The Green Face

by Gustav Meyrink

  I do not know what is in the roll of papers that came to you in such a strange manner, yet I advise you - I urge you - to let all practical matters take their course and seek what you need in the teachings that the unknown author wrote down. Everything else will come of its own accord. Even if, contrary to expectation, its teachings should turn out to be false and you should only find the twisted features of the Deceiver grinning out at you, yet I believe you would still find in them what was right for you.

  He who seeks aright cannot be deceived. There is no lie that does not contain an element of truth, only the seeker must be standing at the right point.” Swammerdam quickly shook Hauberrisser’s hand in farewell. “And it is today that you are at the right point. You are safe to reach out for those terrible powers which otherwise bring certain madness: today you are doing it for the sake of love.”

  The first thing Sephardi did on the morning after his visit to Hilversum was to go and see the police psychiatrist, Dr. de Brouwer, to find out what he could about the case of Lazarus Egyolk.

  He was so firmly convinced that the old Jew could not be the murderer, that he felt it his duty to put a word in for his co-religionist, especially as Dr. de Brouwerhad the reputation ofbeing a poor observer who tended to jump to conclusions to a degree unusual even for a psychiatrist.

  Although he had only met him once in his life, Sephardi felt a keen concern for Egyolk. The very fact that as a Russian Jew he belonged to a spiritual group of decidedly Christian mystics suggested that he must be a cabbalistic Hasid with more to him than met the eye, and Sephardi was extremely interested in anything to do with that strange sect.

  He had not been wrong in his assumption that de Brouwer would come to the wrong conclusion. Hardly had he expressed his own conviction that Egyolk was innocent and that his confession was a result of hysteria than the psychiatrist - whose very appearance, with his flowing blond beard and `kindly but penetrating gaze’, betrayed the empty-headed scientific poseur - interrupted in his sonorous voice, “No abnormality has been diagnosed at all. Although I have only had the case under observation since yesterday, I have established that there are no signs at all of mental illness.”

  “So you think the old man is a thief and a murderer who knew what he was doing, and you are completely satisfied with his confession?” asked Sephardi in a neutral voice.

  The expression in the doctor’s eyes changed to one of exceptional shrewdness. He carefully positioned himself against the light, so that its reflection in the small, oval lenses of his spectacles would heighten his imposing, scholarly presence, and said in a low, conspiratorial tone, as if he had suddenly remembered that `walls have ears’, “It is out of the question thatEgyolk is the murderer, but there is a plot and he is involved in it.”

  “Aha. And what makes you say that?”

  Dr. de Brouwer leant towards him and whispered, “Certain features of his confession correspond to the actual facts, ergo he must be aware of them. He only confessed to being the murderer in order to avert suspicion of receiving stolen goods, at the same time giving his accomplices time to make good their escape.”

  “Do they already know how the crime was carried out?”

  “Certainly. One of ourmost able detectives has reconstructed it from his confession: In a fit of … of dementia praecox” (Sephardi suppressed a smile as he noted the expression) “Klinkherbogk stabbed his granddaughter to death with a shoemaker’s awl, and immediately after, as he was about to leave the room, he himself was killed by an intruder and his body thrown out of the window into the canal. A crown of gold paper that he had been wearing was found floating on the water.”

  “And Egyolk described it in all that detail?”

  “That’s the whole point!” de Brouwer laughed out loud. “When they heard of the murder some people went to Egyolk’s room to wake him and found him completely unconscious. He was shamming, of course. If he really had had nothing to do with the murder he could not have known that the little girl had been killed with a shoemaker’s awl; and yet that is what he expressly said in his confession. That he also claimed that he himself was the murderer, well, that was just a rather obvious ploy to put the police off the scent.”

  “And how does he claim to have killed Klinkherbogk?”

  “He claims he climbed up a chain that hangs down from the gable into the water. Klinkherbogk flung out his arms in joy and went to welcome him. He said he killed him by breaking his neck, but that’s all nonsense, of course.”

  “You say he could not have known about the awl? Is there really no possibility that he heard about it from someone orother before he gave himself up to the police?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  The more Sephardi thought about it, the less sure he became. His initial theory, that Egyolk had confessed to the murder in order to fulfil some imaginary mission as `Simon the Crossbearer’, was no longer tenable. Assuming that the psychiatrist was telling the truth, how could Egyolk have known about the awl? A suspicion formed inhis mind that itmusthave something to do with unconscious clairvoyance, but it was difficult to see how that worked. He opened his mouth to suggest that the Zulu might be the murderer, but before the words passed his lips he felt such a violent jolt from inside himself, that he remained silent. Although it was almost like physical contact, he did not dwell on it, but asked whether he would be permitted to speak to Egyolk.

  “I shouldn’t allow it, really”, said Dr. de Brouwer, “especially since you were with him at Swammerdam’s shortly before the events, as the police well know. But if it means so much to you - and in view of the high reputation you enjoy as a scholar throughout Amsterdam”, he added with a hint of envy, “I am quite happy to overstep my authority.”

  He rang for a warder to take Sephardi to the cell.

  As could be seen through the spyhole in the wall, the old Jew was sitting by the barred window looking up at the sun-drenched sky.

  When he heard the door open, he stood up. Sephardi went quickly over to him and shook his hand. “I have come to see you, Ml jnheer Egyolk, firstly because I felt it was my duty as a fellow Jew -“

  “Fellow Jew”, murmured Egyolk respectfully, and made a bow.

  “and secondly, because I am convinced that you are innocent.”

  “Are innocent”, echoed the old man.

  “Perhaps you do not trust me”, Sephardi went on after a pause, since the old man remained silent. “Do not worry, I come as a friend.”

  “As a friend”, repeated Egyolk mechanically.

  “Or do you not believe me? That would be a pity. 29

  The old Jew slowly rubbed his forehead, as if he were only now waking up. Then he placed his hand on his heart and said haltingly, taking care to pronounce each word separately and as clearly as possible, “I - have - no - enemy. - Why should I? - You tell me you come as my friend; would I have the chutzpah to doubt your word?”

  “Good. I’m glad. That means I can talk quite openly to you, Mijnheer Egyolk.” Sephardi took the chair he was offered and sat down where he could observe the old man’s expression as clearly as possible. “I want to ask you various questions, but not out of idle curiosity. You are in a dreadful situation, and you need help.”

  “Need help”, muttered Egyolk to himself.

  Sephardi paused deliberately for a while and carefully observed the old man’s face, which was turned fixedly towards him and showed not the slightest trace of emotion. One glance at its deep furrows told him that here was a man who must have suffered terribly in the course of his life; and yet, in a strange contrast, his wide-open, jet-black eyes had a childlike glow, such as he had never seen in a Russian Jew. He had not noticed all that in the sparse light of Swammerdam’s room. Then he had merely seen in the old man a zealot who tormented himself out of an excessive sense of piety. The man before him seemed someone completely different.

  His features were not broad, nor had his face the rather repulsive expression of cunning that is often characteristic of the Russia
n Jews. Every line in his face suggested a powerful mind, though at the moment it had a frighteningly vacant look.

  It was a mystery to Sephardi how this mixture of childlike innocence and decaying senility managed to run a liquor shop in such a shady district.

  He began his interrogation in a friendly tone. “Can you tell me what gave you the idea of pretending to be the murderer of Klinkherbogk and his granddaughter? Was it to help someone?”

  Egyolk shook his head. “Who would it have helped? I did kill them.”

  Sephardi pretended to accept this. “And why did you kill them?”

  “Why? For the thousand guilders.”

  “And where is the money now?”

  “The gaon with the beard asked me that before.” Egyolk jerked his thumb towards the door, “I don’t know.”

  “Are you not sorry for what you’ve done?”

  “Sorry?” The old man thought. “Why should I be sorry? I couldn’t help it.”

  Sephardi was puzzled. That was not the answerof amadman. He said, as lightly as possible, “Of course you couldn’t help it, because you didn’t do it at all. You were asleep in bed and just imagined it all. You didn’t climbupthe chain, thatwas someone else; at your age you couldn’t do something like that, anyway.”

  Egyolk hesitated. “You mean to say, sir, that I’m not the murderer at all?”

  “Of course you’re not! It’s perfectly obvious.”

  Again the old man thought for a minute, then he muttered calmly, “Well then, that’s all right then.” There was not the slightest trace of joy or relief in his face, not even surprise.

  Sephardi found the matter more and more puzzling. Had some shift of consciousness taken place, it would have been visible in the expression in Egyolk’s eyes, which still gazed out with the same childlike innocence, or on his face. The idea of deliberate deception was out of the question; the old man had registered the fact that he was not a murderer as if it were hardly worth mentioning.

  “And do you know what they would have done to you, if you had really murdered him?” asked Sephardi insistently. “Executed you, that’s what they would have done!”

  “Hm. Executed me.”

  “Yes. Doesn’t the idea frighten you?”

  Obviously the question made no impact whatsoever on the old man; if anything, his expression became a shade less thoughtful, as if brightened up by some memory. Then he shrugged his shoulders and said, “Much more terrible things have happened to me, Doctor Sephardi.”

  Sephardi waited for him to go on, but Egyolk had sunk back into his corpse-like repose once more.

  “Have you always run a liquor store?”

  A shake of the head.

  “How is your business going? Well?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But listen, if you show such little interest in your business, you might one day suddenly find that you have lost everything.”

  “Of course; if I don’t watch out”, was the simple-minded answer.

  “Who watches out? You? Or have you got a wife? Or children? Do they watch out?”

  “My wife died, long ago. And - and the children too.”

  Sephardi thought he had found the doorto the old man’s heart. “Don’t you think of your dear family sometimes? I don’t know how long it is since you lost them, of course, but you must feel lonely and that can’t make you happy. You see, I have no one to care for me, either, so I can very easily understand how you feel. Really, I’m not just asking out of curiosity, or to find out what it is that makes you tick” - he was gradually forgetting why he had come - “I am asking purely out of sympathy -“

  “and because you can’t help it, because that’s how you feel, nebbich”, Egyolk added, to Sephardi’s great astonishment. For a moment he was transformed; a flash of pity and deep understanding lit up the face that until now had been completely expressionless. A second later it was once more the empty sheet it had been all along, and Sephardi heard him mutter absentmindedly to himself, “Rabbi John said: to bring together a true couple from among mankind is more difficult than Moses’ miracle in parting the Red Sea.” At once he realised that, if only for a brief second, the old man had shared his pain at the loss of Eva, ofwhich at that moment he had not been conscious himself.

  He remembered there was a legend among the Hasidim that there were people in their community who gave the impression of being mad, but yet were not. Divested for a time of their own personalities, theirhearts could feel the joys and sorrows of their fellow men as if they were their own. Sephardi had assumed it was a myth, but could this confused old man really be the living proof? If that were indeed the case, then his behaviour, his delusion that he had killed Klinkherbogk, his actions, in short, everything appeared in a new light.

  His interest aroused, he asked, “Can you remember, Mijnheer Egyolk, whether it has ever happened before that you imagined you had done something, and it turned out later that another had done it?”

  “I’ve never bothered about that.”

  “But perhaps you are aware that you think and feel in a different way from your fellow men, from me, or from your friend Swammerdam, for example? The other evening, when we first met, you were not taciturn like this, you were quite lively. Is it Klinkherbogk’s murder that has had this effect on you?” Sephardi grasped the old man’s hand in commiseration. “If there is anything worrying you or if you need a rest, you can confide in me, I will do all I can to help you. And I don’t think thatliquorstore is the rightthing foryou. Perhaps we will be able to find a different occupation that is more worthy of you. Why reject a friendship when it is offered?”

  Itwas clear to see that his friendly words did the old Jew good. He gave a delighted smile, like a child who has been praised, but he seemed to have no comprehension of what was being offered him. A few times he opened his mouth, as if to thank Sephardi, but apparently could not find the words.

  “Was-was I different then?” he finally brought outhaltingly.

  “Certainly. You spoke at length to us all. You were more human, so to speak; you even had an argument with Mijnheer Swammerdam about the Cabbala. It showed me that you had thought much about questions of religion and God -” Sephardi broke off when he saw a change appear on the old man’s face.

  “Cabbala - Cabbala”, murmured Egyolk. “Yes, of course I’ve studied the Cabbala. For a long time. And Babli, too. And -and Jeruschalmi.” His thoughts started to wander back into the distant past; he spoke like someone pointing to pictures and explaining them to another, now slowly, now quickly, according to the speed with which they passed through his memory. “But what they say in the Cabbala- about God-it’s wrong. The living truth is quite different. All those years ago … in Odessa … I didn’t know then. In the Vatican … in Rome … I had to translate from the Talmud…”

  “You have been to the Vatican”, Sephardi exclaimed in astonishment.

  The old man ignored him.

  “… and then my hand withered.” He raised his right arm: gout had turned the fingers into gnarled roots. “In Odessa the Greek Orthodox thought I was a spy and in league with the Roman goyim, and suddenly there was a fire in our house, but Elijah, his name be praised, preserved us; we were not killed, we just lost the roof over our heads, my wife Berurje and me and the little ones. Later Elijah came and sat at my table, after the Feast of the Tabernacles. And I knew it was Elijah, though my wife said it was Chidher Green.”

  Sephardi started. The name had been mentioned in Hilversum the previous day, when Baron Pfeill had recounted Hauberrisser’s story!

  “People always laughed at me, and when my name cropped up, they would say, ‘Egyolk? He’s just a nebbich; he’s weak in the head.’ They didn’t know that Elijah was teaching me the double law that Moses handed down by word of mouth to Joshua” - his face was transfigured by a rapturous glow - “or that he changed round the two obscuring lamps of the Makifim within me. Then there was a pogrom in Odessa. I tried to take the blows, but they struck Benuje, so
that her blood flowed over the ground while she was trying to protect the children as they were cut down one after the other.”

  Sephardi leapt up, holding his hands over his ears and staring in horror at Egyolk, whose smiling face showed not the least trace of emotion.

  “My eldest daughter, Ribke, screamed to me for help when they attacked her, but they held me down. Then they poured kerosene over my child and set her alight.”

  Egyolk stopped and examined his caftan reflectively, pulling threads from the fraying seams. He seemed to be in his right mind and yet not to feel any pain, for after a while he went on in a steady voice. “Later on, when I tried to study the Cabbala again, I couldn’t any more because the lamps of the Makifim had been changed round inside me.”

  “What do you mean by that?” asked Sephardi, his voice trembling. “Did your terrible grief unhinge your mind?”

  “Not the grief. And my mind is not unhinged. It is just as they say about the Egyptians, that they have a potion which makes you forget. How else could I have survived it. For a long time I didn’t know who I was, and when that came back to me I had lost whatever it is that makes men cry and some other things as well, that we need forthinking. The Makifim have been changed round. Since then I have - how shall I put it? - I have my heart in my head and my brain in my breast. Some times more than others.”

  “Could you tell me more about that?” Sephardi asked in a gentle voice. “But, please: only if you want to. I don’t want you to think I’m asking out of idle curiosity.”

  Egyolk took hold of his coat-sleeve. “See, sir, if I pinch the cloth, you don’t feel any pain, do you? Whether it hurts the sleeve, who can tell? That’s how it is with me. I know that something has happened that should hurt me, I know that quite well, but I feel nothing. Because my feeling is in my head. And now, whenever anyone tells me anything, I can’t question it any more, as I could when I was younger in Odessa; I must believe it because my thought is in my heart now. I can’t work things out any more, either. Either something occurs to me, or nothing does; if something occurs to me, then it really is so, and it is all so clear that I cannot say whether I was there or not. So I don’t even try to think about it.”