the Turkish army.’
‘I’ve never seen them before in Christian lands.’
‘Right. Good. Excellent. Off with you now.’
I also headed back to the hut. No one else was stirring, and I was able to slip back into my place unnoticed. Staying up all night hadn’t been such a bad idea, after all. I pulled the covers over my eyes, pleased with myself. I managed to sleep until the first cock-crow. Infernal creatures! Whose idea was it to create them?
4
The baron had suddenly regained the upper hand and began hurrying the servants along, as though we had to leave right away. The servants were flustered, as servants always are when anything needs doing, and began running into each other and dropping things. By itself this wouldn’t have been so vexing – after all, one is rather used to servants being all fingers and thumbs – if they hadn’t managed by an extraordinary stroke of ill luck to knock over a small chest containing jars of Chinese spices.
Now, the entire cuisine of China is based on spices. Spices and finely sliced meat. The Chinese don’t let just anyone have a knife either. The meat must be cut up beforehand. Count Schmettau knew all about it, how for centuries the Chinese emperors would wait on their subjects by cutting up their meat for them, thereby preventing shameful incidents like those in England and Holland and now in France as well. Such a form of government is unsurpassable, unless you eliminate meat entirely or cut it into even smaller portions. Of course, the Chinese prepare each person’s meal individually, Schmettau would add; there are no large pots or pans, and each person is aware that his dish is meant for him alone, which helps him overlook the fact that his meat has been cut in advance.
A people such as the Serbs, on the other hand, know only one utensil – the knife – and each cuts his own. Besides that, since everything is served from a common pot – just the opposite of the Chinese – everyone grabs whatever he can, and no one knows what’s really meant for him. Clearly, Schmettau would conclude, a better government for the Serbs would provide either bigger knives or a deeper pot.
However, Schmettau would say, the Serbs and the Chinese do have one thing in common, which is that their lives aren’t worth a cent to their lords and masters. And so they set no store by their own lives either. Actually, his explanation for this had nothing to do with cookery or tableware.
And my reason for telling you this has nothing to do with the Serbs or, indeed, the Chinese. I mention it because Schmettau was terribly upset about the spices. He cried out and struck the servants, then hurled the vilest curses at them; he wept, tore his hair, dropped to his knees, then sprang up and ran in a circle around us, wailing, cursing and staggering about. What made it distasteful was not the overreaction to a trifling matter but the gaping discrepancy – made only more egregious by the short time that had passed – between his impassive acceptance of Radetzky’s death and his inexpressible grief over some wasted Chinese seasonings.
In the end Schmettau smeared himself with the spices, wailing that all was lost. When he’d covered himself with as much as he could he suddenly turned towards me and began speaking as if delivering a lecture.
‘It is good that it should be so. At last I have understood.’ He leaped to his feet (he’d been kneeling until now) and came towards me saying, ‘The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. And we also get things and discard them. We have to keep throwing things out or we’d be up to our eyes in rubbish, wouldn’t we?’
In my bewilderment I said yes.
‘Cities have sewers, and men to sweep and cart away our rubbish. Isn’t that so? But in the countryside there’s none of that. Nothing gets thrown away out here. Whatever’s no longer wanted goes on the fields as manure. That’s what happens. You see, Princess, you cannot love all the ones you’ve ever loved. Or feel all the things you’ve ever felt. You have to keep sweeping it away. Destroying it. That’s why the city is in equilibrium: a heavenly place, with high walls to keep the rest of the world at bay. The rest is Hell. Which is where we are right now.’
‘You mean to say,’ I stammered, ‘that God has … abandoned us?’
He turned away, as if longer needing another person to talk to but continued speaking as he headed off towards the woods.
‘There’s more than one. Ha, ha, ha.’
He stepped among the trees and was lost to sight. When I think about Schmettau now I realize he must have been one of those people who cannot tolerate imperfection of any sort, especially in its chief aspect: life. He simply wasn’t lazy enough. Because laziness is more than a certain dullness of heart and mind, it is also necessary for survival. Necessary, in fact, for happiness. For most people achieving happiness in life is a natural ability. It’s almost something they’re born with, and they don’t need to think about it or learn how to do it. Whenever we are obliged to learn something there’s always the question of whether – perhaps because of bad teachers, or faulty books, or that we are lazy, dull-witted students – we can ever learn it well enough. Worst of all, if the lessons being taught are utterly wrong. Learning to be happy after you’ve already ceased to be so, for whatever reason, is hard work. The chances of succeeding are so slim.
I was already tired, although it was only morning. But I wasn’t to have even a moment’s peace. Baron Schmidlin came to me and asked whether I wanted to go with the others to see the old woman.
‘What old woman?’ I asked.
‘The only one who knows where the vampire lies buried.’
We set off. Without any escort, I noticed. Baron Schmidlin led the way, followed by the two men from the commission, Count von Hausburg, his servant and myself. I couldn’t tell you what path we took; my mind was elsewhere, and I wasn’t keeping track. Still, it didn’t take us more than half an hour. Since we’d started at the top of one hill, I think we must have gone all the way down and then back up another. We were heading eastwards.
We came to a small village at the top of the hill, and it didn’t take long to find the old woman. As a matter of fact, we found two old women. Both were exceedingly old. They were perched on stools: one woman never stopped talking, while the other said not a word. Each of them was more than a hundred years old and no doubt nearly deaf and blind.
The servant shouted, ‘Which one of you is Mirjana?’
Nothing happened. The one who was speaking kept up her stream of words, while the one who was silent said nothing.
‘Which one of you is Mirjana?’ the servant repeated.
‘What’s all this racket?’ squawked the woman who had been sitting quietly. ‘Can’t h
ear a word you’re saying anyway. You should be whispering, not shouting.’
I understood at once how cantankerous she must be. My husband would have much to say on the topic of nasty old crones. Later, of course.
Novak went to her and whispered something in her ear. She grinned, revealing a mouthful of unexpectedly strong teeth.
‘Well now, I’m not going to tell you. So there.’ Then von Hausburg spoke to her.
‘You’re Mirjana?’
She nodded. ‘But I’m not telling.’
‘Why not, grandmother?’
‘Because. That’s why. So you’ll have to stay right here and deal with me. Have to ask me nicely, sit and talk with me. That’s why. It’s no fun for me here on my own. Go on, bribe it out of me. Come on.’
‘You’ll be famous if you tell us,’ said von Hausburg. Again she laughed, showing her strong yellow teeth. ‘I’ll be famous if I don’t tell you, too.’
The baron was silent. As were the two men from the commission. Novak stood off to one side as though the conversation had nothing to do with him. Von Hausburg chuckled and winked at me. He was enjoying the give and take.
‘You’ll be even more famous if you do.’
The old woman laughed again, a hearty, brazen laugh. The other old woman joined her. Then the laughter spread to the two men from the commission, the baron, then Novak and von Hausburg. In the end even I joined in, not knowing why.
The old woman said, ‘That’s enough.’ And as if at her command, we all fell silent. ‘Sava Savanović lies in the crooked valley under the spreading elm.’
5
They were keeping me from sleeping, and I needed my rest because I knew important things were about to happen. I couldn’t very well go around yawning, tired and not at my best. I tried counting sheep. It didn’t work. I counted all sorts of things. In the end I gave up counting. I tried to empty my mind of all thoughts. They say that’s the best thing to do, the only way to fall asleep. Your dreams try to get even with you afterwards, but by then it’s too late.
The harder I tried not to think, the more I kept seeing Thurn and Valsassina, the bishop-count with his ugly face and mincing speech, going on about his travels and art and the inquisitions he’d presided over, such a young man and already so good. I had no use for him this morning, and yet he kept pushing his way into my thoughts, over and over, as if he were the answer to all my problems. Around and around he flew, trying to find a way in, just like all feelings. Only he wasn’t a feeling; he was a man – of a sort. And feelings were always doing that: always in the air, in other people, in things, breaking free of their owners and homes and running loose through the world. Attacking me, trying to get inside, attempting to cross the line of my individual self, to scale the ramparts and enter my heart. But I wouldn’t give in. I did whatever I could to fight off feelings. Not even if they broke through a wall would I surrender, for where could my armies go, where could they carry their weapons? Where is my Niš?
Love can dig all the trenches it wants to undermine my defences. Still I am protected behind wall after towering wall, behind blind ditches and deep moats, stagnant water hiding spikes at the bottom, waiting to impale that daring invader known as humility, to fend off the battering-ram of modesty and shame.
And so this morning I was under attack by Bishop-Count of Thurn and Valsassina. I must admit I found him hard to resist: he was, after all, a two-faced clergyman. That’s why I let him in for a bit.
We had already met several times. In Vienna, of course. On one occasion, in my crafty way, I’d managed to manoeuvre him into talking about vampires. He wasn’t happy about it, that much was clear, and I was starting to congratulate myself on a job well done. His face suddenly twisted into its famous smile, and I knew then and there (well, obviously) that he was going to try to trick me.
‘Did you know, I’ve already encountered vampires?’
‘No, Your Grace. Really?’
‘Oh yes indeed. And do you know where? In Mexico, of all places. None other than Mexico. And you mustn’t think of me as losing my purity out there among the Indians, those outlandish Aztecs and Maya. Why, they haven’t the faintest idea about vampires. They’re much more interested in plumed serpents and such things.’ He was silent for a moment, and then continued. ‘We had ordered a heretic to be burnt at the stake, don’t you know. Nothing out of the ordinary, except that her paintings were to be burnt with her. She was a lover of heresy in all its guises. As the Holy Father so wisely puts it, “All heresies are but one.” Her name was Remedios Varo. Her works of impiety had begun in Spain, if memory serves, before she imagined she could elude us by fleeing across the ocean. Once in Mexico, of course, she persisted in her old ways. She painted as if possessed. Come to think of it, she probably was.’
‘What year was this?’
‘Recently.’
‘Ah.’
‘Why am I telling you all this, you may ask? Because one of her paintings was titled Vegetarian Vampires. The painting depicted three vampires, three creatures, sitting around a small table and each using a straw – a straw, mind you! – to sip the juice from a watermelon, a rose and a tomato. The hats they wore seemed to be sprouting wings, and all three figures were gaunt and emaciated. Only to be expected, I suppose, if they didn’t eat meat. Now, as I watched the painting burn, the thought did cross my mind that maybe these vampires aren’t so bad after all, by God, if they feed on nothing but fruits and flowers. Nevertheless, the entire composition reminded me of an icon I’d seen in Russia, the work of a man named Rublev, entitled The Holy Trinity. As soon as I set eyes on that icon I felt an overpowering desire to burn it. I couldn’t, of course. For political reasons, don’t you know. But still I felt a double satisfaction in watching those vegetarian vampires go up in flames.’
‘I understand completely.’
‘I’m so glad.’
‘How is it, though, that Remedios Varo isn’t more widely known? I mean, heretics usually make such a noise. And they’re in such demand nowadays among the clever set, aren’t they?’ I asked.
‘Come now, Herr Graf. Remedios Varo was a woman and a beautiful one at that. And who thinks highly of beautiful women, especially in Mexico? No one took her seriously, what with her being so lovely and graceful, but we do not succumb to the wiles of nature. We took her very seriously indeed, and we nearly caught her in Madrid. She managed to slip away again in Barcelona, but we finally got her in the New World.’
Suddenly he gave a start, as if something had occurred to him. ‘Are you working for the Inquisition now?’
‘Always and for ever,’ I replied.
That was quite enough of Thurn and Valsassina, I told myself, then turned over and fell fast asleep. I slept on for another two or three hours, until the others began to stir and roused me from the sweetest of slumbers.
6
That’s what the old woman said, and her words seemed as straightforward as the task that lay before us. At the time I believed that nothing could be simpler than a ritual (and laying a vampire to rest is, after all, a ritual), because the rubrics are all set out beforehand, with every last detail provided for, and not even a fool can get it wrong. Back then I never doubted the efficacy of any ritual.
Now I know that no ritual, no matter how time-honoured or up-to-date, can withstand intentional errors, the distortion of its essence, the deliberate perversion of the ritual itself. But those who twist a ritual out of shape are overlooking one fact: they’re not really making a mockery of the ritual, as they think. Instead, they’re taking the other side, the side the ritual was meant to protect us from. You know who I mean, the ones who sneer at the prayers of the simple, at smooth-talking priests, at the moneychangers in the temple, or at faith itself, saying that God does not hear us. The Devil hears our mocking voices as clear as a bell. And rejoices.
We went with the peasants to gather what we’d need to slay the vampire. We all went together, and Schmettau reappeared as if from nowhere. He must have wanted
to see the sharpened stake. The final end of the vampire. He was obsessed with endings, you see. He’d even complain when a book came to an end. He was searching for completion, for an explanation to end all explanations, and a stake through the heart of the vampire must have seemed as final a solution as any.
For some reason I couldn’t fathom, he liked to be near me, to talk to me. No, it’s not what you might be thinking, I assure you. Count Schmettau was so preoccupied with the meaning of life that he could easily forget about life itself. He wasn’t in love with me, and he didn’t love anyone else. He may have loved Count Wittgenau – not as a friend, of course, but as someone similar to himself. He cared only for those who shared his way of thinking, and such people were rather thin on the ground. Understandably so.
So then, in spite of the task at hand, which should have been strange and unusual enough for anyone’s attention, Schmettau was going on and on about his own experiences.
‘Have you ever played mah-jong? You have? So have I. With Chinamen, of course. It’s a Chinese game. Do you know, the Chinese very wisely refrained from telling me the rules and the object of the game. They wanted me to learn by myself. They would merely give me a sign if I made a wrong move. And I worked hard to learn it. First and foremost, the moves a player may or may not make, only afterwards moving on to the point of the game. And do you know what I got out of it?’
‘You learned how to play.’
‘No! Or rather, yes, I learned how to play. What I meant was …’
Just then the peasants cried out. I looked, but could not see what was happening. Until they brought the horse. A pure black horse with no markings. Unclean, they were saying; that’s how Baron Schmidlin translated it. Only a horse of purest black could identify the vampire’s grave. That is, the horse would stop and refuse to cross it. Behind the horse came a Serbian priest, a great wooden cross around his neck. He was bald with a jet-black beard. He was carrying an aspergillum of holy water.
Fear and His Servant Page 16