The Dark Domain

by Stefan Grabinski

  Later that day, he got the sudden impulse to drop by The Hyena, an inn not far from the cemetery. This tavern, constructed years ago thanks to his covert efforts and funds, was given this odd name by an unknown carpenter who had arrived at the gravedigger’s special request. The name was justified by the front of the building, which had a stone hyena arching its spotted back over the inn. Soon the inn became the meeting place of pall bearers and gravediggers, who after every burial carried on a wake of their own, drinking away their earnings.

  Out of principle Giovanni didn’t show himself in this den of gambling and drinking, though he liked to pass by in the evening and listen to the drunken gaiety of his people.

  Despite this, he wasn’t able to resist temptation that day and decided to spend some time there in disguise. He first put on the attire of a high-ranking noble; then he attached his inseparable mask, secured a beard over it, and further hid himself with a wide hat. Thus dressed, he entered the inn early to observe at his leisure the funeral celebrations of his ‘children.’

  That evening a considerable number of people, of various occupations and positions, were congregating at the inn – the season was raw, boredom stifled one at home, and a Saint’s Day feast, which would start the next day, brought many customers from surrounding areas. The proprietor of the inn, a sly, roguishly smiling old man, ran from table to table like a spinning top; he curled himself up, hemmed and hawed, poured wine and encouraged the singing. A group of wandering gypsies, squatting in the corner of the room, played melancholic-wild songs.

  Around nine o’clock Tossati’s men entered, and the inn took on its true character.

  Tossati didn’t take part in the conversations. Squeezed in a dark corner of the room, he covered his face with the wide brim of his hat so that he wouldn’t be recognized, and just consumed innumerable mugs of the honey wine in silence. He listened and observed.

  People’s humour was exceptional, the mood, particularly after the entrance of the cemetery workers, gay. Anecdotes abounded, witticisms sparkled, jokes exploded. Peter Randone, a tall, stick-like scoundrel, especially outdid his companions by describing lewd scenes from his own experiences.

  After midnight the inn started to slowly empty. The customers, wearied from drinking, went out one by one from the smoke-filled room and disappeared into the black night. Tossati, having overdone it, fell asleep. His hand dropped lazily on the table, pulling off the hat from his leaden head. At some moment his body, overpowered by drink, slid from the bench and fell heavily to the floor. The gravedigger didn’t wake up; intoxicated sleep overpowered him completely. The good-natured mask, hitching against the table leg, slipped off his face and rolled under the chair with a soft rustle. None of this was noticed in the general tumult, and Giovanni slept in peaceful delight under the bench, undisturbed by anyone. But when the inn emptied around two and only the black brotherhood of death remained, the well-dressed customer lying under the bench attracted the curious glances of the last revellers.

  ‘That rascal really got drunk! Let’s take a look at him in the light!’

  ‘We’ll see whose mama’s boy it is!’

  ‘Some rich merchant or cavaliere – a man about town in pursuit of adventure. Come on, let’s get him out from under that bench!’

  Several eager hands stretched out toward the sleeper and laid him on his back. But when they saw the face of the drunken man, everyone recoiled simultaneously. The cemetery men’s eyes were lit up in horrified amazement. Because the body of the stranger, attired in elegant, soft garments, had a corpse’s head. The deeply sunken eyes stared out with what seemed cold death; the yellow, shriveled skin merged with the tint of the jutting cheek bones; the hairless, earless skull shone with the smoothness of glazed tibias … .

  A vague murmur ran through the group. The affair made them uneasy. The first one to ‘get his wits about him’ was Randone:

  ‘What kind of stupid joke is this! Which one of you dug out this corpse for this masquerade? Well, speak up while you still have the chance!’

  Silence. They glanced at each other in astonishment, not understanding what this was all about. No one pleaded guilty.

  ‘Ha!’ resumed Randone, ‘we’ll let it go for the time being; we’ll deal with the joker later on. Now let’s take this body on our shoulders while there is still time and head straight for the cemetery! In two hours it’ll be daybreak – we have to hurry before it gets light. If the town hears of this, we’re done for!’

  Silently they carried out the order. Six men raised Tossati and, placing him on their shoulders, made their way out toward the cemetery. They went quickly, glancing about in apprehension in case someone was watching. They didn’t pay attention to the mud spattering them up to their knees as they sloshed through puddles of rainwater. A strange fear and their leader’s command drove them on – or someone else’s command, or an internal necessity. They didn’t speak; they didn’t feel the unusual temperature of the body; they didn’t notice that the hands of the corpse still hadn’t rotted; they didn’t for a moment pay attention to the difference between the state of the head and the rest of the body. Just as long as they moved forward, as quickly as possible, so as to be finished with the whole affair!

  They plunged into the cool paths of the cemetery; they passed the main road, crossed several side ones, and turned right, amongst the fresh graves. Here, beside a jasmine tree hidden by thickets, they stopped and lowered Tossati to the ground.

  ‘To your shovels,’ resounded the quiet order of Peter Randone.

  They briskly grabbed the handles and began to scoop out wet lumps of earth.

  In fifteen minutes the grave was already deep.

  Randone spoke again. ‘To the bottom with him!!’

  Tossati didn’t budge, he didn’t stir; he slept soundly.

  Eager black hands hurled him into the hole. The thud of the dropped body merged with the impact of shovels throwing back the earth. The men worked with rare fervour, as if in a mad race. In several minutes the hole was filled up. Freshly carried and hastily packed-down earth topped off the grave.

  Then the group breathed freely. With soiled hands, they wiped pearly drops of sweat from their foreheads; they looked about with a strange, quizzical glance. Then, not saying anything, they took their shovels and put as much distance as possible between themselves and the grave … .

  It was perhaps four in the morning. A light rain started to fall again, sifted as if through a sieve. Beaded tears flowed down from cemetery birches and ran silently along paths; damp and pendulant willows swung sadly in the wind. Dawn’s grey radiance, passing through the wall of trees, studied with amazement the melancholy retreat. Some evil birds, blinded by the pall of night, flapped their wings ominously amongst the branches and dug themselves deeper into the leaves. The rain drizzled, the wind soughed in the trees, the dawn became misty … .

  A long, black procession of Tossati’s men moved out stealthily from the cemetery gate, their step heavy, uncertain, their heads bowed low … .

  SZAMOTA’S MISTRESS

  (Pages from a discovered diary)

  And the rib, which the Lord God had taken from man, made he a woman, and brought her unto the man. And Adam said, This is now bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh: she shall be called Woman, because she was taken out of Man. Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife: and they shall be one flesh. Genesis 2:22–24

  I have been intoxicated with joy for six days now and can hardly believe my good fortune. Six days ago I entered a new phase of life, one so markedly different than what preceded, that it seems I am living through a great cataclysm.

  I received a letter from her.

  Since her departure abroad a year ago to an unknown destination – this first wonderful sign from her … . I cannot, I truly cannot believe it! I will faint from joy!

  A letter from her to me! To me, someone completely unknown to her, a humble, distant admirer with whom no friendly relati
ons had existed before, not even a fleeting acquaintanceship. But the letter is genuine. I carry it continually with me, I do not part with it even for one second. The name on the address is clear, without a doubt: Jerzy Szamota. It is I, after all. Not believing my own eyes, I showed the envelope to several acquaintances; everyone looked at me with some amazement, then smiled and confirmed that the address is legible and bears my name.

  So she is returning home, returning in just a couple of days, and the first person who will greet her at her door will be I – I, whose adoring eyes barely dared to look up at her during chance sightings on the street, on some park lane, in the theatre, at a concert … .

  If I could have to my credit at least one glance, or a brief smile from her proud lips – but no! She seemed to have been completely unaware of me. Until this letter, I had been certain she did not even know of my existence. Surely she hadn’t noticed me all those years while I trailed after her like a distant, timid shadow? I was so discreet, so very unobtrusive! My yearning enveloped her with such a far-removed, delicate ray. Yet she must have sensed this. With a sensitive woman’s instinct, she sensed my love and my meek, boundless adoration. It seems that the invisible bonds of attraction that existed between us all these years grew more powerful during our distant separation, and now they draw her to me.

  My best wishes, my most beautiful one! At this evening hour, the day bows before me in bright, cheerful flashes, and with a raised head I hum a song in praise of your magnificence – my most wonderful Lady!

  It is already Thursday. The day after tomorrow, at this time, I will see her. Not until then. Such is her expressed wish. I take her letter in my hand, that priceless lilac sheet from which escapes a subtle fragrance of heliotrope, and I read for the hundredth time:

  Dear! Call at the house on 8 Green Street on Saturday, the 26th, at six in the evening. You will find the garden gate open. I will be waiting for you. Let the yearning of many years be fulfilled. Yours, Jadwiga Kalergis

  The house on 8 Green Street! Her villa, The Lindens! A splendid, medieval-styled little mansion in the midst of a grand park, separated from the street by woods and a thick wire fence; the aim of nearly all my daily walks. How many times during the evening had I sneaked up to this quiet spot, searching with a racing heart for her shadow on the windowpanes! …

  Impatient with waiting for the anticipated Saturday, I was already at her house several times attempting to gain entry; but I always found the garden gate closed – the handle yielded, but the lock did not spring open. She still had not returned. I should be patient and wait, but I am so unbearably excited. I do not eat, I cannot sleep; I only count the hours, the minutes. So much time remains! Forty-eight hours! … Tomorrow I will spend the entire day on the river by her park. I will rent a boat and circle near her villa. Saturday I will spend the morning and part of the afternoon at the railway station. I have to welcome her, at least from afar. I know from her neighbours, who have not seen her for a year, that she has not yet returned. She has definitely postponed her arrival until the 26th of September – that is, on the day of my visit. In truth, I fear I won’t come at an opportune time; after such a journey she will be extremely tired.

  * * *

  Saturday morning – that is, yesterday – I did not see her among the abundant crowds at the station. I waited until four in the afternoon for the second train, with the same result. Maybe she hadn’t arrived? Or maybe she had come on the morning train and was already at home? In either case, I had to go to her villa and ascertain the truth.

  Those two hours that separated us became an unbearable torment whose end I could hardly wait for. Entering a café, I drank a large amount of black coffee, smoked lots of cigarettes, and unable to sit still, I rushed back outside. Passing by a flower stall, I remembered the flowers I had ordered for today.

  How absentminded of me! I would have completely forgotten!

  I went and collected a bouquet of crimson roses and azaleas. The freshly-cut flowers, their fragrant buds emerging from a circle of ferns, shook gently in the evening breeze. The clocks of the city were approaching a quarter to six.

  I wrapped the bouquet in paper and quickly left in the direction of the river. In several minutes I was already on the other side of the bridge. With a nervous step I neared the villa. My heart beat wildly, my legs trembled. Finally I reached the gate and pressed down on the handle: it gave way. Dazed by happiness, I rested for several minutes against the park fence, unable to contain my emotions. So, she had returned!

  My wandering gaze travelled along the rows of linden trees, which, arranged on opposite sides of the pathway, stretched in long lanes to the portal. Somewhere to the left, behind mulberry and dogwood shrubs, appeared the skeleton of an autumnal vine-covered arbor; red leaves drifted down a chaotic trellis containing already-withered ivies.

  Flower-beds held the blossoms of autumn: chrysanthemums and asters. Yellow chestnut and brick-red maple leaves drizzled with quiet sadness on paths overgrown with grass and weeds. Dahlias bled under a dried-up marble cistern; large glass containers alternated rainbow colours … . In the midst of a privet, on a stone bench covered with a carpet of conifer needles, two finches twittered a song of flight. Deep within the alleys, in the darkening sunset light, spiders spun out their silky, silver threads … .

  With both hands I pushed open the heavy front door, and after ascending some winding stairs, I found myself on the first floor. I was struck by the absence of life. The mansion looked deserted; no one met me, nowhere was there a sign of servants or any members of the household. Scattered large electric lamps illuminated, with their blindingly bright beams, empty halls and galleries.

  In the antechamber, opened hospitably for my arrival, unoccupied coat-racks presented a lonely sight. Their smooth metallic knobs glittered with the cold reflection of polished copper. I removed my coat. At that moment the sound of the city’s clocks flowed in through a large, open Gothic window: they tolled the sixth hour … .

  I knocked on the door in front of me. There was no response from within. I became anxious. What should I do? Enter without permission? Maybe, fatigued by travel, she was fast asleep?

  Suddenly the door opened, and she stood on the threshold. Her piercing, proud yet sweet eyes gazed at me from under the regal diadem of her chestnut hair. Her classical head, worthy of Poliklet’s chisel, was crowned by an emerald-inlaid tiara. A soft, snow-white peplos, flowing in harmonious waves to sixteenth-century footwear, enveloped her statuesque figure. Juno stolata!

  I bowed before her majesty. And she, withdrawing inside, let me pass with a gesture of her hand into a palatial apartment. It was a magnificent bedroom decorated exquisitely in the fashions of former times.

  In silence, she sat inside a deep niche on a giallo antico bed.

  I knelt on the carpet by her feet, laying my head on her knees. She embraced it in a warm, maternal movement and started to tenderly comb my hair with her fingers. We gazed endlessly into each other’s eyes, unable to sate ourselves with what we saw. We were silent. Thus far not one word had fallen between us – as if we feared scaring away with a reckless sound the angel of bewitchment that fettered and united our souls.

  Suddenly she leaned over and kissed me on the lips. Blood pounded in my head, the world turned round drunkenly – and my passion unleashed itself. I grabbed her roughly and, not sensing any resistance, threw her on the bed. With a quick, elusive movement, she unclasped the amber fibula on her shoulder, exposing before me her divine body. So I possessed her in boundless suffering and longing, my senses intoxicated and my heart enraptured, my soul frenzied and my blood burning.

  Hours passed with the speed of lightning, short as its flashes and potent with happiness; racing moments flew by like the winds of the steppe – moments precious like rare pearls. Wearied by pleasure, we drifted off to exquisite dreams that were like the groves of paradise, like magical fairy-tales – only to awaken to day-dreams even more wonderful, more beautiful … .

  W
hen I finally opened my heavy eyelids near six in the morning and glanced around, fully conscious, Jadwiga was no longer at my side.

  I dressed quickly. After waiting for her in vain for an entire hour, I returned home … .

  I feel giddy, there’s fire in my veins. I must have a fever because my lips are swollen and there’s a strange bitter taste in my mouth. Walking about, I stagger and stumble against the furniture … .

  I look at the world as if through a mist or a delightful veil of entrancement … .

  * * *

  The following day, after my return from the newspaper office, I found a letter from Jadwiga on my desk, in which she designated our next meeting. It was to take place at her villa and again on a Saturday evening. That date seemed too distant for me: I went to The Lindens on Tuesday afternoon. But the gate was closed. Irritated, I walked around the little mansion a few times in the hope of spotting her in one of the park alleys. But the paths were empty – the autumn wind alone was there, raising batches of withered leaves and mercilessly driving them into lengthy, sad rows. Even though it soon became completely dark, I did not glimpse any lights through the windows. The house was silent and dead, as if there were no one living in it. So it seems she spends her evenings in one of the rooms with a northern exposure – that is, on the side least accessible to a passerby’s eye. Discouraged, I left.

  Similar attempts on the following days met with the same result, and so I had to submit to her wish and wait until Saturday. Nevertheless it surprised me that during that entire week I did not see her, even once, in town, not at the theatre, nor on the tram. Apparently a dramatic change has occurred in her life-style. Jadwiga Kalergis, once the daily object of admiration by the city’s dandies and Don Juans, the queen of parties, concerts and social events, now lives like a nun.