by James Lyon
‘And you have succeeded?’
‘I trust so, Sire.’
‘Excellent. Excellent…..’ the Emperor trailed off into silence. The Captain waited respectfully. ‘Now, tell me about the project.’
‘All was done as you instructed. You have received my dispatches, yes? As you know, it took us some time to select the proper men for the task and then to train them. After a year of preparation we began the hunt in 1729.’
‘And? Did you find them? How many did you get?’
‘We have cleansed Your Majesty’s lands as far south as Skopje. We killed all those we encountered, except for those deemed most powerful. We have interred eleven of them in a tomb most secret and impenetrable, as you did command.’
‘Eleven? I thought you told me there were twelve.’
‘There are, but we can’t find the twelfth, the Vlach. He has gone to ground and may never reappear, or perhaps been killed. We heard rumors that he was last seen near Srebrenica in Bosnia, so we scoured the area, but to no avail.’
‘And the men?’
‘They have embarked for England. From thence they journey to the New World.’
‘That is good. Yes, yes, quite good,’ the Emperor looked out the window at the growing city.
A silence followed.
‘Majesty’, the Captain looked him directly in the eyes. ‘I have always been your faithful servant and done your bidding. No other has served you as have I. My loyalty and faithfulness are not to be doubted.’
The Emperor nodded in agreement.
‘Sire, I fear it may be folly to leave the eleven there. Please, you need only give the order and I shall finish them.’
‘Was it not your idea to inter them? Were you not the one who suggested we find another way to deal with them, to help them repent of their sins and find redemption?’
‘Yes, Majesty. But alas, we have not yet discovered a means, and when I think of them entombed alive – if they are indeed alive – alone in eternal darkness, tormented by their sins, my soul shudders in horror. And what if they should escape?’
‘I feel your initial impulse was right and just: we must find a way to save these lost souls. If we can redeem them from the devil’s grasp, we will be doing the Lord’s will.’
‘But Majesty, if they…’
‘Please,’ he fixed his gaze firmly on the Captain. ‘As your brother in the Order I implore you and as your Emperor I command you. Promise me.’
The Captain knelt on one knee and kissed the Emperor’s extended hand. ‘My Lord, it will be as you say.’
‘And the funds for the Order?’
The Captain rose to his feet. ‘I placed some with the Jews – the Rothschilds – both here and in Paris, some with the Fuggers in Augsburg, some with Dutch merchants and the Honourable East India Company in London. The remainder I have secreted in bullion, coins and precious stone as you commanded. The Order will not perish for want of funds.’
The Emperor hit several keys on the harpsichord, the notes echoing dully across the empty hall, then looked directly at the Captain. ‘You must supervise the funds carefully and make certain the Order can sustain itself. The Adversary is not defeated. There will be future struggles. You understand this, do you not? Without the funds, our struggle against the Evil One cannot continue. Evil will be present as long as the Sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve walk this earth in sin and mortality. As God’s anointed Emperor, it is my duty to continue the fight until our Savior comes again in His Glory. I shall not be found wanting.’
‘Yes, Majesty.’
‘What about the one who escaped?’
‘I shall maintain vigilant watch, Majesty. My spies are active throughout the land. I have a reinforced company of Grenzer, mostly Serbs and Vlachs, who are garrisoned at Grosswardein, but we use Belgrade as a forward post.’
‘And you, do you not wish to return to Venice? Have you not had enough of this life?’
‘Venice’s sun and islands are now distant. It is no longer mine, Majesty. Perhaps, someday…but not now. My service to the Order continues. Until when, I know not.’
‘My dear Venetian friend, be watchful, for the Dragon is Evil. Like unto our Savior, no man knoweth the hour or day of his coming…he cometh like a thief in the night to steal away the souls of Man. I am the anointed Arm of the Lord, and you are the sword that I wield. Justice and the Word of the Lord shall prevail. You shall see to this, will you not?’
‘I serve none but thee, Majesty. I have served the Order long and will continue in faithful service all my days, as God sees fit to grant me strength of limb and clarity of mind. O how merciful is God, Just and Faithful.’
CHAPTER FOUR
A MISSING LIBRARIAN
Belgrade: April 1992
April in Belgrade is an enchanted month. Spring elbows winter aside for lovers. Warm weather draws couples to the leafy streets and parks as fresh winds cleanse the coal smoke and automobile exhaust from the air with a promise of summer. This particular April, sunlight and passion blinded the eyes of lovers to the city’s decay and signs of war.
In parks throughout the city – along the Danube and Sava quays, at Usce and Ada – every bench was taken by grappling couples, oblivious to passersby. Grass sprouted, leaves burst onto recently-barren branches, and flowers appeared in gardens. Tables and chairs sprouted from the concrete and asphalt in front of Belgrade’s cafés and restaurants, even though the weather was still brisk and often chilly. Yet darkness weighed heavily over these bright spring days.
Steven sat in the Aristotle café near the Philosophy Faculty with Vesna, Tamara and the bearded Rasputin look-alike he had met at Professor Ljubovic’s, whom everyone deservedly called “Bear”. A brisk breeze made them shiver, even though they wore heavy coats. So too did the topic of conversation, the new war in Bosnia.
‘I can’t believe it’s happening again,’ Vesna exclaimed emotionally, her high cheekbones flushed with emotion. ‘First Slovenia and Croatia, now Bosnia…its déjà vu …and Bosnia will be far worse. It’s all so immoral. Evil has been unleashed and no one’s doing anything about it.’
‘They’re shelling Sarajevo,’ Tamara said, shock written across her slender face. ‘My parents took me there for the 1984 Olympic Games… we used to ski there every winter… my father took me to the old Bascarsija market to eat the spiced cevapcici sausages...’ Tamara began to cry. ‘My mother is there now… she remarried a Bosnian Muslim and refuses to leave…’ Her voice trailed off as tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘I don’t know what’s happening to her, if she’s alive, if she has food…’ she sobbed. Bear hugged her.
‘Slobo says the Muslims want to create an Islamic republic, but his propaganda’s the same as at the beginning of the war in Croatia,’ Vesna said, irritated. ‘They’re calling the Muslims fundamentalists, but we all know that they drink and smoke and eat pork and go to the mosque as often as Serbs go to church. Their women don’t wear veils and they dress in modern fashions like other women in Yugoslavia. It all seems like a big lie.’
‘Why don’t people protest?’ Steven asked.
‘We tried on March 9th last year,’ Bear muttered, ‘but Milosevic sent police on horseback and water cannons against the demonstrators, and when those didn’t work he sent tanks. Two people were killed. And then we occupied Terazije, but that didn’t work either.’
They sat in silence for a long while.
Bear broke the silence: ‘The Military Police came for me at my parents’ home this week.’
‘What happened?’ asked Steven.
‘Obviously they didn’t find me. I was spending the night somewhere else,’ he grinned, squeezing Tamara’s hand.
‘Why didn’t you tell me about the police?’ Tamara demanded, withdrawing her hand abruptly.
‘Tamara? Bear? Are you two dating?’ Steven asked with a grin.
‘Yes, for over a year, but please don’t tell anyone,’ Tamara said, her stern expression indicating concern.
‘It’s oka
y to tell people,’ contradicted Bear. ‘We’re in love and I want everyone to know. It’s just that Tamara’s afraid of her father.’
‘He doesn’t want anything to disrupt my studies,’ Tamara interjected. ‘As if the war and all this chaos are helping. My older sister got pregnant, got married and never finished the university. And then she immigrated to South Africa. If my dad finds out about Bear and me, the Military Police will be the least of Bear’s problems. My dad’s a difficult person…’ her sentence trailed off.
‘Difficult is right. He’s an SPS party official,’ Bear added.
‘Where will you stay?’ Steven asked Bear.
‘At my Uncle’s place on Banovo Hill.’
‘So you’re a draft dodger,’ smiled Steven.
‘Yeah, it’s an old Serbian tradition. Everyone makes a big deal about how we’re such warriors, but nobody wants to fight, just a few crazies,’ Bear answered.
‘How’s your research?’ Tamara asked. ‘Anything new?’
‘Well, I finished with vampires and moved on to fairies…’
‘That’s good, fairies,’ interrupted Vesna. ‘They’re common in our folklore, and they aren’t as horrible as vampires.’
‘I started on fairies, but everything led back to vampires. Then I collected material about witches, but once again, vampires kept popping up. I’m surprised there’s so little mention of vampires in Yugoslavia, because they’re really prevalent in folklore. No one would ever know there’d been vampires in the Balkans. It’s like they’ve been erased from public discourse,’ Steven said.
‘The communists did a good job erasing superstitions,’ Bear remarked. ‘In fact, they did better than the Church.’
‘Stefan, Professor Ljubovic told us you’ll present more of your findings at a round table next week,’ Tamara said, eagerly. ‘Will it be about vampires again?’
‘Yes, but this time I’ll talk about their characteristics.’
Vesna’s face registered her displeasure.
‘Don’t make faces, Vesna,’ Steven smiled. ‘It’ll be fun. If you come you’ll learn something.’
‘Oh come on Vesna, don’t be superstitious,’ Bear said. ‘No one’s going to bite you. After all, vampires don’t exist, isn’t that right Stefan?’
‘Of course not, they’re just folk tales.’
‘It’ll be fun,’ Tamara said, smiling. ‘Your last presentation really had people talking.’
‘Will you come?’ Steven asked Vesna, cocking his head playfully. ‘I promise I’ll keep it safe for families and small children.’ He winked at Tamara.
‘Well, okay, but promise you’ll not be scary.’
‘Well, I can’t promise it won’t be scary, but I promise that if a vampire appears I’ll come to your rescue.’
‘Great. Just what I need, my own personal vampire-slayer. Okay, if you insist. But I’m doing it only for you.’
‘Great. And bring rotten tomatoes to throw in case you don’t like it. I’m definitely going to write my dissertation on this.’
‘Don’t even think about that!’ Vesna said bluntly.
‘Why not?’
‘I really mean it. Don’t think about it. There are so many dark and evil things in this part of the world and you really should stay away from them,’ Vesna’s voice rose. ‘Evil is all around us, waiting to attack us. The last thing you need to do is invite it into your life. Why can’t you find a topic that’s uplifting, that will bring light into the world?’ She was attracting attention from nearby tables.
‘Oh, please, Vesna, don’t exaggerate,’ said Tamara.
‘Exaggerate? Vesna continued. ‘What about Milosevic? What about the horrible things in Croatia and Bosnia and here in Serbia that everyone accepts as normal? The Devil has a vacation home here, and he won’t leave until we toss him out. Some things are meant to remain hidden in dark places and never see the light of day. Stefan should just leave it alone. It’ll only bring trouble.’ Vesna stood up, grabbed her backpack and stalked off.
Steven stood up to go after her, but Bear reached out a large paw-like hand and stopped him. ‘Let her go. She has her own problems. She’s made up her mind and there’s nothing you can do about it.’
‘She’s touchy. All I did was talk about my research,’ Steven said.
‘It’s okay. Sit down and tell us about where you come from in America and what it’s like in countries where Slobodan Milosevic isn’t running things and where the only vampires are in Hollywood movies,’ Bear said.
* * *
Steven had tried to phone Slatina several times, but without success. Due to the wars, phone service was often disrupted, and to get an outside line he had to call the operator, and then wait for a call back. Each time he tried, he was either unable to get a trans-Atlantic connection, or the telephone would simply ring with no answer. He also tried to reach Katarina, but to no avail. He felt increasingly cut off from the world.
With only one letter from Slatina since his arrival, Steven didn’t know if his research would meet with the professor’s approval. He missed hearing Slatina repeat the phrase ‘et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.’ He missed talking to Katarina. He missed California, especially the salad bars and guacamole. Some days he looked at the pljeskavica and longed for an In and Out burger or enchilada.
The next day the mail arrived. This time the postman brought six letters, two from Slatina, one from his parents and three from Katarina. The envelopes had all been opened, and looking at the post marks he could tell that they had arrived in Serbia weeks and even months ago. Steven sat on his bed and read them one by one, savoring each word. Slatina’s letters were vague, non-descript, full of general well wishes and greetings with nothing specific, other than a few pieces of university and academic gossip. The professor made no mention of Steven’s topic of study, other than to wish him continued success and to urge him to visit Novi Sad at his earliest convenience. His father’s neat typewritten letter contained the latest family news and gossip.
He put down his parents’ letter, looked at Katarina’s photograph and picked up her first letter. It was written in Serbo-Croatian and began with the words Dear Stefan. It was full of cheerful banalities about university life, coursework, roommates, the weather, her professors, how different California was from Vojvodina, how much she missed home and her mother, how the Serb émigrés in America were all ultra-nationalists and fascists. She ended the letter by writing kisses and a smiley face. The second letter was the same. In the third she told him that one of the boys in her freshman English class had been teaching her to surf. When you see me next I will be the all-American surfer girl, she wrote, with a smiley face. She then asked why don’t you write to me? and ended with I will come home to spend the summer with my mother in Novi Sad. I didn’t have enough money for an airline ticket, but Marko has purchased one for me as an early birthday gift. Kisses.
Steven began writing responses to Slatina and his parents, and saved writing the letter to Katarina for the very end. His closing paragraph to her was awkward and stilted, but he decided not to change a word.
Clouds and darkness lie everywhere. Light comes during the day, but seems strangely distorted, as through a blurred lens, as though something is missing and we are receiving false light. I sought ways to defend against it, to keep from being dragged down into it and overcome by despair. The churches are no help: both Orthodox and Catholics are involved in a war of hatred, using religion to define their enemies. When I enter the churches I feel the devil laughing. The very institutions that should be spreading light are spreading darkness, as though doing the devil’s work. The only light I have found is through prayer, and I am now praying at least once a day, even more. Perhaps it’s strange, but the terrible darkness has caused me to seek light in a way I never knew I would. Without it I would have lost my nerves long ago and come back to the States. Thank you for encouraging me in this.
* * *
The following week marked a turning point, when after months of
tedious reading, Steven hit the mother lode. On Monday when he requested volume 66 of the Serbian Ethnographic Digest, Gordana the librarian said it was missing. But then she looked again and said it had been placed in a special restricted circulation section the communists had created for ideologically dangerous material. ‘But since we are no longer communist, I can give it to you,’ she said with a smile, handing him a thick book.
Judging by the dust on the cover, the stiffness of the binding and the crispness of the pages, Steven was the first person to open it. As he turned its pages he came across a piece from 1952, written by Tihomir Djordjevic, a member of the Serbian Academy of Arts and Science. In a 136 page article entitled Vampires and other beings in our folk beliefs and traditions, Djordjevic had painstakingly catalogued and summarized the work of all the major 19th and 20th century ethnographers on vampires. It sent electricity through Steven’s body as he read the sub-headings: “what is a vampire”, “who becomes a vampire”, “what makes a vampire”, “protection from vampires”, “destroying vampires”. This was a veritable catalogue of vampirism, scientifically organized and categorized with instructions. ‘Everything you always wanted to know about vampires but were afraid to ask,’ Steven thought to himself.
He read with elation, taking copious notes, tempted to simply copy the entire book verbatim by hand. By the time the reading room closed at 2:00 p.m. he had taken notes on the first 15 pages.
When he returned the next day he continued taking notes. Just before closing time he thumbed through the remainder of the volume and discovered another article by Djordjevic entitled The Twelve Mighty Vampires in Legend and Fact. He noted the bibliographical information and as he returned the volume to Gordana he asked: ‘Can I buy a copy of this somewhere or photocopy it?’
Gordana examined it then placed it on a cart. ‘I doubt you’ll find it in a bookstore. Well, perhaps in a used bookstore, but this was printed in limited numbers, only enough for a few libraries and academicians.’ She hesitated, then leaned over and whispered: ‘But tomorrow I’ll see if I can find a way to photocopy it for you. Come just after opening time.’