The Best of Gene Wolfe

by Gene Wolfe

  “You are afraid of him?”

  “Oh, very much so. I understand that he has the most complete power over me. I weep, and at last I throw myself at his feet—with my head under the table, if you can credit it, crying like an infant.

  “Then he stands and pulls me erect, and says, ‘You would never be able to pay all you owe, and you are a false and dishonest servant. But your debt is forgiven, forever.’ And as I watch, he tears a leaf from his account book and hands it to me.”

  “Your dream has a happy conclusion, then.”

  “No. It is not yet over. I thrust the paper into the front of my shirt and go out, wiping my face on my sleeve. I am conscious that if any of the other servants should see me, they will know at once what has happened. I hurry to reach my own counting room; there is a brazier there, and I wish to burn the page from the owner’s book.”

  “I see.”

  “But just outside the door of my own room, I meet another servant—an upper servant like myself, I think, since he is well dressed. As it happens, this man owes me a considerable sum of money, and to conceal from him what I have just endured, I demand that he pay at once.” Herr R——rose from his chair and began to pace the room, looking sometimes at the painted scenes on the walls, sometimes at the Turkish carpet at his feet. “I have had reason to demand money like that often, you understand. Here in this room.

  “The man falls to his knees, weeping and begging for additional time, but I reach down, like this, and seize him by the throat.”

  “And then?”

  “And then the door of my counting room opens. But it is not my counting room with my desk and the charcoal brazier, but the owner’s own room. He is standing in the doorway, and behind him I can see the open window, and the blossoms of the cherry tree.”

  “What does he say to you?”

  “Nothing. He says nothing to me. I release the other man’s throat, and he slinks away.”

  “You awaken then?”

  “How can I explain it? Yes, I wake up. But first we stand there, and while we do I am conscious of . . . certain sounds.”

  “If it is too painful for you, you need not say more.”

  Herr R——drew a silk handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. “How can I explain?” he said again. “When I hear those sounds, I am aware that the owner possesses certain other servants, who have never been under my direction. It is as though I have always known this, but had no reason to think of it before.”

  “I understand.”

  “They are quartered in another part of the house—in the vaults beneath the wine cellar, I think sometimes. I have never seen them, but I know—then—that they are hideous, vile, and cruel; I know too that he thinks me but little better than they, and that as he permits me to serve him, so he allows them to serve him also. I stand—we stand—and listen to them coming through the house. At last a door at the end of the hall begins to swing open. There is a hand like the paw of some filthy reptile on the latch.”

  “Is that the end of the dream?”

  “Yes.” Herr R——threw himself into his chair again, mopping his face. “You have this experience each night?”

  “It differs,” he said slowly, “in some details.”

  “You have told me that the orders you give the underservants vary.”

  “There is another difference. When the dreams began, I woke when the hinges of the door at the passage end creaked. Each night now the dream endures a moment longer. Perhaps a tenth of a second. Now I see the arm of the creature who opens that door, nearly to the elbow.”

  I took the address of his home, which he was glad enough to give me, and leaving the bank made my way to my hotel.

  * * *

  When I had eaten my roll and drunk my coffee the next morning, I went to the place indicated by the card given me by Baron H——, and in a few minutes was sitting with him in a room as bare as those tents from which armies in the field are cast into battle. “You are ready to begin the case this morning?” he asked.

  “On the contrary. I have already begun; indeed, I am about to enter a new phase of my investigation. You would not have come to me if your Dream-Master were not torturing someone other than the people whose names you gave me. I wish to know the identity of that person, and to interrogate him.”

  “I told you that there were many other reports. I—”

  “Provided me with a list. They are all of the petite bourgeoisie, when they are not persons still less important. I believed at first that it might be because of the urgings of Herr R——that you engaged me, but when I had time to reflect on what I know of your methods, I realized that you would have demanded that he provide my fee had that been the case. So you are sheltering someone of greater importance, and I wish to speak to him.”

  “The countess—,” Baron H——began.

  “Ah!”

  “The countess herself has expressed some desire that you should be presented to her. The count opposes it.”

  “We are speaking, I take it, of the governor of this province?”

  The baron nodded. “Of Count von V——. He is responsible, you understand, only to the queen regent herself.”

  “Very well. I wish to hear the countess, and she wishes to talk with me. I assure you, Baron, that we will meet; the only question is whether it will be under your auspices.”

  * * *

  The countess, to whom I was introduced that afternoon, was a woman in her early twenties, deep breasted and somber haired, with skin like milk, and great dark eyes welling with fear and (I thought) pity, set in a perfect oval face.

  “I am glad you have come, monsieur. For seven weeks now our good Baron H——has sought this man for me, but he has not found him.”

  “If I had known my presence here would please you, Countess, I would have come long ago, whatever the obstacles. You then, like the others, are certain it is a real man we seek?”

  “I seldom go out, monsieur. My husband feels we are in constant danger of assassination.”

  “I believe he is correct.”

  “But on state occasions we sometimes ride in a glass coach to the Rathaus. There are uhlans all around us to protect us then. I am certain that—before the dreams began—I saw the face of this man in the crowd.”

  “Very well. Now tell me your dream.”

  “I am here, at home—”

  “In this palace, where we sit now?”

  She nodded.

  “That is a new feature, then. Continue, please.”

  “There is to be an execution. In the garden.” A fleeting smile crossed the countess’s lovely face. “I need not tell you that that is not where the executions are held; but it does not seem strange to me when I dream.

  “I have been away, I think, and have only just heard of what is to take place. I rush into the garden. The man Baron H——calls the Dream-Master is there, tied to the trunk of the big cherry tree; a squad of soldiers faces him, holding their rifles; their officer stands beside them with his saber drawn, and my husband is watching from a pace or two away. I call out for them to stop, and my husband turns to look at me. I say, ‘You must not do it, Karl. You must not kill this man.’ But I see by his expression that he believes that I am only a foolish, tenderhearted child. Karl is . . . several years older than I.”

  “I am aware of it.”

  “The Dream-Master turns his head to look at me. People tell me that my eyes are large—do you think them large, monsieur?”

  “Very large, and very beautiful.”

  “In my dream, quite suddenly, his eyes seem far, far larger than mine, and far more beautiful, and in them I see reflected the figure of my husband. Please listen carefully now, because what I am going to say is very important, though it makes very little sense, I am afraid.”

  “Anything may happen in a dream, Countess.”

  “When I see my husband reflected in this man’s eyes, I know—I cannot say how—that it is this reflection, and not the man who stands nea
r me, who is the real Karl. The man I have thought real is only a reflection of that reflection. Do you follow what I say?”

  I nodded. “I believe so.”

  “I plead again: ‘Do not kill him. Nothing good can come of it. . . .’ My husband nods to the officer, the soldiers raise their rifles, and . . . and . . .”

  “You wake. Would you like my handkerchief, Countess? It is of coarse weave, but it is clean, and much larger than your own.”

  “Karl is right—I am only a foolish little girl. No, monsieur, I do not wake—not yet. The soldiers fire. The Dream-Master falls forward, though his bonds hold him to the tree. And Karl flies to bloody rags beside me.”

  * * *

  On my way back to my hotel, I purchased a map of the city, and when I reached my room I laid it flat on the table there. There could be no question of the route of the countess’s glass coach—straight down the Hauptstrasse, the only street in the city wide enough to take a carriage surrounded by cavalrymen. The most probable route by which Herr R——might go from his house to his bank coincided with the Hauptstrasse for several blocks. The path Fräulein A——would travel from her flat to the arcade crossed the Hauptstrasse at a point contained by that interval. I needed to know no more.

  Very early the next morning I took up my post at the intersection. If my man were still alive after the fusillade Count von V——fired at him each night, it seemed certain that he would appear at this spot within a few days, and I am hardened to waiting. I smoked cigarettes while I watched the citizens of I——walk up and down before me. When an hour had passed, I bought a newspaper from a vendor, and stole a few glances at its pages when foot traffic was light.

  Gradually I became aware that I was watched—we boast of reason, but there are senses over which reason holds no authority. I did not know where my watcher was, yet I felt his gaze on me, whichever way I turned. So, I thought, You know me, my friend. Will I too dream now? What has attracted your attention to a mere foreigner, a stranger, waiting for who-knows-what at this corner? Have you been talking to Fräulein A——? Or to someone who has spoken with her?

  Without appearing to do so, I looked up and down both streets in search of another lounger like myself. There was no one—not a drowsing grandfather, not a woman or a child, not even a dog. Certainly no tall man with a forked beard and piercing eyes. The windows then—I studied them all, looking for some movement in a dark room behind a seemingly innocent opening. Nothing.

  Only the buildings behind me remained. I crossed to the opposite side of the Hauptstrasse and looked once more. Then I laughed.

  They must have thought me mad, all those dour burghers, for I fairly doubled over, spitting my cigarette to the sidewalk and clasping my hands to my waist for fear my belt would burst. The presumption, the impudence, the brazen insolence of the fellow! The stupidity, the wonderful stupidity of myself, who had not recognized his old stories! For the remainder of my life now, I could accept any case with pleasure, pursue the most inept criminal with zest, knowing that there was always a chance he might outwit such an idiot as I.

  For the Dream-Master had set up His own picture, and full-length and in the most gorgeous colors, in his window. Choking and spluttering, I saluted it, and then, still filled with laughter, I crossed the street once more and went inside, where I knew I would find Him. A man awaited me there—not the one I sought, but one who understood Whom it was I had come for, and knew as well as I that His capture was beyond any thief taker’s power. I knelt, and there, though not to the satisfaction I suppose of Baron H——, Fräulein A——, Herr R——, and the Count and Countess von V——, I destroyed the Dream-Master as He has been sacrificed so often, devouring His white, wheaten flesh that we might all possess life without end.

  Dear people, dream on.

  Afterword

  G. K. Chesterton wrote that ordinary life “is like ten thousand thrilling detective stories mixed up with a spoon.” If we look at it that way—which is rather fun—we can quickly come up with ten thousand stories.

  Some of which will show that the criminal cannot be apprehended. And some of which will show, like this one, that the criminal should not be.

  I will not lecture you on Jesus of Nazareth, but I advise you to find Chesterton’s The Everlasting Man. In this story I asked you to consider that everlasting man’s short fiction. Fans have written me to say that this or that story stayed with them for days. Each letter makes me proud and happy. In my happiness and pride, I am prone to forget that there was once a storyteller from Galilee whose stories have stayed with us for millennia.

  Kevin Malone

  Marcella and I were married in April. I lost my position with Ketterly, Bruce & Drake in June, and by August we were desperate. We kept the apartment—I think we both felt that if we lowered our standards there would be no chance to raise them again—but the rent tore at our small savings. All during July I had tried to get a job at another brokerage firm, and by August I was calling fraternity brothers I had not seen since graduation and expressing an entire willingness to work in whatever businesses their fathers owned. One of them, I think, must have mailed us the advertisement.

  Attractive young couple, well educated and well connected, will receive free housing, generous living allowance, for minimal services.

  There was a telephone number, which I omit for reasons that will become clear.

  I showed the clipping to Marcella, who was lying with her cocktail shaker on the chaise longue. She said, “Why not,” and I dialed the number.

  The telephone buzzed in my ear, paused, and buzzed again. I allowed myself to go limp in my chair. It seemed absurd to call at all; for the advertisement to have reached us that day, it must have appeared no later than yesterday morning. If the position was worth having—

  “The Pines.”

  I pulled myself together. “You placed a classified ad. For an attractive couple, well educated and the rest of it.”

  “I did not, sir. However, I believe my master did. I am Priest, the butler.”

  I looked at Marcella, but her eyes were closed. “Do you know, Priest, if the opening has been filled?”

  “I think not, sir. May I ask your age?”

  I told him. At his request, I also told him Marcella’s (she was two years younger than I) and gave him the names of the schools we had attended, described our appearance, and mentioned that my grandfather had been a governor of Virginia and that Marcella’s uncle had been ambassador to France. I did not tell him that my father had shot himself rather than face bankruptcy, or that Marcella’s family had disowned her—but I suspect he guessed well enough what our situation was.

  “You will forgive me, sir, for asking so many questions. We are almost a half day’s drive, and I would not wish you to be disappointed.”

  I told him that I appreciated that, and we set a date—Tuesday of the next week—on which Marcella and I were to come out for an interview with “the master.” Priest had hung up before I realized that I had failed to learn his employer’s name.

  * * *

  During the teens and twenties some very wealthy people had designed estates in imitation of the palaces of the Italian Renaissance. The Pines was one of them, and better preserved than most—the fountain in the courtyard still played, the marbles were clean and unyellowed, and if no red-robed cardinal descended the steps to a carriage blazoned with the Borgia arms, one felt that he had only just gone. No doubt the place had originally been called La Capanna or Il Eremo.

  A serious-looking man in dark livery opened the door for us. For a moment he stared at us across the threshold. “Very well . . . ,” he said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said that you are looking very well.” He nodded to each of us in turn, and stood aside. “Sir. Madame. I am Priest.”

  “Will your master be able to see us?”

  For a moment some exiled expression—it might have been amusement—seemed to tug at his solemn face. “The music room, perhaps,
sir?”

  I said I was sure that would be satisfactory, and followed him. The music room held a Steinway, a harp, and a dozen or so comfortable chairs; it overlooked a rose garden in which old remontant varieties were beginning that second season that is more opulent though less generous than the first. A kneeling gardener was weeding one of the beds.

  “This is a wonderful house,” Marcella said. “I really didn’t think there was anything like it left. I told him you’d have a john collins—all right? You were looking at the roses.”

  “Perhaps we ought to get the job first.”

  “I can’t call him back now, and if we don’t get it, at least we’ll have had the drinks.”

  I nodded to that. In five minutes they arrived, and we drank them and smoked cigarettes we found in a humidor—English cigarettes of strong Turkish tobacco. A maid came, and said that Mr. Priest would be much obliged if we would let him know when we would dine. I told her that we would eat whenever it was convenient, and she dropped a little curtsy and withdrew.

  “At least,” Marcella commented, “he’s making us comfortable while we wait.”

  * * *

  Dinner was lamb in aspic, and a salad, with a maid—another maid—and a footman to serve while Priest stood by to see that it was done properly. We ate at either side of a small table on a terrace overlooking another garden, where antique statues faded to white glimmerings as the sun set.

  Priest came forward to light the candles. “Will you require me after dinner, sir?”

  “Will your employer require us; that’s the question.”

  “Bateman can show you to your room, sir, when you are ready to retire. Julia will see to Madame.”

  I looked at the footman, who was carrying in fruit on a tray.

  “No, sir. That is Carter. Bateman is your man.”

  “And Julia,” Marcella put in, “is my maid, I suppose?”

  “Precisely.” Priest gave an almost inaudible cough. “Perhaps, sir—and madame—you might find this useful.” He drew a photograph from an inner pocket and handed it to me.