As for the other heroes of our tale …
2
When I finally got up I was in a terrible mood. And why not? Running around all night with phantoms, vampires and adulterers, smoking bad hashish and remembering Bishop-Count of Thurn and Valsassina … none of it likely to put anyone in good humour.
Immediately after breakfast our little party came face to face with the result of the crimson man’s visit to the watermill and to Radetzky. Everyone was dismayed, or at least pretended to be. The fellow with the blond wig went so far as to faint upon seeing the body on the floor. The princess displayed such presence of mind and spirit (what spirit?) that her innocence struck me as questionable. It was quite clear that she was involved with the Turks in some way or that her family had branched out from merely carrying letters to writing them as well. But treachery among the men and women of this world is a fine and useful thing, while conspiring with otherworldly creatures against one’s fellow mortals is a transgression comparable only to certain incidents that I am understandably loath to discuss.
I didn’t want to enter the mill. I could well imagine how Radetzky must look. Even the reliably pea-brained Schmeticulous hung back, while from Baron Schmeddlesome I expected nothing less than the laughable cowardice he, in fact, displayed.
As so often happens in life, you learn nothing from those who are content to keep their heads down and stay put; you have to wait for someone to come along and push their way to the front. And so it was that my princess of industry, in her burning desire to wreak good wherever she went, attempted to soothe the red baron with her sensible questions and her own sensible answers (because any conversation becomes senseless once you let other people respond). He must have realized that there was no longer any point in secrecy and blabbed the terrible secret of the commission’s true assignment. Radetzky had even fooled me with his lies.
I didn’t have much trouble convincing them all to enlist against the vampires. They seemed to jump at the idea. I went off to find Novak, although I knew where he was, of course. I needed to get away for a short while to think things over.
Wittgenstein had come to investigate the fortress and the cistern in particular. Then he’d disappeared. The commission had come to look into his disappearance, pretending to be investigating the reports of vampires. The hajduks who supposedly knew something about the vampires were in cahoots with the Austrians and – as I had overheard from the inevitable triangle, with the princess as hypotenuse, Schmettau on one side and Schmidlin on the other – the baron was bribing the Serbs, or the Serbs were bribing him, as you like, and the baron was the one I had seen on the night of the costume ball lit up by a flash of lightning as he stood with the hajduks. The hajduks, for their part, claimed that there were no vampires and that the whole thing had been an impractical joke.
But there were vampires. Meaning the hajduks were lying, that they hadn’t done away with the tax-collector; he really had been bled dry by vampires. Why were the hajduks claiming responsibility for what the vampires had done? To seem bigger and stronger? The next question was what would vampires need with a tax-collector’s purse? Vampires weren’t exactly known for dealing in cold, hard cash.
Then, on the other hand, the triangle of commissioners had arranged to spend the night in the very same watermill where the vampires were said to be appearing. What for? To carry their deception as far as it would go? ‘See, we really are looking for vampires.’
On yet another hand, the regent behaved as if there were no vampires, no commission, no Wittgenstein nosing around the fortress – as if, in a nutshell, nothing unusual was happening at all. Which made him a bad lot in my eyes.
And while I pondered, weak and weary, I came straight to the door of the alehouse. Novak had given me a description and directions. No sign hung over the entrance, whether because the owners wanted to avoid paying taxes or because they didn’t know how to write, I couldn’t say. As I stepped inside I was assailed by a stench so strong that my nose soon lost track of it.
Novak was propped up at a table, already pickled as a gherkin.
I sat down beside him.
‘On your feet! We’re off to find the vampire.’
He regarded me blearily.
‘When I was little …’ he slurred, ‘when I was little my mother was a good woman. From a good family. A good woman. Believed in work. And I believed in everything, too. I did. In God and the Devil and good books and saying the Jesus Prayer. That’s right, I believed in the great and holy prayer of transfiguration. Lord Jesus Christ, Lord God, have mercy on me, sinner that I am. Or however it goes. You don’t know it? But I never believed in work. Ever. In rakija, sure. That came later. Also wine. And beer, too – just not as much. It’s true. Even before that, I believed in all sorts of things I’d been taught. And books. What do you know? And there was my mother, believing in work. And you know what, we were rich. She didn’t need to lift a finger. Ever. But she did. She’d take up her needle and thread and not mind a bit. Embroidered all my collars. Sat in the corner and trimmed all the linens with golden birds and flowers. And why? She’d say, so the servants know to fold back the sheets and tuck in the covers and pillowcases, proper-like. And my collars, so I’d have something special to wear, a bit of cheer for myself and for others to see …’ He began to weep. ‘She thought there was only one way to bring all that whiteness to life, those damned plain white sheets, with her little flowers and little birds, so there’d be no mistaking the way the things ought to go, and they’d be a happier sight and everyone happier for it …’ He was sobbing now, his tears mixing with the rakija he’d spilled on the table. ‘She believed in all those little things she embroidered. And I believed in big things. Great big empty things. Master? Master, you’re not crying, are you? Surely not you?’
‘Be quiet, you fool. Pull yourself together. Silence.’
‘And why should I be quiet? What’s the use of keeping quiet? It’s no better than talking.’
‘Now get this through your thick skull,’ I said furiously – servants understand nothing but direct commands and words of anger. ‘We are going to track down Sava Savanović in his vampire hole. You are going to help us. You’re one of the locals. It’s no good sitting around snivelling. Your mind is rotten with drink and memories, and you haven’t a thing in your life to show for it. Now, on your feet!’
He stood up reluctantly. I had to settle the bill. Once outside I forced him to vomit up what he’d been drinking. Then I splashed him with cold rainwater from a bucket that stood conveniently to hand. My efforts to sober him up were successful – somewhat. We took the long way back so I could tell Novak everything I’d seen and heard and hear what he thought.
He paid close attention, punctuated by an occasional sneeze.
3
Very well, if you won’t let me go on, I’ll stop reading.
I couldn’t care less what it says, anyway. I’m the only one who knows what happened. The others can only make things up. If knowledge is a crime, you should have put me on trial long ago.
I’m old enough now that I simply don’t care. Do what you like. Have me burned as a witch, pack me off to a nunnery, but I’ll repent as I see fit, and there’s not a thing you can do about it.
4
How can I be good when everyone else is so bad? Should I be the only one to suffer? To suffer all by myself in this hopelessly tangled web of lies and truth? There’s only one thread to grab hold of, and whether it’s the truth or not depends on which end you start at.
One thing’s for sure, the knot can be solved by pounding a stake through the middle of it. Although, upon further reflection, that may not be the most felicitous metaphor. After cutting the Gordian knot, Alexander the Great did go on to conquer Asia only to die soon afterwards. No, I don’t think I’ll use that particular example.
‘Don’t you think, though, master, that there should be more signs of the coming end of the world besides just one vampire in Dedejsko Selo?’
‘Such as?’
‘I don’t know, something like “In those days the sun shall be darkened …”’
Which is what Bishop-Count of Thurn and Valsassina had said. He looked along the length of the ballroom and, his eyes heavy from wine, sat down to rest with his head in his hands.
‘I was in Rome a few months ago.’ Angling for one of those silly-looking birettas, no doubt. ‘I was shown some work by our astronomers. They had just finished calculating the date of the end of the world: 11 August 1999. Are you relieved to hear it? On that day there will be a total eclipse of the sun. You see, there’s still time for you …’ he laughed nastily.
‘Time for what?’
‘To fulfil Origen’s prophecy.’
‘Origen?’
‘You know, Origen, the Christian from Alexandria who died in the Roman persecutions, but not before sharing with the world his idea of apocatastasis, universal repentance and salvation. Even the Devil. No Hell, everyone saved. Naturally we had him branded as a heretic.’
Everyone knew who I was.
But I didn’t believe the bishop-count. I didn’t believe that terrible things would be accompanied by signs and wonders or be heralded by calls and warnings. The terrible things were sufficient unto themselves. Why not a balmy spring day, birds warbling, crickets chirping, people lying, cherries blossoming, a light breeze ruffling the babbling brook, flowers dotting the meadow and, bang, end of the world. And Fishmouth standing there in his white robes, always those white robes, with all those little winged things flitting around him like fireflies, and he’s bellowing You’re all going straight to Hell!
‘You know what crossed my mind as you were telling me about the man in crimson-purple?’ asked Novak.
‘What?’
‘Do you know what the English mean by a purple passage?’ ‘Remind me.’
‘A purple passage is a bit of masterful writing in an otherwise bad book. It stands out.’
‘Well, he’s certainly outstanding at what he does, no two ways about that. You should have seen the way he transformed into that Turk! But we’ll soon fix him. With a stake. We’re going to find him right now. You gather the peasants and make sure everything’s ready, and we’ll put an end to this vampire business once and for all.’
‘There’s one thing I forgot to mention.’
‘Something I’ll find useful?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What do you mean, you don’t know? Foolish servant! Out with it, then.’
‘The Russian we met, the one the peasants thought was the Archangel Michael …’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, they saw him making the sign of the cross. He was using two fingers. Two fingers – not an open hand like the Catholics, not three fingers like the Orthodox, just two fingers. Is that the Protestant way?’
‘No, it’s not! Heh, heh, heh. That’s fiendishly good news, if I do say so myself.’
‘How so?’
‘Because the only ones who cross themselves with two fingers are the Russian Old Believers. Michael would never come in the guise of a heretic! Never. Which means he’s not Michael. And if Michael isn’t here then it’s not the end of the world either. Very good news indeed. And now, to put an end to the master of purple.’
5
But the search dragged on. The peasants kept stopping to dig. It was exasperating. Especially since they’d brought along a priest, who was entirely surplus to requirements. Stupid Christians, they just don’t get it. There’s only one way to beat the forces of darkness, and that’s with more darkness. At times I was terribly tempted to grab the stake and take matters into my own hands, but I refrained, thinking it best to remain in character as an Austrian count.
It was getting dark by the time we found the grave. At first it seemed to be yet another dead end, but the black horse wasn’t fooled. It refused to take another step. I told Novak to buy the horse for me once it was all over. The priest started droning on and on, and I wanted to poke out my eardrums. Schmidlin had his assignment from the peasants, to stand by as the young man drove the stake through the heart and to cover the mouth of the finally departed so the leptirak couldn’t get out and turn anyone else into a vampire. The baron seemed frightened, but he nodded his head and took his place alongside.
They brought up the coffin, and the young man with the stake got ready to strike the moment it was opened. Only one peasant stepped forward to remove the lid. It made a hideous scraping noise as he tried to draw it back.
The lid seemed to be unspeakably heavy, and (unable to stand by any longer) I leaped forward to help. We didn’t have an easy time of it. I don’t think we managed to budge it by more than an inch. I called for Novak. For some reason – perhaps his foolish Serbian superstitions – he had hung back, but one of the men from the commission came to our assistance. I was pleasantly surprised. The young man’s strength made itself felt right away. Now the lid had moved by a foot. Then the other man from the commission joined in, and with one last push the coffin was open wide.
SEVEN
The Secret Chapter
Someone else lay inside.
He was ruddy and wearing a shroud, but it wasn’t the man in crimson. The man in crimson had eluded me. The young man got straight to work with his stake. Blood everywhere, like a pig slaughter. And then the peasants were in an uproar. Instantly I realized that the leptirak had escaped after all. Schmidlin, of course, had failed.
Quite rightly, the peasants turned on him. It was his fault. Not only had we failed to find the crimson man but now someone else would be turning into a vampire. I didn’t want to draw my pistol until I was sure they’d killed the baron. Only then did I fire. I got one of the peasants, but instantly regretted it. Why hadn’t I shot the priest! And the baron was still alive, too.
As it turned out, things weren’t as bad as they seemed. Schmidlin didn’t survive. Although he did still have enough breath in him to say where he’d gone wrong, by leaving his handkerchief in the waistcoat he’d spilt something on at lunch. He was so used to that waistcoat, he explained, that he’d gone ahead as if he were still wearing it out of sheer habit. But he wasn’t wearing it, and so he didn’t have his handkerchief either. And when the moment came he hadn’t dared to use his bare hand. Habit, they say, is second nature. A bad one. They also say habit does not make the monk, and I dare say this was true in Schmidlin’s case. His habit had just made a monkey of him.
And he was in love with the princess, too. That’s what he said, or confessed. Poor sap. The princess was in love with her husband. Loved him for no earthly reason. I remembered their conversation, the one I’d overheard at the costume ball. Of course, it was only afterwards that I realized what disguise Maria Augusta had been wearing. At the time, during the ball, it was just a mask talking. The regent had brushed her off. Why wouldn’t she leave him alone? Couldn’t she see that he didn’t want her? And she’d answered him by saying that he was the one. Which one? the regent had asked. And she’d said, did he remember the rug Count Schmettau had got from China? It was a masterpiece of weaving, a mysterious landscape the likes of which we’d never seen, and we all stood and stared at it in wonder. You were the only one who went ahead and – she stopped and then continued – stepped on it without thinking twice. You didn’t even look at it. That’s what makes you the one. The only prince. The regent shrugged. That’s what rugs are for, for walking on. But he bowed and kissed her hand, saying, I do not understand. For the very first time I do not understand. Perhaps … he said, then turned abruptly and went away.
I think that ‘perhaps’ must have given her hope. Isn’t it remarkable, how one little word can suffice for someone in love? Most likely there had been one such word from her lips, just one, addressed to Schmidlin. That had been enough for him. The fool. He’d really had it coming. I can’t protect fools from themselves.
SIX
In the Subsequent Course of Events (continued)
6
‘What would Our Dear
Lord do without you? What would we do without you?’ asked Thurn and Valsassina, then continued without waiting for an answer. ‘According to Dionysius the Areopagite, at the very heart of light there is always a point representing the divine darkness. Without it pure light would be utter blackness. And that point is you.’
‘It is,’ I confirmed. ‘And if you ascend high enough into the endless boring light you will fall far enough into yourself to find me.’
‘Do you think I haven’t? Dionysius goes on to say that knowledge is union between the knower and the known. I knew you at once. Anyone who recognizes you has already journeyed to the depths of his soul. How many persons of this sort do you meet?’
‘Lots!’
‘Excellent!’
‘Are you really that encouraged by the prospect of so many fallen souls?’
‘Ah but, caro maestro, for those who have known you there is hope of repentance and the knowledge of God. Those who have never seen you have nothing to repent. And those who have nothing to repent are merely deceiving themselves.’
7
Not a sound could be heard. Not even a moan. Only silence. An otherworldly silence. The stillness of Hell in which there are no sounds, no nightingales, no cries of torment; no mortal words in the first language, or words in any language, or purring of cats, or death-rattles; no wind in the fields, nor thunder, nor lyres, nor sneezing; no sanding and rasping, no weeping. No breathing either. That kind of silence. Even Mary Magdalene was quiet. The sun beat down. Was this really the month of Nisan? The first new moon after the spring equinox. And Friday? I looked into his eyes. Flames. In his pupils, a roaring fire. I had to turn and look. Jerusalem was burning. Herod’s white walls ringed the fires around. Who could ever put them out again? On Mount Moriah the flames encroached on the temple from all four sides. I couldn’t see the priests anywhere. The fire had passed through the courts and was at the door. I looked towards the Mount of Olives, where vats of boiling oil coursed down the hillsides towards the scorched valley. The heat was unbearable. All the aqueducts in the empire couldn’t bring enough water to quench it. Now again on Moriah the whole temple had gone up. Flames reaching to the sky. It was all lost to sight: the humble houses to the east, the palaces to the west; the hills had turned to funeral pyres. The temple burned most fiercely. Salvation lay outside the walls. All the water in the empire wouldn’t be enough now. I turned my back on Jerusalem. Again I could see his eyes. And in them the flames. Even he can’t put this fire out. And then his eyes grew dimmer. Dark. He laughed. Laughed at me.
Fear and His Servant Page 18