You see, he tried his best to love her as she was, which is why this story will be as sweet as the tale of little Merit, the Egyptian wife, who, playing one of her girlish pranks, predeceased her husband; he adored her so much that he permitted her to dwell forever inside the sarcophagus made to his own larger measure. The slaves built him another, and in time, as any good husband should, he came to join her. And now the glass-eyed effigies of their anthropoid coffins stare straight up, side by side. She is bewitching in her gilded and bitumen-striped mummy-mask. They have kohled the outlines of her sweet dark eyes; they have painted her eyebrows and drawn stylish cat-lines from the outer corners of her eyes toward her temples. Her cheeks have been rouged to perfection, and gold shines subtly through the transparency of her pink smile. They gaze upward, but will never see the sky.
9
He begged her to let him comb her hair, and, smiling wearily or perhaps grimacing, she bowed her head to him, while lovingly he ran her best four-toothed comb, one of whose teeth the middle daughter had broken off by accident when she was very little, through her long wet hair, singing to her as he untangled it.
10
Her mother, whom he had brought secretly, gazed downward, and her face contorted into a sobbing smile. Milena opened her eyes. When she reached up to touch her mother’s neck, the mother screamed.
They made her swear by Saint Polona not to tell anyone. She kept weeping.
Mother, it’s really me; I’m not a fiend . . .
Oh, I believe you; I won’t say a word, not even to the priest, but why in the Lord’s name couldn’t you sleep in your grave? What happened to you, Milena; what happened?
Before she could answer, Michael said: Mother, if you learn the answer, you’ll never have any peace. I promise upon my salvation that she’s done nothing evil. Trust me! You’re better off not not knowing what death is.
I don’t know, I don’t know—
Mother, said the returned one, do you want to see me again?
No, child. I can’t bear this. I love you, and I wish you and Michael happiness, but you’re dead. I’m going to tell myself this never happened . . .
11
Next came the turn of the daughters, peeping pale and timid, the youngest one gaping and the middle one rubbing her red eyes, the eldest folding her hands in her lap—how could this not have occurred?
It was late afternoon, going on twilight; and because their father had forbidden them to enter the hayshed they crept in there, discovering the box which he had built, and carved with flowers, hearts and apples as sweet as any of the decorations on the toys he’d made them.— And why didn’t he nail down the lid?— Reader, you know the reason: to spy upon the naked helplessness of his wife, as the children now did.
At first they supposed her to be some kind of doll. From the smell, it must have lain in the manure heap. Why was it here, and how did it come to be wearing their mother’s clothes? Cautiously stroking her cold soft flesh, they grew afraid. The sun dipped lower. And then Milena opened her eyes; her face grew round, and she struggled to speak; but the eldest daughter was the one to scream.
Their father rushed in, his face dark with fury and a hammer in his hand. When he saw the circumstances, he sighed, sat down on a hay bale and tightly closed his eyes.
Swear by Saint Polona . . . their mother lisped groggily, her tongue blue and swollen.
The father arose.— This is our family secret, he instructed them. Your mother has come back, because she loves us. You’re to tell no one. If you do, we’ll all be destroyed. Foolish, foolish girls! Why didn’t you listen to me? Now swear by Saint Polona to keep this quiet. You heard your mother. Go on now! Swear—you first!
12
After this the couple were well aware that they must soon be exposed. One of their favorite topics, and perhaps the most morbid one, became the question of which girl would tattle, and how soon. As it was, the daughters had been pale and shy ever since their mother’s death. Their father’s clandestine night existence told on him, of course, so by day he was peevish and negligent with them; they were already almost orphans. Now they were practically ill.
Their parents called a family council—after dark, of course, when their mother could be up and about. The father, who had scarcely slept, sat with his eyes half open and his head slumped forward. The mother stood beside him, holding his hand.
She said: Children, you must believe us. I would have shown myself to you in time. Say you believe.
Yes, mama.
Now, since you have brought this burden upon yourselves, you must bear it. You have committed the oldest sin. Do you know what it is?
The sin of Adam and Eve, their middle daughter whispered.
That’s right. Your father and I forgive you, because you and we are all their children together. You craved knowledge, didn’t you?
I wish there were no such thing, and we all went crawling like animals! the youngest cried out.
Oh, that would be a different state of affairs, to be sure, laughed the father. But would you still want to be an animal come slaughtering time?
Enough, their mother said. We’re a family again now. We’ll always be together by night. Michael, did you bar the door?
I never forget that.
Mama, why do the neighbors’ dogs howl every night?
They howl at me, you silly girl. You know what I am. Don’t you?
A vampire.
So they’d call me. But look at your father. Do you see any marks on his neck? I’ll never suck your blood—that I swear by Saint Polona. Now, don’t doubt me anymore, or I’ll get angry. Go fetch your needles. It’s time to mend your father’s clothes.
The candle was burning down within the hanging pewter lamp when the middle daughter asked: Mama, what should I tell the neighbors if they ask why we hide behind closed windows every night?
Tell them we’re in mourning.
You taught us never to tell lies.
Don’t contradict me, or Father will show you the back of his hand.
13
At every dawn, their parting increased his sorrow; aware that she was dying yet again, he could scarcely bear this latest bereavement. What if this time were truly the last, and within the coffin she would this very morning burst into putrescence, or, worse yet, become a vrykolakas? Pitying and seeking to comfort him, the faithful wife prepared his breakfast before she went to lie down. (The daughters were long asleep, tossing and moaning in their beds.) She kissed him on the mouth, trimmed his beard, helped him plan his daily projects, murmured into his hopeful ear promises of erotic loving-kindness and professions of spiritual longing, and then departed, closing her coffin-lid from within, thanks to a handle he had installed for her. He now hated so much to see her there that in the afternoons he only peeped in on her to reassure himself that she was slowly coming back to life. In truth, the transformation was hardly easy for her, either. Like her mother before her, she suffered from claustrophobia, and to lie in a dark carrion-box so close and narrow about her that she could barely lift her head a quarter-inch, much less turn over if her back got tired, was nasty enough; to depart the birds, flowers and children of daylight was harder still; worst of all was leaving him, whom she loved more than what might be called her life. How sorry she was for him, to leave him entirely alone in the house (for what good were the children to him?), with a dead woman in the hayshed, dogs howling all around and the neighbors meditating murder! Grateful for his insensitivity to her anguish on that quotidian journey into death, she sought always to distract him from what must be, as if he were her little son who had been bitten by a wolf and must now get cauterized. Let him hide his greying head in her skirt! Although she would never lie to him, she shielded him from horror wherever she could. He had wished to know what it was like to be dead, and she had answered, as a good wife should. But he could scarcely bear it. Revolting at the morning stench w
ithin her coffin, for her he fashioned sachets of mint and lavender, although that was women’s work, and bought her cloves, frankincense and other such precious spices at the apothecary’s shop; when she came back to herself in the early evenings, these scents comforted her as evidence of his love; on most occasions, however, he was there in person, watching anxiously over her with the lid drawn back. At first these invasions of her slumber humiliated her; when she caught the girls doing it she was angrier with them than ever before; at the same time, she knew (for on her wedding day her mother had told her this, earnestly advising her for the sake of decency to follow their example) that even in darkness her parents had never been entirely naked for each other; and on her very first night with Michael, intoxicated by his needy adoration, she had promised to withhold nothing that he asked of her, no matter whether she felt ashamed; he for his part swore to cherish her unerringly, as indeed he did, until all shame soon turned to luxurious joy. So it had been until her death. Now more than ever she craved that their feelings for each other would continue undecayed. She tried to make herself pretty for him before lying down, just in case that could secure her more tightly in his affections. Of course she dreaded his seeing her when she was at her worst. But again and again he swore that she was and would always be his excitress, just as for her he remained the soul which hers was framed in; and if there truly do exist spiritual vapors by which magic is excited out of flesh, even dead flesh deep in the ground, then by grace of his loving sorrow over her death he must have been gifted to exhale those vapors from his heart, kneeling desperately before her at the graveside, while the priest, mother, daughters and the rest stood back, variously moved, titillated and aghast. After all, she had dreamed in her grave that the mask which custom required him to wear, in order to give her the slip, had fallen off his face three times.
Again he comforted her; again she softly thanked him for declining to judge her according to the ways of this world. Slowly he stroked her hair until dawn. Just before the noon hour, lonely and doubting the miracle, he stole in to peep upon her. She was a rather pretty sight as she lay sleeping, with her head twisted sideways and blood dribbling from her gaping mouth.
14
Another neighbor came over to complain that his dog lay lifeless and bloodless, to which Michael replied that from what he had always been given to understand, dogs died, just as people did; and since the neighbor had nothing to do with the passing of his late wife, just how was he concerned with some accident involving a dog?
I’m not saying that you had anything to do with it, replied the neighbor in a chilling tone, striding one step closer, so that Michael nearly reached for his knife; instead, he replied: Then good day to you! closing the door in the face of this former friend whom he must now keep away forever. As soon as he had bolted himself in, his bowels went weak with dread—for what if the deed was, in fact, Milena’s? Thanks to the priests, he was as well apprised as you or I that some vampires, especially early in their careers, can roughhouse with the living in what must be a playful way, tossing them up and down, or stamping back and forth upon their roofs, having lascivious intercourse with their wives, rolling them around in their beds, opening the taps of their wine-barrels; but in the stories these vampires were all men; furthermore, Milena’s disposition had not changed—but what if she needed to suck blood? He’d better have it out with her.
15
Before he could honor that resolution, he heard people outside whispering. The next to visit was the widow Doroteja, who arrived like a wreath-bearing angel.
When he was young and had not yet made up his mind which of them he should marry, Doroteja had fashioned him a black Easter egg painted with a golden castle, while Milena had made him a lavender egg painted with a yellow candle and two columns of ovals each of which were red on the left and blue on the right.
It is not good for a man to live alone, Doroteja said to him. So the Bible says.
Then it must be true, he replied. How are you getting along?
Michael, I’m very lonely. If you agree to be my husband, I’ll forgive you for having married Milena first.
Well, he said, that’s certainly something to think on.
I want to live with you and take care of you all your life, she said. And your children need a mother.
You’re right in everything you say.
Doroteja laid her sweet brown hand on his arm. If Milena hadn’t been right there in the hayshed, he would have found her touch pleasant. Even so, he wouldn’t say he didn’t enjoy it. (Toward her he felt the magnetism of the flesh, to be sure, but not yet the flesh’s understanding, much less the magic of the blood.)
Michael, she said, I’ll tell you a secret. When Tadeusz lay dying, he told me to look under the hearthstones. I never would have guessed; we lived like poor people. But there was a handkerchief full of silver, and even three gold pieces. We won’t be wretched when we get old, the way so many people are, without even a breadcrust or a stick of firewood . . .
Her eyes were enchanting. He wondered whether there might be something different about the gaze of a man’s second wife, perhaps because she knows she must share him after death.
Thank you for your love, Doroteja. I need some time yet to know my own mind, for I still feel attached to Milena.
That’s to be expected. But how long must I await your answer?
Not long, he replied (for how much longer could matters go on like this?). Taking her hand in his—for he hated to hurt her—he added: And in any event, I swear by Saint Polona to keep your secret.
May I greet the children before I go?
What could Michael say to this? They were in the garden, weeding and killing snails. He called them. They came running to her with howls of joy.
16
That night was as dark as a blacksmith’s tongs. A stone struck the door. When the girls tried to speak of Doroteja (for they seldom got any visitors nowadays), he sent them harshly to bed.
Why treat them so? said Milena. I know she was here.
How much can you hear in your sleep?
More than you imagine.
Then you know I kept faith with you.
I didn’t doubt it, said his wife. How can I do anything but trust you absolutely? Any day you like, call the people in . . .
Milena, we’d better make a plan.
Would you send me back to my grave?
No!
All the same, perhaps that’s where I had better spend my days. Doroteja will return soon.
I told her to wait.
You just don’t think, said his wife. Let me tell you how to do this.
They began to plan together.
17
For three nights they avoided each other. He left the windows unshuttered at dusk, as he used to when she was alive. He called upon the neighbors, who barely spoke to him. Sleep came badly; when it did, he kept dreaming that her face had grown so thickly spiderwebbed that it could have been a sculptor’s half-cut crystal.
How should he have felt, to be free of her? Perhaps it was cunning on her part, to give him opportunity to go for the priest; or it could have been simple love. It pleases me to report that he never felt the temptings of what good citizens would call conscience. He was bound to her, and freely.
He slept by night, for a change, and by day he let himself be seen in field and street. Yet the air continued to petrify around him, such was his danger and isolation. Had I more time I might have told you how it used to be for him with those people when Milena was still alive. But memories are mere tombs, containing foul dust which will never return to what it was, for all our hoping. So he resolutely forgot his friendship with those goodwives and honest men. Life must be lived without subservience to dust; God knows the stuff is difficult enough to get away from.
Thus he did whatever he could, to preserve himself and her. I wish you could have seen his face on the f
ourth evening, when he was to see her again.
There was an old tomb she knew (he refrained from asking which of her neighbors had showed it to her); they began to meet there in order to be alone. He took a wax impression of the lock, and the blacksmith, not suspecting what it was, made him a key. She awaited him within. They lay cool and wet together in the smell of stone. How nice it was! How lovely on those hot summer nights in the tomb with his wife!— Their daughters lay alone at home, fearfully crossing themselves.
In a shady alcove of damp black sand, the wall grown in with heart-shaped leaves, the moon peeped in at them around the shoulder of a stone Madonna; they hid behind her mossy stone robe, baby ferns creeping out from the buttresses.
At noon the ivy was as clean and shiny as grape leaves growing on the trellis, with silver-white ribs of light scraping across the dark leaf-claws. Once when she was underground he went there, the chalky stone almost sweating, and all he could think of was how much he longed to rest in her cold sweaty hair.
18
The next day he overheard the youngest daughter saying that since their mother had been ordinary, neither extremely good like Doroteja nor as wicked as the stepmother next door who had boiled up her husband’s little boy for soup, she thought the best course generally was to avoid conversation with their mother, although the appropriate demeanor for herself personally would be to respect whichever example her sisters set. Michael said nothing, either to himself or to Milena. He put the children to spreading manure across the field, while he went to cut firewood. Staring at his reflected face in an inlet of the river, he saw a lonely, guilty man. Well, what was he to do? Had Milena sinned against him by coming back? And if their daughters hesitated to love her, was that blameable? Perhaps he should have beaten the youngest, but what was the use? He could not imagine how many Hail Marys it might take to set things right.
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