by Roman Payne
“Yes, yes,” I was impatient with my desire to know why she had left this man in such bafflement, running through the streets as she did, “So she paid you and was obviously was in need of some information. So tell me then, what was the information you gave her?”
“You are obviously curious about this little girl,” chuckled Dragomir.
“I could give a damn. I’ll just leave…” I again gathered my travelling satchels and then made to stand, “I was just curious to put the pieces together, you must have told her an interesting fortune. You must have been able to read her life.”
“Read her life? Eh, no, actually I simply guessed a few things… a few things correctly. And when a complete stranger guesses correctly your life, you are ready to believe anything they tell you. It is strange how that works—or not really strange, actually. First, I simply made some obvious guesses based on her accent and physical features; then I took a leap and told her that her first name meant something like: ‘clear, bright, and celebrated.’ I didn’t know her name, of course, but she was stunned when I said this. She told me I was right, that her name meant exactly that: ‘clear, bright, and celebrated’—a lucky shot in the dark!, I admit it. Although there are good odds in guessing names since most girl’s first names tend to revolve around words such as
blessed , beautiful, or else clear, bright, and celebrated. These qualities seem to be an obsession among those about to give birth. I was just lucky, I chose from those five words and happened to pick the right three. Yet I won her over completely after another guess that was a safe-bet after looking at her fingertips. All this was after she’d paid me; and of course having made a few such lucky guesses, she was now ready to believe whatever nonsense I told her. So I had a little fun with her, told her this and that. I told her where she needed to go and what she needed to do to, quote, ‘realize her destiny,’ unquote. I made a few more guesses and played with her mind a little…”
“You played with her mind?” I asked, “…played with a very young girl who was travelling alone? I would have taken you for a man of honor. You’ll do what you will, I just hope you didn’t tell her anything that made her leap off a precipice.”
“A precipice? Why? I am not a mean person, Saul. I’m a charlatan, yes, but I am not mean. Don’t worry about the poor little girl. She was already running very quickly, I just gave her a little direction in life. I gave her a kind of roadmap, if you will, which she is now still probably following. We are very susceptible at that age. Is that all?”
“It is all very interesting. The only thing I still wonder about is your servant. He wanted to be your servant so as to find out where this little girl ran off to. Did you ever explain to him the ‘roadmap’ you gave her?”
“What for? To see him run off on her trail? To lose the perfect servant?! I told you, Pulpawrecho is the perfect servant! I wouldn’t risk losing him by telling him where to run off to...”
“At least by giving me this snuffbox, you are telling me where to run off to.”
“Of course!,” Dragomir said, “I can’t risk losing you either! No, I couldn’t do that!” He doubled his laugh with a roar that I joined in on out of nervousness. We both quieted our laughter. “Anyway, it’s too late, I see you’re already going. You’re already standing by the door. Anyway, that nonsense with the little girl was a long time ago. Three years have passed since then.”
With these words, the fatigue and opium overtook me and
I soon found myself out in the street, walking up the desolate stone lane, making my way more or less in circles as I hoped to stumble on the road that led to the port. “How do I get to the port?” I wondered aloud, mumbling to myself in the darkness.
“You just have to walk to the end of this street. Then cross the bridge, and you’re there…” This response had come from a figure who had appeared suddenly in the street.
“Excuse me?” I turned in surprise, squinting to better see the stranger.
“…Just go to the end of the street, cross the bridge, and go straight and you’ll reach the port,” he repeated. And it was then I recognized the long pointy face of Dragomir who stood staring at me in the dark road. In haste, I clutched my satchels and hurried away from him. I hurried across the empty bridge, and paced quickly towards the black waters of the ocean that lay before me.
Chapter Nine
Saul interrupts his story…
“Perhaps I am boring you,” Saul said to me, bringing me back from his tale, “There is so much to tell, I don’t want to leave out details that will enlighten you to the mystery of this story.”
“Boring me? Heavens no!” I picked up the bell that was on our table and shook it to make it ring. That was to signal to the waiter that we wanted something, and that he had permission to enter our private dining-room. Both Saul and I agreed that our empty bottle of cognac had been too small. We told the waiter to bring more liqueurs, a larger bottle of cognac, and enough candles to last until morning. When these arrived, the waiter left for good.
“Boring me?—a ridiculous idea! I could stay awake for a week listening to your story, I’ve written down all you said so far. Please do go on, I am looking forward to hearing about Saskia.”
“She will come soon, fortunately. She is the hero of this story. This cognac is very good. The candles are fresh and tall. The room is warm. I’ll go on with my story….”
Chapter Ten
Saul resumes his fascinating story…
The ship horns were calling in the port of Málaga the next morning, waking me earlier than was decent. From the window of the pension where I’d spent the night I could see the stream of passengers getting thinner as all were now aboard and waiting to leave the harbor. I gathered my two valises and went downstairs to the dining hall.
I had left nothing remaining behind me in the room, my valises were by my side, and it was during my breakfast in the dining hall that I discovered the first unpleasant event of my European odyssey: my gold watch was missing! That Breguet watch was the last sentimental treasure I owned. I remembered I’d had it the night before at Dragomir’s. I was so scattered in my brain after leaving his home, perhaps I lost it en route to the hotel. Nothing to be done though, I had to leave Andalusia seeing as I was already late to get on the road to Madrid.
Andalusia is riddled with gypsies of all ages and tricks, and as I was leaving this beautiful country, I came across an old gitana1 with thick skin like leather and knotty black hair outside the station where travelers were filing past. “Hola guapo,” she slithered up to me, “Give me your hand! Oh, ho! There are two pretty girls in your life… I will tell you all, etc., etc….” As I was in a rush to leave, and wanted to keep my hand away from this servant of the devil, I withdrew it firmly. Though being superstitious, I felt in my pocket for some silver piastres and gave a largess to the old fortuneteller. I knew these gypsies were capable of snatching a soul the way a juggler snatches a scarf, and I wanted to keep my soul for myself. Appeasing the old woman with money, I passed unhindered and felt safe, body and soul, for my journey to follow.
I arrived in Madrid early in the morning and went straight to the address that was given in the letter I received in Alexandria. There I would find my friend and old business partner, Juhani, who was a banker in Madrid, an entrepreneur, and an oil-painter of much talent. He and I worked together in Malta organizing parties until I had to flee the country, first returning to Tripoli and then fleeing there to live in Egypt. I lived in poverty in Egypt until I received Juhani’s letter announcing that he too had left Malta and was living in Spain, and that he had saved my share of the profits from our last party in Malta. He announced that he’d saved ten-thousand scudi for me from our last event, which was an incredible fortune for an impoverished adventurer such as myself to fall upon. That letter found me in a miserable situation; it announced my fortune and made me rich. I set off for Europe immediately when I received it.
1 GITANA: (Sp) “Gypsy”
Chapter Eleven
I’ll tell you that no feeling resembles that wonderful sensation of when I would leave a city behind me with all the luggage I owned, all the things I care about inside, nothing left behind except the old acquaintances I was happy to leave behind along with the experiences I’d learned, and time. Thus, I left Madrid exalted! Suddenly rich, with letters of introduction to the best houses in Europe. I had letters of introduction to Juhani’s friends in Paris, to his noble friends in Bavaria, in Bohemia, and Finland.
Finland was not my final destination, though I looked forward to seeing Juhani’s home country based on the collection of oil paintings he had painted, and which he hung on the walls of his magnificent house in Madrid. My real goal was to get to Saint Petersburg before the summer solstice in June so I could witness the famous white nights. After Saint Petersburg, I didn’t really care where the wind carried me. I wanted to see Poland and Petersburg; after that, I could let the earth swallow me up. I didn’t know then what was going to keep me from ever reaching my goal. I would have killed anyone then who tried to prevent me from seeing those white nights (which I’ve still yet to see!). If you had told me what would happen to me in Barcelona, there is no way I would have believed you…
In Valencia, I almost lost my life. Yet that is a story is for another time. I arrived in Barcelona on May—nd, the anniversary of my birth. That year it fell on a night of the full moon and there was a festival in the city; there were parties in the street when I arrived on my birthday. If only that night had gone well!—where would I be now?...
The one intelligent thing I did when I arrived in Barcelona was to get a hotel room before anything else. When I arrived in the Barrio Gòtico I bought a case of wine. I walked then through the night with poetry in my heart, singing odes to the full moon above. I stumbled then on a place called the Plaça Sant Felip Neri: a stone oasis in a discreet sanctuary, unreal in that otherwise filthy and foul city. The square was both clean and fresh to the nose. I noticed two balconies of beautiful iron work on what appeared to be the second floor of a hotel overlooking pleasant trees and a fountain in the square. I looked at this charming fortress; if it was a hotel, I wanted to have a suite overlooking the square, no matter what the cost.
“You’re in luck that a suite is available,” said the concierge, “It never is, but tonight there is a vacancy. How many nights would you like?”
“Just one for now.”
“Just one? You are then traveling on in the morning?” the concierge asked me, “Shall I book you a driver?”
“No,” I told him, “I’ll be in Barcelona tomorrow night as well, but I want to see how this night goes… I want to see if this charming little square isn’t too noisy at night. If it is quiet, I’ll stay longer, perhaps two weeks, perhaps a month. I wouldn’t mind spending a month in Barcelona. But I need a room that is quiet, so I can read, engage in scholarship, et cetera...”
“Fine, Sir, but I must warn you that the town is filling up fast. You’ll have a hard time booking a room for tomorrow.” The concierge showed me to my suite. I locked up all my money in the safe except for a few gold escudos to buy whatever I might fancy that night of my birthday. I also saved Dragomir’s silver snuffbox with the four grams of opium and his portrait for Senorita Baena, as well as my own supply of opium. I was looking forward to meeting Miss Baena.
I hired a driver to take me to the herborista that Dragomir told me about. It was nighttime and the full moon glowed like a shield in the sky. The herborista shop was closed but a light burned in the apartment above. I introduced myself at the door to a woman who seemed very concerned about me being there.
“Señorita Baena?”
“Yes, that’s me… Who are you?”
“Saul,” I said, “I’ve come on behalf of Dragomir, your old friend.”
The woman stuttered but invited me in. She was not yet middle-aged, and still had freshness in her features, though she wore no makeup and her hair was in disorder. Her apartment was as shabby as Dragomir’s home was rich. I heard noises in her kitchen but didn’t pay it any notice. Before she offered coffee, I gave her the silver snuffbox containing opium and Dragomir’s portrait. The sight of both made her tremble and her eyes flashed at me. This alarmed me, I wondered about the real reason why Dragomir sent to the home of this poor woman. Before one could speak to the other, two men came from the kitchen: bald and burly fellows, unkempt and rude. One shuffled behind me and the other grabbed Miss Baena. “Penelope,” one shouted at her, “What did this man give you?!”
“It’s a present from Dragomir,” she said.
“From Dragomir?! What is it?!”
“It’s opium,” I told the rascal.
The two men seized me and held me down on the sofa. It was a dirty sofa, and I remember it smelled like mice. “So you came to poison Penelope on behalf of Dragomir?” the one grinned his dirty teeth at me.
“It should be good opium. I have some for myself. I would hate to find out it’s poison,” The two thugs then began rifling through my pockets, one thieved my gold escudos and then rejoiced after he stole my diamond pinned wallet. The other found my personal stash of opium and blamed me for trying to poison Señorita Baena as part of Dragomir’s revenge. The two thugs took Miss Baena’s opium, as well as my own, and forced me to eat it all. At the moment, I didn’t care how much those bald Spaniards were going to force me to eat; I didn’t think there was enough to harm me, although the opium tasted ‘off.’ There was that green shimmer and a strange metallic taste; I wasn’t happy that I was forced to eat this on my birthday. I would have happily smoked it alone with Penelope Baena.
Once the thugs had stuffed the opium down my throat, they threatened to poison me. I dissuaded them. They the dragged me to the door, saying a lot of things, such as: “You tried to assassinate our friend.” And “You are lucky we didn’t beat you to death!”
Didn’t they realize it was my birthday? I asked them this. And I asked if they realized that the moon was full. They took no interest in my questions, thus I soon found myself out in the street with a torn jacket and some scratches here and there. Good luck that I’d left my fortune in the safe in my hotel! I would get a new tabatière and another wallet soon after. I wished I’d been allowed to keep my opium, though; yet it occurred to me that the amount of opium they forced me to ingest was plenty to make me high—if only that’s all it had done!
Chapter Twelve
Back at my hotel, I cleaned my wounds, redressed myself in a new, handsome suit and silk foulard, with ointment in my hair and polished teeth to parade around on my birthday night. During this exercise, I drank a bottle of Spanish wine that I’d put on ice before I left my hotel the first time to go get robbed. At least I performed my duty as an honorable gentleman as far as Dragomir was concerned. I did my commission. His portrait was delivered. Still, the fact of things was that I’d only been in Barcelona for a couple of hours and already I had been robbed of my purse and forced to ingest a quantity of opium laced with a green toxin, both of which were going to make themselves felt at any moment. I thought to go find a doctor; though the thought of passing my birthday night in examination!, being bled and all of the patient’s duties… and on a full moon!… No, I decided, let me die first—this is the night for me to die—the universe couldn’t have chosen a more aesthetic night. Sweet glassy moonlight soaks the sand on the Mediterranean shore, dripping moonlight on the Spanish palms, wet moonlight on the silvery arms of the ladies, of the Catalan night…
With those visions fresh in my mind, I went to the safe in my hotel to take a roll of gold doubloons. Then I suffered a delirium… I started thinking that the men who robbed me had followed back to my hotel, and that should I leave, they would enter and steal all that I had. This delirium convinced me to take all the money I had in the world out with me out on my birthday night!—Ô, unfortunate me!
My worldly fortune amounted to several rolls of doubloons and some lettres de change1 of an equal value drawn on a bank in Barcelona. I put
this money in my pocket, along with my jewels; and so impeccably dressed, poisoned with a large dose of opium laced with some mysterious green substance, I hit the streets on my first night in Barcelona, for my private celebration.
1 LETTRES DE CHANGE: (Fr) “Letters of Credit,” “Promissory Notes,” “Orders for Payment,” etc. The modern Lettres de change endossées* (*endorsed) were in use in Europe from 1610 onward (beginning in Antwerp), and are still in use today. They were created for travelers and foreign transactions, permitting money to change hands from debtor to creditor, via banks or agents, without requiring the risky transport of funds to other cities.
Festivities were abundant in the streets—I believed it had all been organized for me, in honor of my birthday. Nothing tame interfered with the wild creatures all around me. I tried to keep my cheer although all I could think of was that substance that was meant to kill Penelope. Dragomir surely didn’t mean for me to eat it—why would he?! You know what they say: “When the poison is in the snuffbox and the snuffbox is for Penelope, it’s Penelope who dies, not Saul.” Damn you fate! My opium wasn’t green. It was black as the cemetery, untainted and wrapped in vellum. I was just going to smoke a little black opium to ease the pain in my limbs—moreover, to take me away from the shock of experiencing the present moment. Instead I ate four grams of toxic green opium, but at least it was opium underneath! And so, I decided to just enjoy the four grams of green opium I had already eaten while I still had the consciousness to do so… How did Socrates know after he drank the hemlock that he’d been poisoned to death? He was a skeptic, after all. Should a follower of Marcus Aurelius commit suicide if he cannot abstain from dangerous passions?
As the opiate took effect and I had yet to feel the poisonous aspect, I started to enjoy my birthday celebration. Everywhere in the streets, people drank and cheered, danced and kissed—and all to celebrate my night! I saw this moment as attached by threads to eternity and woven between all the other braided moments of my past and my future. The human brain is so puzzling. If I can explain the change that happened in my brain when I turned off Las Ramblas to walk through a deserted part of town, you will have the portrait of the rational man instantly metamorphosing into the disassociated schizophrenic.