by Paul Park
There was froth on his lips, which Peter wiped away. Then with a strong hand and a weak one, he took Raevsky up into the cradle of his arms. The old man seemed little, light.
Peter scrambled up the slope. In the rock niche he laid Raevsky down to change his grip. Three loaded guns were there, and he stopped to shoot them one by one into the knot of men below him at the bottom of the cliff.
They would have been safe here, Peter thought. The wild men would have given up and slunk away. Raevsky must have come down from his perch when he saw the men at both sides of the bridge. Now he lay among the rocks, and he said a few words in broken English. Then he continued in Roumanian: “The river of my death—I knew it! Now I join the others. But I saved one little boy, who would have died. And tonight I fought with the famous Chevalier de Graz!”
Peter shook his head. Below, the men started to climb the slope, while some with torches moved along the stream. Andromeda had already scampered up the trail, and now Peter followed her. He had the old man in his arms, and he was pulling him up, the left hand clutching and failing. Out of breath, he staggered up, his right hand under Raevsky’s shoulder, and sometimes he dragged the old man through the pebbly chute. The whole way he recited to himself, over and over:
Then out spake brave Horatius, the Captain of the Gate:
“To every man upon this earth death cometh soon or late;
And how can man die better than facing fearful odds.…”
There was no comfort in the words. But the rhythm was something to fill his mind as he dragged the old man over the stones. Then he was at the top, and from the clifftop he could see the camp was dark. There was no light in any of the windows of the huts. The tent was black. Only a single carbide lantern shone. It was in the middle of the dig beyond the scaffolding, at the lip of the tiled well. As he watched, Andromeda ran into the circle of the light.
“But when you see Nicola Ceausescu,” murmured the old man, “you’ll tell her what I tried to do?”
“I’ll tell her.”
“Oh, you are a lucky man! The house is in Saltpetre Street. You will tell her how I spoke of her?”
“I’ll tell her.”
The way down was easier, and Peter could support him. With his arm underneath Raevsky’s arm, he led him down the trail. The ladder would be the trick, though, and so it proved. But Andromeda had managed it. When Peter staggered with his burden through the circle of wire, he found the place dark. Andromeda had knocked over the lantern and then pissed on it, though it still flickered.
Hadn’t he done this before? He remembered the snowstorm, and Miranda, and carrying Gregor Splaa through the snow. The man had died and then they’d left the body. That night he’d gotten sick.
Now, at the top of the well, still horrified by the violence of the last hour, he let the captain down onto the snow. He couldn’t let him die, not now. He shouted out for help but no one answered. Where were they all? He thought he knew.
He saw lights through the trees and on the clifftop. He climbed partway down the ladder, then tried to pull Raevsky into his arms. Step by step he let him down. He must not leave him as he’d left Gregor Splaa. Peter would drag him thought the hole in the world, and he would find Miranda, and everything would be all right.
The ladder groaned and shifted along the top of the well. Peter climbed into the quiet dark. Murmuring, Raevsky slid down the ladder after him. Another carbide lantern, similarly upset, lay beyond an inner threshold at the bottom of the well. And the dog hadn’t been able to squeeze out any more piss. The light guttered and flared along the rich blue tile.
He was at the bottom now. Reaching down with his right hand, he pulled Raevsky to his feet. He tried to get him to stand up, but he wouldn’t, and so Peter had to carry him. Four passageways converged, but he stumbled over the threshold, following the light. Inside a square chamber painted with hieroglyphs and animals, he saw the body of one of the English women, Fiona or the other one, workers in the dig. She lay on her side, curled up, mask in place. Her gun was gone.
When would this stop? Were there wild men in the dig? As if to answer his question, Peter heard some shouting up ahead. The chamber he was in, again, had doors on all four sides. He stood in the middle, Raevsky in his arms, the old man’s face near his own. His head lolled back. His eyes were closed.
Peter shuffled in a circle, peering into each of the dark doors. Shouting came from one, though it was muffled, far away—he couldn’t understand the words. Maybe the wild men had torches there, out of sight around the turning of the labyrinth. Closer to hand, on the other side came Andromeda’s soft bark, and as he peered through that doorway, he thought he detected some small light, a small blue glow. So he shuffled through that door, the old man clasped in the circle of his arms. His left hand was numb and tired, but his right hand grasped his wrist and would never let go. He could depend on that. And anyway it seemed as if the burden in his arms grew less and smaller. In the blackness of the farther room he paused, waiting for the soft, snuffling bark that would be his thread of light, and at the same time he felt the old man stir in his arms, and with a surge of hope he heard his whispering voice. “You will tell my lady how I saved that boy on the dead river when I set my boat downstream. He would have died there in the snow.…” Then on and on in a language that was not English or Roumanian, and that grew harsher and stranger with every word, while at the same time Raevsky lurched and twisted in his arms, a chattering, furry creature that dug its nails through Peter’s sweater and hoisted itself onto his shoulder while Peter grasped it. He had the quick impression of a tail, and a fierce head beside his jaw, before the animal left him, leaped away. Peter clutched at it but it was gone, and he could hear its nails on the smooth tile—he knew what was happening. Raevsky had saved the little boy. But Peter had not managed to save Raevsky, who had come down from his safe place in the rocks to fight. Now he was dead, his spirit animal scurrying away into the utter darkness.
Or not so utter when he heard Andromeda’s small bark. In that direction, beyond that doorway there was something, some tiny intermittent gleam. A beacon like a firefly or else the glowing end of a stick, drawn quickly against the surface of the dark. Numb and disappointed, Peter turned that way. How could he have failed, how could he have let the old man drop? All the time he had been carrying him, he had imagined walking through these rooms until he found the doorway that would let him out into the dazzling light of Egypt. Maybe they could take a taxi to the hospital. Raevsky’s wounds, he told himself, were not life-threatening. His quilted coat had protected him.
A soft, snuffling sound, and then a yelp. A sound of nails scratching at the tile. Raevsky wasn’t dead, Peter was sure of it. He was a tough old bird, or tough old monkey, or whatever he was—Peter could see some movement up ahead, through the doors where it wasn’t so dark. And if he could chase the animal through the tunnel, then he would chase him out the other side, and chase him over the ocean out of this terrible version of America, away from the shores of the dead river. He would chase him back to Europe, and Roumania, and Saltpetre Street, and the woman Ceausescu would take care of him and heal him—just a touch from her was all he needed. And Peter would be older, and he would find Miranda on the Black Sea coast—he staggered through the doors and found a place where he could see a little better. He was in a different section of the dig, and the tile had given way to stone, and the air wasn’t as cold, and he could smell bats and smoke and garbage up ahead. Then he saw the entrance to the old part of the dig, a long narrow passage of stone blocks, and the door in the middle, its posts and lintel carved with figures from Egyptian mythology. Men and women with the heads of animals, but Peter did not pause to admire them or reflect. Because in the half-light he had seen the creature scurrying up the steps, and it didn’t look like a monkey anymore. It was longer, heavier, he thought, although he’d just caught a glimpse of it out of the corner of his eye as it disappeared into the blackness. The next room was black again, black and without lig
ht.
He stood in the doorway and peered into the dark. Then he heard movement again, the scratching of the creature’s claws. And even though he felt weak now, and sick and discouraged, still he had enough strength to stumble forward toward the sound of that scratching, and stumble against the animal in the dark. He grabbed its tail, seized it by the base of its tail, and though it turned and growled and tried to bite him, still he was able to keep hold, even when it twisted to scratch him. But he had Raevsky now, and he wouldn’t let go, and even though he felt nauseated and weak, he could feel the creature was weaker and slower also. He dug his hands into its fur, then changed his grip until he could embrace it around the ribs and crush it down into the stones; he twisted it with his whole weight and wrestled it to the ground. How could he have been mistaken about its size? It was bigger than he had thought—no, it was growing under his hands, under his body, changing its shape again, and he had won. He had wrestled the old man back from the brink of death, and with his strong right hand he had him pinned, and he could feel the human shape turn under him. He could feel the joint of the old man’s shoulder, smooth and hot and naked under his hands, and feel the soft hair of his head, and the long smooth muscles of his back.
Raevsky had stopped moving, stopped resisting. But he was alive; Peter knew he was alive. Peter could feel the slow pulse of air through the old man’s chest. Oh, but he felt sick, sick and weak! And there was no light anywhere, and no noise but a roaring sound like water. And his joints ached, and his right hand, and his knees and face. If it had not been for the smooth body under him, he would have thought he had lost consciousness in the dark. He put his cheek against Raevsky’s burning flank, and then maybe he did sleep awhile.
When he awoke, the darkness was a little less. He lay on his back, and Raevsky had escaped him, and the walls were painted with a frieze of figures. Men and women carried offerings to an altar. This was where the archaeologists had broken through.
There was a hole in the stonework, and light broke in from the other side. Peter sat up and looked around at the relief carving, the painted stones. Because he was hot, he took his coat and sweater off. Then he crawled forward on his hands and knees, and he could smell the dust and oil and the warm air. He wedged himself into the hole in the stone wall, following the naked footprints in the dust. Naked footprints had led him from where he’d struggled with Raevsky. He had to get away, had to continue on, and so he dragged himself through. And on the other side the lines of painted people were identical, and the chamber was identical except for the sunlight that cut through the door in the opposite wall. And except for the woman on the floor, the naked woman who lay on her back and then turned toward him as he crawled in, making no effort to hide her nakedness beyond pulling up one long, slender leg. Sunlight from the door slashed across her face and her short blond hair. The light was full of dust motes.
“Andromeda?” he asked. Almost he didn’t recognize her, although she’d scarcely changed out of the girl he’d known at school—years before, it suddenly seemed. Embarrassed now, he glanced away. But in a moment he looked back, fascinated (or so he told himself) by how she’d aged: a woman, he supposed. Five years. Was this what getting older meant, this sudden vertigo, this aching in his head?
Again he turned away. Andromeda’s pale, flecked eyes were open, and her voice was full of disdain as she murmured, “What are you looking at?”
II
The Salt Throne
8
Prisoners in Ratisbon
BEFORE MIDNIGHT NICOLA Ceausescu walked alone though the streets of Bucharest in the Floreasca district. It would be hours before she heard what had happened at Prince Frederick’s castle, and whether the Popescu girl was in her hands. Already she was sick of waiting. Already she had thought of a way to avenge herself upon the German ambassador, to punish him and his country for the humiliation she had suffered in her own house, in her own mind. Because the range of her official duties was so small, she was able to find time for passionate intrigue.
In the evenings, especially when Luckacz was gone from town, she often walked alone among the streets, visiting the clubs and public houses, impregnable in her disguise. Like Haroun al-Rashid, the Jewish caliph in the slums of Baghdad, sometimes she walked all night.
This evening past eight o’clock she had returned from visiting a private house in the Strada Spatarul. It was where she kept Kevin Markasev in luxury he didn’t deserve—toward eleven she left the palace again. Without escort she slipped from one of the service entrances. From her mother she had learned a spell to draw attention, another spell to make men look away.
On nights like these she would go over in her mind the melodies and lyrics of the opera she was inventing, the story of her life set to music: how she’d been born in poverty with nothing but her talent and her beauty and ambition to sustain her. How she’d come to Bucharest and made her way onto the stage. How she’d married the Baron Ceausescu, who’d died and left her with a son and a roomful of debts. How the Elector of Ratisbon had stolen the boy away. And because the music in her mind was leading her now into a new, dark, poisonous, E-flat minor motif of revenge, as she paced the streets she brooded on the treachery of the potato eaters who still kept her son a prisoner in Germany.
On the stairway of a small hotel in Floreasca she removed her hat. The door was ajar on the third landing, and she knocked. She was shown into the sitting room of an expensive suite—a pink-and-gold affair with delicate French furniture. The lamp was turned down low on a low table, so it was hard for her to make a clear impression of her hosts, two sepulchral, dark men in business suits. They were Abyssinian arms dealers, known to her as Colonel Ouibika and Colonel Memlis.
Their country did not allow the export of advanced technology to Europe. Unofficially, much could be done. The Baroness Ceausescu had had a correspondence with these gentlemen. Now finally she had wanted to meet them and see their faces. She had confidence in her ability to read men’s characters. In this room, though, she was thwarted by the uncertain light.
Negotiations had been handled by her steward, Jean-Baptiste, who was to have brought the final documents. If the colonels were surprised to see her in his place, if they even recognized her, they gave no sign. “Please, would you like some tea?” one of them—Memlis? Ouibika?—said in French. He gestured to the table, where there were three tall steaming glasses and a bowl of coarse brown lumps.
“No, thank you. I am here just for the moment. Arrangements will be made with the Central Bank. I wanted to know that I could trust you. When may I expect to hear?”
The two men looked at each other. The baroness could see their teeth. “Your office will be notified. Shipment will come by rail through Constantinople, as was agreed.”
“Yes, of course.”
Then she couldn’t stop herself. “It is a great sum of money to expend on what is after all a natural metallic ore. I want your personal assurance it will be effective, as you represented to my steward.”
“The cost of extraction is very high,” said one of the dark men. “The element exists in a ratio of one part per three million. And the pitchblende must be imported from a laboratory in the Congo. You have asked for very large amounts for your experiments.”
“And it is … dangerous,” the baroness continued breathlessly. “Poisonous…”
“We will pack it in lead canisters. We will send a technician to instruct you. We believe you will be satisfied.”
She was not satisfied. Still she had to justify herself. “You must think this is a strange sort of weapon for a woman like me. This is a political matter—you understand it is not possible to allow these people to bully us. These republics, these democracies—maybe one day such a thing is possible in Roumania. But until then we will not allow it. Who is next—Spain, Russia? The armies are already at the border. You must be concerned! And is it wrong to use these tactics against people so heartless, they are willing to keep a mother from her son? No doubt they find it use
ful to keep him locked up in prison to ensure my good behavior!”
If the colonels understood what she was talking about, they gave no sign. In fact she scarcely knew herself—these men could not be expected to imagine the torments of her only child. Always in her calculations, the white tyger combined personal and public motives. Several times a week, working in her laboratory, she tried to penetrate the fog of darkness over Ratisbon. Of course she feared the worst.
* * *
BUT THERE WERE limits to her imagination, limits to her power, and she could not see how at that moment in a big, stucco house in a park above the town, a middle-aged woman and a teenaged boy were sitting together in a compartment without windows. The woman was Clara Schenck von Schenck, née Brancoveanu, and the boy was Nicola Ceausescu’s only child.
Beautiful in her youth, Princess Clara looked brittle now after so many years under artificial lights. Her skin was shiny and she bruised easily. Her once clear features had softened and grown indistinct, as if the bones beneath them had grown weaker, or as if after all this time she was no longer her original self, but rather an unskillful imitation.
The boy, by contrast, had been raised indoors and he was used to it. Slender and rosy, he had his mother’s purple eyes. Now he was laughing as he remembered some witticism from a book he had been reading two days before. They sat together at the breakfast table. Though elsewhere in central Europe it was late at night, in that room it was not yet noon. The single timepiece in the apartment, a double-keyed, ormolu clock above the fireplace, ran slightly fast. Though the boy wound it every third day, still its defect had not been corrected.
The woman and the boy had not the opportunity to notice without access to the world. Their host, too, had not disabused them. On the table lay the remains of toast and coffee, delivered by dumbwaiter when they’d rung the bell.