by James Lyon
He began thinking to himself the words of an old hymn: ‘The morning breaks, the shadows flee…the dawning of a brighter day, majestic rising on the world.’ The words expressed the faint beginnings of a newly rediscovered hope that now sprang up within his heart, and made him feel that perhaps, once again he might find his faith.
Everywhere there was light.
* * *
Steven tossed a pebble at Mrs. Lazarevic’s window. He lacked any recollection of walking from the dormitory or crossing the bridge, although he knew he had. All he remembered was a strong burning inside that had driven him from the dormitory and guided him to her front door, throwing up a hedge along his path against his invisible enemies.
She came down, opened the door, took one look at his bruised face and said: ‘You will stay the night here.’ He did not argue.
The Lazarevic home felt immune to the madness of the outside world. Neither refugees, nor war nor unseen perils seemed to penetrate its walls. As he sat on the sofa, sipping chamomile tea, he felt safe. The thick walls of the old building warded off evil, as did the Lazarevic men in the paintings and photographs on the walls. He vowed to study more closely the various folk talismans placed on the outside and inside of the house, that up until now he had regarded merely as decorations.
Between sips of chamomile tea and mouthfuls of homemade chocolate palacinke, Steven told Mrs. Lazarevic what had happened at Niedermeier’s bookstore, emphasizing the butterfly. He told her of his struggle with the dark force in his dormitory. She sat listening, asking no questions.
‘You have had a difficult day,’ she said, her voice soft and comforting. ‘Here you will be safe from the powers of darkness. Nothing will harm you.’
‘What’s happening? What attacked me?’
‘The butterfly is troubling,’ she looked at the portraits on the walls as if seeking their advice. ‘It may have been a vampire or it may have been Mr. Niedermeier’s spirit, or perhaps even an ordinary butterfly. From its behavior I can’t tell. In any event you have awoken a great evil that dislikes your presence. Something you are doing is causing it to react and attack you.’
He looked quizzically at her: ‘I’m not certain I understand.’
She spoke calmly, soothingly. ‘The Adversary finds it easiest to do his work if people are unaware of his existence. He uses materialism and moral relativity to lull them into comfortable lives until he gradually dulls their spiritual senses to the point where they have little need for God. When they no longer need God, then for them He ceases to exist. It is a subtle and clever plan. The Adversary will take direct action only when he senses a righteous man is ready to remove his spiritual blinders and break free from his materialistic cocoon. He will then send his minions to defeat the man before the man can gather spiritual strength. Sometimes they will even try to possess him. This will not be the last such attack. Be watchful. Do you recall what you did to overcome the dark force?’
He related his vision of the pine cone.
‘My Katarina is wonderful. You see, she did give you something useful.’
‘But a pine cone?’
‘It is a powerful symbol of your faith. That will be your weapon…your faith. If you are upright and true, your faith will render you invincible in all your encounters.’
‘Faith?’ he said faintly. ‘I didn’t think I had any left.’
‘Don’t be silly. Of course you do. You’ve only lost faith in yourself, not God. One day you will be a champion of light.’
‘A champion of light?!’ he sputtered. It sounded like a tacky, second rate, made-in-Japan Saturday morning cartoon. ‘What in the world are you talking about?’
‘Oh, I am merely talking. But don’t worry. You were not attacked by vampires. You were challenged by the Dark One himself. He is too jealous of his power to ever give that much of it to anyone else, particularly to vampires, greedy small-minded things that they are.’
‘Is this for real?’ He didn’t want to believe what he was hearing, but couldn’t reject what she was saying.
‘We must get you out of Serbia. When are you leaving to see Marko? He’ll put everything in perspective.’
Steven sat up, now feeling there was an exit from the dark tunnel. ‘I’m leaving tomorrow evening around 11:00 p.m.’ He nursed his chamomile tea for some time then looked at her. ‘What’s this all about?’
She gazed at him a long, long moment, looked around the room at the Lazarevic portraits, and finally returned her gaze to him.
Mrs. Lazarevic stood and walked to the china cabinet, opened it and withdrew an old album, its cover well worn. She set it on the table and slowly opened the discolored cover, revealing yellowed black and white photographs, some of which appeared to be Daguerreotypes from the 19th century. She pointed to one, which showed two youngish men posing formally in the tightly-tailored narrow-waist dress uniforms of the Habsburg cavalry, with calf-high boots, striped trousers, richly braided Hussar tunics slung jauntily across one shoulder and plumed czako hats on their heads. Both held officers’ swords and wore long moustaches, and one was clearly a Lazarevic. The other reminded Steven vaguely of someone, although he couldn’t say who. He wracked his brain, trying to remember the Austro-Hungarian nobility and royal family. At the bottom of the page someone had written: Wien, 5.viii.1874 in now-faded ink using an elegant cursive hand.
Mrs. Lazarevic turned the page and pointed to another black and white photo of the same two officers, this time wearing open great coats draped around their shoulders. Both wore the World War One field uniforms of the Habsburg Kaiserlich und Königlich Army, held officers’ swords and sported the same long moustaches. Underneath, the same elegant, cursive hand had written: Peterwardein, 5.viii.1914. Steven looked closer at the photo. The second man looked increasingly familiar, but he wasn’t certain.
Mrs. Lazarevic simply turned the page and showed him another photo of the same two men, their moustaches as black and full as in the first photo, this time wearing officers’ uniforms of the Yugoslav Royal Army. The photograph had been taken on field maneuvers as they stood proudly next to a large artillery piece. On the bottom the same hand had written: Brcko, 5.viii.1940. He stopped her and turned the pages back, comparing the photographs. Neither man appeared to have aged in the course of sixty-six years. And then he saw it. The second man bore a striking resemblance…no, it couldn’t be…to Professor Slatina!
‘Who are they?’ His voice was so dry he barely managed to expel the words.
Her unwavering gaze made him deeply uncomfortable. ‘You really don’t know, do you? He told you nothing? The man on the left is my late dear husband, Rade Lazarevic. A better, more honorable and upright man never walked the face of this earth. The man on the right is well known to you. He is your dear professor, Marko Slatina.’
His vision darkened and his breathing quickened. He steadied himself on the table with both hands, trying to concentrate on the photographs now blurring before his eyes. After several moments he lifted his head in disbelief and looked directly at Mrs. Lazarevic. ‘Is this real? Are you serious?’
‘Yes. Very real. And I am quite serious. I can’t believe Marko is so irresponsible as to send you out here completely unprepared. You could get killed. Or worse.’
He stared at her uncomprehendingly. ‘But how can this be?’
‘How well have you studied your folklore? Do you know what a vampirovic is? Or a kresnik, in Marko’s case?’
His mind flashed back to what he had read about the vampirovic, the offspring of a vampire and a human that could live forever and hunted vampires. He sat stunned. ‘But that’s only folklore…I mean, this isn’t real, is it. A vampirovic? Come on…’ Yet he kept flipping through the pages, examining the photographs. He came to a photograph of a young Mrs. Lazarevic standing between the two men, now without moustaches, her arms around them, next to the clock tower at Petrovaradin, dated 6.viii.1960.
‘Are Marcus von Zlatinow and Professor Slatina…’
‘One a
nd the same,’ she finished Steven’s sentence for him.
He scanned the portraits on the walls around him, until a light switched on inside his head. ‘Then these are…’
‘All of my late husband, may his soul rest in peace,’ she answered proudly.
‘And are you…’
‘A mere mortal, such as yourself.’
Steven sat speechless, looking at the portraits on the walls and the photos in the album. All seemed to smile at him.
‘Marko has sent you on a fool’s errand and placed you in grave danger,’ she said. ‘You must take great care what you do, with whom you speak, and what you write down. Already you have attracted unwanted attention.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Use your head. If Marko and my husband are vampirovici, what does it mean?’
‘Come on, they’re just folklore, old tales,’ he protested.
‘What does it mean?’
‘That vampires exist…’
‘That vampires exist,’ she said. ‘Marko didn’t send you on an academic voyage. He sent you as a scout.’
‘A scout?! What are you talking about?’
‘I’ll let Marko tell you everything in Budapest. Better you hear it from him than from me. Please, take care of yourself. But if you have any problems, come see me, and I’ll help you as best I can.’
Steven sat stunned.
‘Marko has always been a strong, good man,’ Mrs. Lazarevic said. ‘But he is a fool when it comes to matters of the heart.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Never mind. We shall speak only about what is important, not gossip.’ Her voice was now more severe, and she seemed to say it more to herself than him. But then she decided to enlighten him a little.
‘I have seen the signs, Steven… They feed… I feel it, sense it, in the air, in the wind, in the trees, in the soil. It is they who brought this darkness to the land. Even now they think they are undiscovered. As long as they believe this, you are safe. Yet nature abhors them. Their very presence is an open wound on the face of the land, and nature screams out in pain.’
‘They fear Marko will come for them again and finish the job, as he must, and this time he will not be soft-hearted as before. For them there will be no redemption, nor will there be an Emperor to show some foolish notion of mercy. But they have grown careless and complacent, gorged and bloated on the freshly-spilled blood of innocents. For now they focus on Niedermeier. For your sake, I hope he is discreet,’ she fixed him with an accusing stare. ‘And,’ she added, ‘alive.’
She resumed: ‘You have partaken of new knowledge, much as did Father Adam and Mother Eve. Like unto the fruit of the knowledge of Good and Evil, it can kill. You must be extremely careful with this knowledge and mention nothing of it or your research to anyone, even your professors and most trusted friends. For in the day they partake, they shall surely die.’
Steven stared in his tea then turned to her. ‘So you really believe vampires exist?’
‘Oh Steven, how young you are. After all these years of communism I find your innocence refreshing. It gives me hope for a better world. Yes, vampires really do exist. But for this evening you shall be safe from them. Come, you will sleep in Katarina’s room for the night. And when you see Marko, tell him the Emperor’s pets have escaped and that it’s time he return and finish the job.’
Mrs. Lazarevic had turned Katarina’s room into a shrine to her daughter, and Steven fell asleep surrounded by Katarina smiling at him from countless picture frames.
* * *
Steven waited until the operator called his name, then he entered the musty booth, picked up the receiver and heard the phone ring distantly. Even now there was static on the line. Someone picked up the phone and the line suddenly became clear and he heard Katarina’s voice as though she were in the next room. He had forgotten the nine hour time difference and had woken her at two in the morning.
‘It’s me,’ Steven said.
‘Where are you calling from?’ she whispered, her voice still groggy.
‘Novi Sad.’
‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m okay…I think.’
‘I’ve been worried,’ she said. ‘Do you need anything?’
‘I don’t know.’ He hesitated. He wanted to escape from Serbia to the warm feeling he had when he was in Katarina’s presence. ‘I…I just needed to hear your voice.’
There was silence. Finally she said: ‘I’m here.’
He listened to her breathing softly over the line, wanting to say something. But the words wouldn’t come out, as though he feared that the invisible force that bound him to her would disappear.
‘Do you still have the cross?’ she asked.
‘And the pine cone,’ he answered.
A wave of silence washed over them.
‘I have faith in you,’ she whispered.
After a long silence he asked: ‘Do you?’
After an equally long silence she answered ‘Yes.’
‘Thanks.’ Steven could hear her breathing become gentler.
‘I look forward to seeing you again,’ she whispered faintly, almost asleep.
‘Good night,’ he said. ‘Sleep well.’
He hung up the phone.
* * *
They came for Steven two nights later in a dark late model mini-van with mud-covered license plates. The time was shortly before midnight and lightning slashed across the heavens, its intermittent streaks revealing the undersides of murky clouds, billowing and roiling behind a cloak of darkness, while chains of gut-wrenching thunder shook the dormitory windows and set the walls humming. Black rain cascaded down as they entered the dorm.
Steven had fallen asleep early, exhausted by the stressful events of the week and was roused from slumber by male voices that matched the resonance point of the concrete, causing the surrounding walls to vibrate with eerie tonality. An unusually deferent Neso said: ‘Yes, yes, the American. He’s in the room down there. Knock on the door. He’s probably sleeping. I’ll show you.’
Steven slipped from his bed in fear and grabbed the stake from his backpack.
The sound of hard-soled boots drew closer, until they stopped in front of Steven’s door, and then Neso politely said ‘he’s here. He’s a good kid, be nice to him.’
A fist pounded heavily on the door and a gruff male voice called out: ‘Mini-van for Budapest.’
Steven breathed a sigh of relief, hid the stake and opened the door. The driver carried Steven’s suitcase out to the van, along with a small package Neso had slipped him in return for a fistful of Marks. Ceca smiled coyly as Steven said goodbye, while Neso insisted on kissing him three times on the cheeks. ‘If you need anything in Budapest, I mean anything, call this number.’ Neso handed him a piece of paper.
Heedless of the downpour, the dark van rushed through an even darker countryside while Steven stared through fogged-up windows, nicotine-blackened condensation dripping down the glass. Most of the passengers slept, their bodies contorted into unnatural positions against the seats and windows, while a nervous businessman in the rear puffed putrid cigarettes all the way to Budapest.
Steven stayed awake all the way to the border, thinking about everything that had happened since his arrival: the war, vampire ethnography, Gordana the librarian, Vesna, Niedermeier, the attack of darkness, and now Mrs. Lazarevic’s revelations about her husband and Professor Slatina. He would finally have the chance to leave it all behind, decompress and clear his head for a few days in Budapest. But he also felt apprehension about his impending reunion with Slatina. What would he say to the professor? What would the professor say to him?
Was Mrs. Lazarevic really to be believed? Were both her late husband and Slatina really the quasi-immortal vampire-hunting offspring of vampires – the vampirovici of the old folk tales? Could a person really live that long? Was Slatina really the enigmatic Captain Marcus von Zlatinow from the fortress commander’s log books? The names were certainly similar enough
, but the commander had referred to von Zlatinow in his log book as a Venetian, whereas Slatina claimed to be from the island of Hvar in Croatia. What would a Venetian have been doing in the service of the Habsburg emperor? If Slatina really is a vampirovic, why did he send Steven on a scouting mission? Why not come himself? Looking at his dim reflection in the foggy glass Steven asked himself: ‘Am I losing my sanity along with everyone else in this country?’
If everything Mrs. Lazarevic had said was true – and he had no reason to doubt her, other than the fact that it was completely outlandish – then the professor had a lot of explaining to do. Or was Mrs. Lazarevic simply a crazy widow suffering from loneliness, whose only child had gone off to America leaving no one to keep a lid on the mother’s fantasies?
After the border, he relaxed with the knowledge he was outside Yugoslavia and fell into a contorted sleep, only to awake disoriented on the outskirts of Budapest. Dawn’s first faint light was beginning to creep over the horizon when they reached the Budapest airport, where all the passengers alighted, except Steven.
The van then took him into the city center, through 19th century Pest, across the Danube to Buda via the gaunt skeleton of the emaciated Szabadsag Bridge to deposit him in front of the Hotel Gellért, an imposing fin de siècle building sitting heavily on the banks of the Danube. The lobby was deserted but for a middle-aged desk clerk with greased-back hair, chatting with two tired-looking ladies-of-the-evening. The desk clerk jumped up when he saw Steven, shooed away the girls with a wave of his hand, and rushed behind the reception counter.
‘Pleassse, may I help you,’ the clerk’s heavily accented English and lisping “s” gave him all the charm of Boris Badenov in the Bullwinkle and Rocky cartoons. Slightly giddy from lack of sleep, Steven fought to keep from laughing at the mental image.
‘I’m looking for a guest, Professor Marko Slatina,’ Steven said, keeping a straight face.
‘Pleassse, one moment, pleassse.’ The oozing clerk ruffled through some papers. Unable to find what he was looking for he opened a drawer and ruffled through more, and then another drawer. He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Pleassse, we have no guessst by that name. May I help you in sssome other way, Mr.…?’