The Fourth Circle

by Zoran Zivkovic

  The naked Marya, her glorious body capable even without Divine intervention of raising the dead from the grave, stood for a few moments motionless, caring not a whit that I directed my blasphemous gaze at her back (sculpted, as I saw, with utter artistry). Even less was she troubled by the other pair of eyes, those of the Master, newly awakened from eternal sleep and shown yet more secrets, of beauty inviolate, calamitous but magnificent. For his eyes only—that much I understood at once—did she commit this act, at once unforgivable and sublime, an act that even Sotona himself could not have invented. I was someone who, for these two, simply was not there, incorporeal as the murky air, blind as the damp stone walls.

  Marya's hands, wondrously white even in the thickening gloom—for our only candle was all but burnt down—rose once again, not to shine with the light of divine resurrection but in another movement, which I, a sinner, recognized at once, although for a few moments my storm-tossed soul refused to accept it. Then the Master took her outstretched hands and stood up from his now superfluous deathbed, standing in his poor linen shroud before Marya's nakedness, brimming over with life, and there was no further doubt.

  This was total disharmony—the symbols of sullen death and of life's supreme delight, a contrast too great to last: not even a lump of ice fashioned by winter's hardest frost can long endure the heat of the spring sun whose irresistible call lures forth the sleepy shoots from the bosom of the earth. Yet it was not the Master himself who threw off the shroud but Marya herself, with a movement I found skilled without being lewd (though maybe I no longer wished to see aught that was blasphemous in her appearance or actions).

  Prepared now to look at Marya as being beyond sin—for what can be sinful about the very marrow of life, which is the most faithful reflection of the Lord?—I was overcome by a sudden timidity before that which had to follow, now that the Master and Marya stood naked before each other. Although for them I did not exist, unseeing as the surrounding darkness, unhearing as the still of the night, I was still present to myself, an unwilling witness to the one deed that tolerates no witnesses. Though was I really so unwilling?

  I had no time to grapple with this unquiet thought, for Providence itself came to my aid. The single candle, which I had placed at the head of what had been the Master's deathbed, reached the end of its waxen road, hissing as the wick touched the bottom of the bronze candlestick, and—just before it went out completely—flaring up briefly as it does when it is first lit, just as often happens with men, who experience final lucidity at the moment of death.

  In this ultimate brightness, which lasted but the twinkling of an eye, Marya and the Master appeared to be crowned with the haloes of the saints and I, up from my knees and thoroughly exultant, had the impression that the Lord himself, in His infinite mercy, was granting them His pardon, though they stood on the threshold of the greatest sin.

  Then all sank into darkness.

  6. THE PURCHASE OF A SOUL

  SURELY HE WILL come for my soul?

  Would he dismiss the prey that offers itself to him, cancel the contract that we have sealed in blood? Yes, but that was before he discovered what I was asking in return. He had no notion what it would be. He thought I was no different from the mindless multitudes with whom he has made such pacts from time immemorial, easily satisfying their trivial desire to spend life in one long ecstasy and afterwards—come what may.

  The expression that appeared on his face when I told him what I wanted in exchange for my soul! It seemed to me that were he not what he is, he would have had an apoplectic fit. He reddened as if he would burst, began to pant, then, foaming at the mouth, murmured something in Latin or one of those ancient tongues from the dawn of time. He jumped from the table where we sat, this very table in this dockside tavern in the Hague full of fat whores and seaport rabble where our first meeting took place. I await him in the same place now. I trust that he is, after all, a person of honor who will have the courtesy to fulfill his obligations, whatever trouble they cause him, but who knows? With his kind one is never sure.

  He rushed outside, but I did not hurry after him, judging it unwise to let it be seen that my desire matched his own—was greater, in fact, because he had around him an abundance of other blundering souls, only too delighted to have anyone bid for them, while I could obtain what I wanted from him alone. He returned several minutes later, seemingly a little more composed, though droplets of sweat appeared under his graying sidelocks and slid down his sinewy neck. He informed me that he must reflect, the demand was extremely unusual, he had to seek advice in certain places, but we would see each other again in this tavern in exactly seven days, when he would tell me his decision, although the contract was already signed, but still...Then he hurried away, energetically casting his long crimson-lined cape about him and roughly pushing aside the innkeeper, who was bearing a large tray with six or seven tankards of sour beer to the tipsily singing occupants of the next table.

  The drink and tankards spilled over the guests, drunk for the most part, and like lightning a brawl erupted, as happens often in these dockside taverns. I did not wait to see the outcome, as I might have done on some other occasion, but hurried out without first settling my account, since in the general melee there was nobody available to pay. I did not care where he had gone, merely wishing to be in the fresh air as soon as possible and to recover my breath somewhat.

  I had thought I would never have the courage to seek that from him, fearing he would not agree at all, or would perceive what store I set by it and then demand something more than my soul, something that I perhaps would not be willing to part with at any price. However, none of this occurred: contrary to all my expectations, he became quite confused, clearly confronted with something he had obviously not taken into account. It was not an easy time for him, I knew, and the seven days he had for collecting himself would pass differently for us: too fast for him, too slow for me.

  The long week nonetheless elapsed—and here I am again in the now half-empty tavern on the shore, having yielded to my impatience and arrived somewhat ahead of time while it is still daylight, before the noisy nightly gathering of loose women and vicious blackguards, gathered here from all quarters of the world, when the malodorous vapors mixed with the pungent smell of cheap tobacco and bad liquor will convert the little fresh sea air that penetrates here into stink and pestilence.

  People of my rank seldom or never enter here, not only because they do not feel at ease but also because they are conspicuous in a tavern of this sort, easy prey for pickpockets and robbers. Those of my sort who do come here are fortunate to lose only their money or ornaments of precious metals and stones and not their lives, as when morning finds their bodies floating bloated in the filthy water under the pier.

  It is just as fatal, although somewhat deferred—if this be any comfort—to frequent the local wenches because the ailments they bequeath, having arrived here from distant, alien shores and even from the New World as God's punishment for the lost innocence of our age (as many puritans believe), often lead to a festering agony that ultimately attacks the brain itself.

  What then could tempt me, a respected court mathematician, a man of good family and high position, into this infamous quarter? The possibilities are limited: perversion or desperation. I maintain that I am not perverted, but who among the perverted would openly admit to being so? In fact, however, all that has fallen to my lot could only be called perversion, of an extreme kind at that.

  Desperation, then. Utter hopelessness, into which only a mind quite unequal to the vain struggle with the greatest of all problems could fall; a desperation derived from seeing that I would arrive at a solution only by special dispensation from God, or by a pact with the devil. But by what virtues or deeds have I earned the Lord's special favor? Have I not in my arrogant greed to grasp at any cost the greatest of His secrets, hidden even from many of the saints, demonstrated that I am moved by sheer pride and vanity, and not by the absolute humility and lowliness that al
one might lead to fulfillment of my intent? Besides, could not God, being omnipotent, easily have foreseen that I would not shrink from a conspiracy with Satan and turn my fickle back on Him, as soon as my trust in His grace proved barren?

  In fact I had no choice at all. When I became mired at the thirty-sixth decimal place, without any hope of advancing further on my own strength but consumed with the conviction that the subsequent progression, beyond my reach, hid insights that the great seers of ancient times at the height of their powers only dimly descried, clearly I saw what I had to do to satisfy the greatest longing of my life.

  I had no trouble learning where the devil's emissaries could most conveniently be found. Oh, some can be found in far more respectable places, even in the church itself, I know; but to achieve contact in such places, you must wait a long time for an opportunity, and this my patience could not manage. So to this dockside inn, where drunken riffraff ready for any sort of villainy surrounded me; but I did not care. I was still in the full vigor of my strength and knew how to defend myself. Besides, I was confident that I would not have to wait long. Indeed, on only the second evening, a man approached my table, limping slightly, rather elderly, with thick sidelocks of graying hair, whose dress and bearing, like mine, were in contrast with this place.

  I could see by the manner in which he addressed me that he was not a desperate man like me but the person I was looking for. "Professor van Ceulen," said he curtly, without any interrogatory inflection, as if encountering an old acquaintance and not somebody he was meeting for the first time. He sat down next to me. On his face was the expression of a predator who has cornered his prey and now savors its fear and helplessness. In order not to arouse his suspicion, I accepted the role intended for me, pretending first to be surprised, then guiding the conversation so as to induce him to come to the point as soon as possible. I was in a hurry, and he, fortunately, began to act like a lover unable to endure long drawn out foreplay.

  He addressed me by my first name—Ludolph—as if we were of equal rank, even close friends, on the presumption that the relationship, soon to be sealed in blood, permitted him this. In keeping with the self-possession and efficiency of his kind, he shortly produced from under his crimson-lined black cape a contract already prepared, rolled up into a scroll. It was on parchment, inscribed with ornamental letters and elaborate initials, as befits the purchase of something so valuable as a human soul.

  The text was in Latin, which I, of course, knew well, but I did not waste my time reading all the clauses. I was interested in only one: that which guaranteed the fulfillment of all my desires and wishes. It remained only for me to take the dagger he offered me. Drawn from a sheath concealed at his side, the weapon had a marvelously carved ivory handle with many symbols of black magic, which, under different circumstances, I would have studied eagerly and at length. But my patience was at an end, and I hastened to make a shallow cut on my palm to produce the red ink needed for the signature. The other party had already signed, also in a red liquid that I suspected was not blood—or at least not his own.

  He gazed for a moment at my signature with a blissful expression on his face, then waved the parchment in the air several times to dry the red ink. Although the gesture was unusual for a place like this, where agreements are arrived at verbally, not a single curious glance was directed our way. Dexterously he rolled the parchment back into a scroll and hid it swiftly under his cape, convinced that the hardest part of the work was behind him and likely satisfied that all had gone smoothly, without the usual last moment shilly-shallying and reconsidering by the weak characters with whom he generally dealt.

  He said nothing, but the gaze he bent on me spoke eloquently enough: "Proceed now to satiate your puny whims while you may, but the main gratification will ultimately be mine!" I swallowed, engulfed in sudden anxiety, not because of this unspoken threat, the inevitability of which I had long since accepted, but rather because of the possibility that he might, despite the pact we had concluded, refuse me, even at the cost of losing my soul. To me that would have meant scraping the very bottom of despair.

  Well, there was no retreat now: no matter what the reply might be, the demand had to be disclosed. I hesitated another moment or two, praying to the heaven I had so betrayed that my voice would not tremble, and then uttered a single word, knowing well that to him all would be clear:

  "Circle."

  OUTSIDE DUSK WAS falling. The tallow candles hanging from the sooty ceiling and standing on the greasy tables, their tattered cloths stained by previous reve-lries, still managed to create an illusion of light. But soon, when the inside of this tavern filled with thick tobacco smoke, which pricks the eyes and irritates the mucous membrane of the mouth, the place would look just like the open sea when the autumnal fog lies over it.

  Several inquiring gazes slid briefly over my lonely figure, assessing the likelihood that I might offer easy prey at some later hour. One disheveled whore, concluding that I was not one of her usual customers to whom her looks were of scant importance, spent a few moments in front of the cracked and cloudy mirror by the fireplace before approaching me hesitantly.

  I was facing the door, yet I did not see him come in. All at once he appeared by my table, wrapped in that same black cape, the edges of which were smeared with traces of fresh mud. As I looked up at him, I gained the impression, probably because of the angle at which the feeble table lamp illuminated his face, that he seemed older. He did not sit down by me but remained standing: a dark, morose figure whose rigid bearing gave no indication of the reply he brought me.

  We looked at each other without blinking for a few moments, each deep in his own thoughts and cares; then he breached the silence:

  "A contract is a contract."

  7. NIGHTMARE

  I'M NOT SPEAKING to the Little One any more.

  The ruffian, after what he did to me! But that's men for you—every man jack of them. They just go ape when they see an unprotected woman, especially in the middle of a jungle. Nothing matters to them except to gratify their basest instincts. It's not just that they don't care that it's not love, they don't give a damn whether you like them, what you think, what you feel, whether you are against it.

  I could have resisted him if I hadn't been so upset, but that wouldn't have put him off. In fact, my resistance might have angered him even more, so that besides being raped, I might have suffered all kinds of abuse.

  What does it matter that he's started to regret what he did and hovers around trying to mollify me, no longer carefully avoiding Sri, who has turned entirely to meditation—now that it's all too late. If only he'd used some protection. But, no, he had only one thing in mind, and now a child has been conceived, and there's nothing more to be done about it.

  Naturally, I don't want to hear anything about abortion, though that would settle this mess, especially if I managed to do it behind Sri's back. That was the first thing that crossed my mind when I finally realized that I was pregnant. But as soon as I had composed myself a little, the thought gave me pangs of conscience. To murder my own child, just to save two selfish men a headache? No way. Let them get a little taste of the more difficult side of life, even if it means they hate me for it.

  Yes, both of them—because Sri is no less responsible than the Little One for all that has happened. What protection could I have hoped for from him? None at all! Well, he's a man too. Perhaps he would have driven the Little One away, but then he would have started to make endless jealous scenes, accusing me of enticing and seducing a monkey. The more I defended myself, the more he would have been convinced that he was right. All right then, if he wants a femme fatale, he shall have one. The child will be born—out of spite, even if it comes out as ugly as the Little One.

  That, however, remains uncertain. The fetus is still too small for me to be sure of anything, even the sex. I scanned myself with ultrasound, but couldn't make anything out. Of course, Sri would say that this business with ultrasound, as well as many othe
r things that I feel and experience, was nonsense and would translate everything into his unfeeling, empty language of computer programming, but I don't care. That says far more about him than about me. I could do likewise; I could reduce everything he thinks and feels to mere biochemistry, which is so much slower and less efficient than my electronics, but I have no intention of doing so. I accept Sri as he is, especially because I am his creation, and as for the circumstance that he's only a male—well, poor thing, it's not his fault.

  The ultrasound scan was not entirely useless. I still don't know who the descendant of the Little One will look like—oh, I just hope it won't have a tail!—but there's something strange about the way it's growing inside me. Though I don't see any reason for it, my womb has the form of a perfect sphere. I was not able, despite all my efforts, to penetrate its membrane; I had hoped to make some changes, some improvements, if I'm not satisfied with the development of the fetus. Sri would call it, in his rough, clumsy manner, a completely closed and independent subprogram that can only be read, not altered.

  Be that as it may, I don't at all like the idea that something I can't influence is growing inside me, though that is, after all, quite normal. I know that many women, in the early stages of pregnancy, especially those who are pregnant for the first time, frequently have dreams of giving birth to all kinds of monsters. And people say pregnancy is a blessed state! Rubbish. It might be blessed for men, their part is over quickly, and afterwards they're just a nuisance, clever at dodg-ing responsibility, especially after the child is born. Oh, yes, we know each other well, we didn't come down in the last shower.