Sleeping in Flame

by Jonathan Carroll

  "Wait a minute, David, let me get this down." But I wasn't writing. I was thinking about the killer in St. Petersburg, Alexander Kroll. He was also raised by his father because the mother died in childbirth. "What was the name of Benedikt's father?"

  "Kaspar. Kaspar Benedikt. The interesting thing about him was he was a midget."

  "I know."

  Buck paused. "You knew? How?"

  "It doesn't matter. Go on." I started when something jumped up on the bed next to me. Orlando, his old calm, blind self. He rubbed against me, wanting to be tickled. Didn't he remember anything?

  "From the different accounts I've read, Benedikt junior fought for the Germans in southern France in World War Two. He was taken prisoner by the Allies, held awhile, then let go. When he got back to Vienna, he started working again for his father. This is where it gets interesting. Seems like Moritz had a girlfriend named Elisabeth Gregorovius. She worked as a waitress at the Cafй Museum. She's still alive, if you want to contact her. I have the address and phone number, but I didn't talk to her. She's probably the one putting fresh flowers on his grave."

  "You're sure she's alive?"

  "Yes. I called the number when I found out about her. An old woman answered and said 'Gregorovius', so I assumed it was her.

  "Anyway, she and Moritz had one of those great, years-long courtships that either end in marriage or both people dying of old age. Real nineteenth-century romance. From what I got, they were engaged forever before they got married. The newspapers said that was the first thing that made the old man crazy: His son was going to get married and leave the house. Remember, though, this was after like years of going out together, so it wasn't a big surprise to Papa.

  "Elisabeth and Moritz got married in 1953 and lived in her apartment. He continued to work in the tailor shop and she at the cafй. Everything stayed peaceful for two more years. She and Kaspar didn't get along, but his son loved her, so there wasn't anything he could do but accept it.

  "In 1955, January, Elisabeth discovered she was pregnant. She told Moritz, and he was thrilled. The first thing he wanted to do was give his father the good news. So he went over to the old man's apartment and told him. You know what Kaspar did? Pushed his son out of a fifth floor window and killed him!

  "When the police came to take him away, Kaspar told them – wait a minute, let me read it to you – told them 'He would have loved it more than me.' That was it."

  I looked down at Orlando. "What happened to the father?"

  "I'm not finished! While they were taking him to the police station, there was a terrible crash and the two cops in the car were killed, along with the driver of the other car. There was a photograph of the accident in the paper. Both cars, both of them, Walker, were standing straight up on their noses! How the hell could that happen? It looked like a movie scene. And guess who the only one was who survived the crash? Kaspar Benedikt."

  "You mean they never found him?"

  "Yeah, they did. You know the Pestsдule, the plague statue down on the Graben? That night, after a big Viennese manhunt, they found him hanging from it, stone dead, with a note pinned to his shirt. The note said 'Two eyes too many.' Zwei augen zuviel."

  Orlando's back felt elastic and warm under my hand. He purred like a wound-up spring toy.

  "Where did they bury him?"

  "That was difficult finding out. It took me almost three days of digging. The name Gregorovius is Greek, you know. You've heard about how incredible they are as fighters in war? I guess they're used to it, if you look at their history. Well, old Greek Elisabeth got some kind of small revenge on her father-in-law. Because she was next-of-kin to both Benedikts, the authorities went to her about disposal of the body. You know what she did? Donated it to the medical school to be cut up! Whatever was left of him after they finished was probably burned, but who knows?"

  "What happened to her child?" It was the only important question.

  "Can't help you there, Walker. I assume it was born and is still around. You'll have to go to Elisabeth for that. I've got pictures and Xeroxes and other things for you. When do you want to get together?" He snorted. "You want to meet at the Cafй Museum so I can give them to you?"

  I decided not to tell Maris anything until after I had spoken with the Gregorovius woman. When Maris returned from her apartment, she was wearing a green dress I had never seen before. With her California tan against it, she looked as though she'd been on the beach rather than a plane for the last twelve hours.

  We went to dinner and talked about getting married. What Venasque and Buck had told me sat calmly with its hands folded in its lap, waiting its turn. I felt isolated from her because of the information I'd learned that afternoon, but didn't feel I was keeping anything back because it all had to be thought about first, and put in proper perspective. There was no question about telling her everything – I would. I only wanted some time to get it straight and . . . cooled off before putting it in front of her for the Maris reaction.

  "I know what I want to give you for your birthday."

  "My birthday? I'm thinking about it as our wedding day now."

  "That, too. I got an inspiration when I was home. It's going to take me some time, so don't be impatient if you don't get it on the day. It'll be worth waiting for. I hope.

  "Hold my hand, Walker. That always feels good. Now, something happened I didn't tell you about. The most prestigious gallery in Los Angeles wants me to do a one-man show for them. It's the big break for me."

  My jaw dropped. "That's, uh, pretty important information, Maris. How come you didn't tell me?"

  "Because I had to think about it awhile first. It happened right before we left America. Also because you had enough to think about with all that Venasque stuff."

  "The biggest gallery in L.A.? That's a hell of a great thing, isn't it?"

  She squeezed my hand and blushed. "Yes. I think this is it."

  "I'm proud of you. Also a little pissed off that you didn't tell me immediately."

  "You like my work, don't you, Walker? That makes me feel surer."

  "I love it! Where do they come from? I know you're not supposed to ask the artist that question, but really – where do the cities come from?"

  "Now? My dreams, mostly. Both daydreams and night dreams." She sat forward and her expression grew more excited. "But dreams aren't dangerous, or thrilling, until we think of them as real possibilities. It's our own fault . . . and responsibility if we let that happen. Dreams make no promises, you know? In mine, I see these cities, but then it's up to me whether I can bring them together the way they appear in my head. I want to show exactly what's passed through me. Sometimes I think it's like a hand grenade thrown into my . . . gut. I try to cover it and absorb all of the impact. Does that sound goofy?"

  "Inspired."

  She sat back. "Did I ever tell you about why I made the first city?"

  "Never. What happened?"

  "Well, my father is a selfish man and can be pretty cold. But when I was seventeen, he was stabbed and almost died. We were living in New York then. My heart had pretty much closed toward him in a lot of ways, especially since I was going through my own typical teenage hell. But seeing him in such bad shape opened me up pretty damned fast. Suddenly I felt this complete . . . agony of love for him. He didn't deserve it, but that's what I felt. Lying in that hospital bed, his face as empty and gray as a beach in winter . . . It almost drove me mad. So, almost unconsciously, I found myself in a store one day buying a LEGO set with this dim idea. I wanted to build him a city where he could live while he was recuperating. I spent a week working on it. I built him the kind of hospital he should be in, the house where he should live afterward. Big picture windows, a veranda, a giant lawn . . . I got so carried away, I even bought in a model train store the kind of dog I thought should be at his side while he sat there in a pink chair and waited for his body to return to him.

  "It gave me such peace and pleasure to construct I just continued doing it."

>   "Did it help your father? I mean, after you gave it to him?"

  She smiled. "He looked at it once and said it was 'sweet.' It doesn't matter. I don't even know if I was making it for him. I believe my mind was telling me there was a place I could go, or build for myself, where I could be alone and happy. It was one of the things that saved me.

  "I wasn't so happy when I was young. But now I am because I love you." Her napkin fell on the floor. Bending over to pick it up, she cried out, "Ow!"

  "What's the matter?" My first thought was the child inside her.

  "Oh, I do that sometimes. I'll make the dumbest motion, like pick up a napkin, and throw my back out. Now it'll be like this for three days. Damn!"

  "Can I do anything?"

  "You can let go of my elbow. You're squeezing it to death. Don't worry – it's not major. Just Maris York growing older. Maris Easterling growing older. How does that name sound? I keep trying it out on my tongue."

  "You're sure you're all right?"

  "Yes. You didn't answer me – how does Maris Easterling sound?"

  "Good. Like a Southern belle. You don't want to keep your own name?"

  "No. Then we'd sound like a British law firm, Easterling and York." Do you think your parents will like me?"

  I looked at her and thought about Moritz Benedikt telling his father he was going to marry Elisabeth.

  My parents. Would my real parents like Maris? First I had to find them. First I had to find him.

  Elisabeth Gregorovious Benedikt sounded nervous but interested when I called. I told her I had discovered her husband's grave at the Zentralfriedhof by accident and, amazed by the physical resemblance between us, had done some further research on him. Could I come and talk to her?

  "You know what happened to my husband?"

  "Yes."

  "You know about his father? What happened to him?"

  "Yes."

  "How come you want to see me?"

  She lived on the fifth floor of a walk-up near the Prater. Although it was a good distance away, the giant ferris wheel in the amusement park loomed behind her building. Inside, the place smelled pleasantly of freshly baked bread, which was incongruous because everything else in there was dark and defeated. The second Bezirk is a worker's district. Buildings there are either new and dull and functional, or old and dying. Many of the older ones show signs of one-time grandeur or imagination on their faces, whether via Jugendstil facades or the interesting simplicity of the Bauhaus style. But like the old movie queen who has turned seventy or eighty, whatever beauty or appeal remains shows more what has been lost, rather than what is left.

  The stairway was wide enough for three people, and at every landing there was a stained glass window of a different kind of flower. Out of curiosity, I opened one and looked down at the courtyard below. Yugoslavian kids were kicking a soccer ball around, shouting at each other in their staccato, brusque language. One of them looked up, waved, and shouted, "Immer wieder Rapid!"

  Her door was the only one on the floor painted white. A brass nameplate in script letters spelled out "Benedikt." Inside, I heard Peter Gabriel and Laurie Anderson singing "Excellent Birds."

  I had to ring the bell twice before anything happened.

  I thought she would at least be startled by my resemblance to her husband, but the 60ish woman who opened the door merely looked at me with her head cocked to one side and an amused smile. She had high Slavic cheekbones and green eyes set beneath a tightly curled bonnet of white hair. She was fat and barely contained by a cheap yellow and orange house dress.

  "Mrs. Benedikt?"

  "Yes. Wait a minute. Lillis, turn the music down! The man is here!" The music remained up. She put up her hand for me to wait, disappeared down the hall, and came back after the music was lowered.

  Was Lillis her son?

  "Yes, you do look like him. Come in."

  The front hall was a mess of snow boots and coats and, strangely, toys: plastic dump trucks, "Masters of the Universe" dolls, one of those large Japanese robots that "transform" into something racy and sleek after ten twists and turns of their silver arms and legs.

  "Everything was clean in here an hour ago, but Lillis likes to play everywhere. This way."

  If she was pregnant in 1955, then the child would have been born in 1956, making it over thirty years old. The toys, colorful and by the look of them well used, took on a foreboding quality.

  The living room was nothing special. A travel poster for Greece was framed on one wall, a Van Gogh reproduction on another. I looked around for photographs but didn't see any.

  "You like baklava? I bought some fresh."

  Before I could say anything, she gestured for me to sit and left the room. I chose a big padded chair, and without thinking, sat in it and leaned back slightly. It turned out to be one of those reclining jobs, and before I knew it, I was almost flat on my back. The surprise shook me. Struggling to right myself again, I heard a high-pitched laugh that sounded almost animal in its ferocity. Looking for its source, I saw nothing but a fast-moving shadow in the doorway disappear before I was straight up again. Mrs. Benedikt returned a little while later with a tray loaded with coffee things and a plate of shining baklava.

  "You're an American? That's funny. I once had an American boyfriend before the war. He was a student at the university and used to come in after classes."

  She had beautiful hands: long and white, and tipped by well-cared-for red nails. I watched them while she poured the coffee. A slight frisson of fear walked up my back. Somewhere inside I knew those hands, knew how important they were to her, knew what they did when she made love, knew how she sometimes secretly held them up to the light to admire, as if they were her only small work of art.

  "Be careful in that chair. It's a recliner."

  I took the cup she offered. "I know. I almost killed myself a minute ago."

  Her face brightened, and she laughed deeply. It was completely different from the laugh I'd heard before.

  "Yes, I've done that too! Sometimes I forget and go right back in it. Lillis loves it, though. He'd sit there all day if I let him.

  "He'll be in, in a minute, so you'd better know. He looks like a normal man, but he's autistic. Do you know what that is?"

  I was hesitant to say the word but did anyway. "Schizophrenic?"

  "More or less. Lillis lives in his own head. He looks like a man but is really a little boy who doesn't know how to talk yet. He's very strange. Don't be surprised if he comes in and acts crazy. He is crazy, but he's my son. You will see."

  The tone of her voice was everyday and unembarrassed. She had lived with the problem so long that it was only another part of her life, however difficult. I've always had the greatest admiration for people who appear, at least outwardly, to handle such crushing setbacks with both calm and unnoticed strength. Their burdens would be unthinkable to most of us, and the thanks they get for bearing them is minimal.

  "Has he always been like that?"

  She put a piece of baklava in her mouth and nodded. "A gift from his grandfather. After he killed Moritz, he called before the police came and told me what he'd done. Said that it was all my fault and the child's. It took me years to remember the whole conversation because you can imagine the shock it gave me. The last thing that little monster ever said to me was I'd better have an abortion or I'd be sorry."

  "Do you believe he had that kind of power?"

  "Yes, he had powers. I was stupid enough to think I could beat him, but I was wrong. I've been wrong for thirty years." She continued eating. "On the island where I grew up, Formori, there was an old woman who told fortunes by looking at lamb bones. She was never wrong. Do you know what she told me when I was ten years old? That I would marry a man who was too right for me and that I would lose him because of that.

  "When Moritz came back from the war, he told me our relationship was the only thing that mattered in his life. He also told his father that, and the old man hated both of us for it. It had be
en just the two of them for so many years. Kaspar thought it would stay that way. He wanted to be everything to his son, which is sick. That's all, sick. Then when I came along, he saw he couldn't have it that way. That maybe a normal man wants more out of life than a pat on the head from his father. He did everything he could to break us up. But I fought him, Mr. . . ."

  "Easterling."

  "Mr. Easterling. I fought and won Moritz away from his father because I had more to give than that ugly midget, and he knew it. That way I won." Her voice was full of cancerous disappointment, memories, and acid. It would be that way until the day she died.

  I had no chance to react or say anything because Lillis appeared in the doorway.

  There are women whose beauty makes you forget where you are, or even who you are. It doesn't happen often, but when you do encounter one of them, it is almost cruel the way they affect you. I have never understood how any man could live with one of these creatures without going mad with either paranoia or desire.

  More disturbing still are the men who have the kind of physical beauty that transcends sexual gender. There were a number of them in Fellini's film Satyricon, and I remember, even as a young man, being made hotly uncomfortable (as well as captivated) by their unearthly looks. What did God have in mind with them? Are they here to remind us of the possibility of heaven and angels, or to taunt us mortals who are limited to one flesh, one physical way?

  Lillis Benedikt was inconceivably beautiful. Long hair, shiny and surfer blond, that swept in a frozen curve over a high ivory forehead. His eyes were large and blue, as deeply set as his mother's, only slightly more curved and Oriental. The rest of the face was long and perfectly proportioned, down to the full crimson lips and teeth white as paper.

  He was smiling shyly when he came in – the smile of a small boy who has been called into the living room to be introduced to company. I was so taken by his looks that I didn't realize at first the fly of his pants was wide open.

  Looking straight at me, the smile stayed frozen on his face. Normally, a stare like that would have made me uneasy, especially knowing the man was disturbed, but his damned face was so hypnotic I couldn't look away.