The Valancourt Book of Horror Stories

by Michael McDowell

  Marek stared at him as if he didn’t recognise him, and was startled to be spoken to by a stranger. Then he nodded, and went back to stirring sugar into the coffee he had just made.

  Even so, he must have been excited himself. Five minutes later Alexej noticed that he hadn’t drunk his coffee; and when he looked out of the kitchen window he saw his brother raking up leaves and preparing a bonfire.

  It was true that this was pretty much all that Marek ever did; forbidden by the others to touch anything in the house and almost anything out of it, he spent his days either wandering round the garden gazing at the trees as though hoping to learn some secret from them, or, if not raking up leaves, picking up pine needles, rooting out the tiniest weed he saw in the lawns and flower-­beds, and fishing driftwood from the lake. All of which bounty he would stack into a pile until he deemed it large enough to set fire to. But since he had had a bonfire just yesterday, Alexej supposed he could hardly have enough material for another. That didn’t stop him. They were to have a visitor. The place must be spotless. And as he was permitted to eradicate no other spots, those few fallen leaves he could gather must pay the price.

  ‘I sometimes think,’ Anya had once told Alexej, ‘that Marek must have been a heretic-­burner in another life.’

  ‘Or,’ Alexej had replied, ‘a heretic.’

  In another life, possibly. In this, Marek gave no sign of knowing what heresy was.

  Like all those of his generation, from his part of the world, Marek had been brought up entirely without religion, and even gave the impression of not comprehending the meaning of the word. He would stare at the angels in Boss’s fifteenth-century Italian paintings as if trying to work out what manner of bird they were; and when over lunch or dinner Alexej and Gabriel spoke sometimes of Jews or Muslims, he would shake his head, and seem to understand still less than normal.

  Which made it all the odder that when the visitor arrived – Alexej having gone in the car to pick him up from the airport one Monday afternoon in early October – Marek treated the man as if he were some heavenly apparition. Some messenger of the gods, if not God, who had been sent to redeem him.

  The man didn’t look like an angel; certainly not like one of those painted angels that Marek was wont to gawp at. Tall – as tall as Marek – and thin – even thinner than Marek – with short grey hair and a pale rather haggard face, he had more the air of an unfrocked priest than one in the business of making Annunciations, or whisking saints off to the clouds.

  Nonetheless, from the moment Mr Smith – as Boss’s secretary had said he was called – got out of the car, Marek gazed at him as Alexej had never seen him gaze at anyone, and thereafter hung around the guest cottage that had been prepared for the man ready, it seemed, to run any errand that might be requested, or carry out any sort of order.

  Mr Smith was quiet, reserved – so reserved that Gabriel said, ‘He’s even odder than Marek; that must be the attraction,’ – and appeared not to notice the gaunt East European dancing attendance on him; albeit at a distance of some fifty metres. For Marek never got close to the cottage; he just hovered in the garden, picking up leaves and pine-­needles, always in a position that enabled him to keep an eye on the cottage door.

  His first evening, the visitor came to the main house for dinner, which he ate alone in the dining room. He murmured that he would be quite happy to eat with ‘you all’ in the kitchen, but Anya ignored that, and showed him the place at the table she had set for him as if she didn’t hold with fraternity or equality. He then retired to his cottage and went, presumably, to sleep; at any rate, Marek, who loitered in the garden until two-thirty, saw his lights go out around ten-thirty and not come on again. In the morning the man appeared for breakfast at eight, once again returning to the cottage after he had eaten; at eleven, he interrupted whatever he was doing to take a walk around the garden. And it was during the course of this walk that he finally spotted Marek tending his bonfire, and going over to him, wished him a good morning.

  ‘Good morning,’ Marek replied, in a heavy accent and a slightly surly fashion.

  ‘Isn’t it a beautiful day?’ Mr Smith continued.

  Marek looked around him, as though unaware till now of the blue sky, the still warm sun, the soft October breeze. ‘Yes,’ he conceded. ‘It is very beautiful.’

  But when Smith went on to comment, ‘It’s such a lovely spot, isn’t it?’ although Marek again looked around him, at the immaculately kept garden, the calm water of the lake, the distant mountains tipped with snow, he felt obliged to point out, ‘I am here for work, not holiday.’

  A comment that seemed to embarrass and sadden Smith. He flushed slightly, muttered, ‘Oh yes, of course,’ and having given Marek a searching look, quickly retreated; not to be seen now by anyone in the household until he once more appeared for dinner at eight.

  That night, however – if Marek were to be believed – although as before his lights went out around ten-­thirty, the man did not go to sleep after finishing his dinner.

  Marek normally never spoke unless spoken to, and sometimes not then. So when, as he was drinking what was already his third coffee of the day, he suddenly announced over breakfast the following morning that he had seen Mr Smith down by the lake in the middle of the night, Anya, Alexej and Gabriel hardly knew whether they were more surprised by what he had said, than by the fact that he had said anything.

  Alexej looked at his brother with a frown, in any case disapproving of the precedent that had been set; but Anya couldn’t contain her curiosity.

  ‘What were you doing down by the lake in the middle of the night?’ she asked.

  ‘He was spying,’ Alexej muttered.

  ‘And what was he doing down by the lake in the middle of the night?’ Gabriel asked. ‘Assuming you weren’t dreaming.’

  ‘I couldn’t sleep,’ Marek said. ‘I went out to sit by the lake.’ He didn’t think it necessary to add that he often did. ‘I was under the willow tree. He didn’t see me. He came out, stood on the shore for a bit, then . . .’ Marek hesitated. ‘A lot of swans swam up, and he walked on the water and spoke to them.’

  ‘Oh fuck,’ Alexej murmured.

  ‘What do you mean he walked on the water?’ Anya snapped. She sounded alarmed.

  ‘He walked in the water,’ Marek muttered. ‘He paddled.’

  ‘In his bedroom slippers, I suppose?’ Anya said.

  Gabriel laughed.

  When they had all arrived in Switzerland ten years ago, Alexej had had Gabriel inform his brother that one of his tasks was to keep the fore-­shore free of driftwood.

  ‘If I were you,’ Gabriel had said, ‘I would get some shorts and plastic shoes from the shop in the village. The stones are sharp on the shore, and you might hurt your feet.’

  Marek had ignored him, and the following day, Anya had seen him wading knee-­deep in the water at the lake’s edge; still wearing his long trousers, and the crepe-­soled felt bedroom slippers he wore everywhere, in the house and out.

  ‘Marek!’ Anya had yelled. ‘You can’t go in the water like that!’

  But Marek was in the water like that, and in the water he remained until he was sure there was no more driftwood to be gathered; whereupon he resumed raking up leaves and pine-­needles in his soaked pants and soggy slippers.

  ‘Change,’ Anya said. ‘You’ll catch your death.’

  But Marek didn’t change, nor catch his death; so the next time Anya saw him paddling fully clothed, she said nothing.

  ‘He wasn’t wearing slippers,’ Marek said now to Gabriel, with lowered eyes.

  ‘But he was talking to the swans?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How many swans?’

  ‘I don’t know. A lot.’ Marek hesitated again. ‘More than I have ever seen.’

  ‘And what was he saying?’

  ‘I couldn’t hear. He was too far away. And he was talking in English, I think.’

  Alexej sighed, and stood up. ‘What clever swans they
have in Switzerland. They not only talk – they understand English.’

  Marek’s eyes suddenly filled with tears.

  ‘I saw him,’ he said. ‘I did.’

  Then he too stood and hurried from the room, even as Alexej was shaking his head and saying, ‘Poor fellow, he’s finally lost his marbles completely.’

  At least Anya and Gabriel waited till Marek was out of earshot, before they nodded and agreed that they were seriously worried about Marek’s mental health.

  ‘I mean he’s always been a bit strange. But – is he prone to Jesus fantasies?’

  ‘Not that I know of,’ Alexej replied. ‘And if he is, I don’t know where he gets ’em from.’

  ‘Poor Marek,’ Anya said. ‘I’ve never really felt sorry for him before. He’s always seemed reasonably content in his own little world. But now . . .’

  ‘Do you think he’s having a nervous breakdown?’ Gabriel asked.

  Alexej shrugged. For the first time in years he too felt a certain pity for his elder brother; so mocked and mistreated by his parents when small, who-­knew how hurt by others since.

  ‘Well let’s hope Mr Smith doesn’t walk too far onto or into the water, and drown,’ Gabriel said. ‘Then Boss would get really mad.’

  ‘Possibly,’ Alexej murmured. Then, ‘I wonder how he knows Boss?’ Then, ‘I wonder if he’s been sent here as a spy by Boss? To check up on us?’

  ‘What’s he checking up on?’ Anya said. ‘The paddling facilities? Or the welfare of the swans?’

  The others laughed, uneasily.

  Later that morning, having again emerged from his cottage to take a walk around the garden, and looking as if he wanted to make amends if he had given offence the previous day, Mr Smith once more approached Marek at his bonfire, and wished him good morning.

  ‘Good morning,’ Marek replied, in a more civil manner than he had twenty-four hours earlier. Then, though he hadn’t heard his brother’s speculation, he asked, ‘Do you work for Boss?’

  ‘Good heavens, no!’ Mr Smith replied. ‘I’m afraid I don’t work for anyone. That is, I work for whoever will have me. I’m in show business,’ he explained, sounding somewhat apologetic. ‘I’m a professional magician. An . . . illusionist.’ He paused before continuing slowly, not sure if Marek could under­stand him, ‘I’m going to be hosting a new television series about magic next year. I came here to polish my script and work up a few new tricks.’

  ‘Ah,’ Marek said.

  ‘I – I’m trying to incorporate certain . . . fairy stories, myths, into each episode. I mean . . . build each episode around a well-­known tale that has elements of magic in it. Like – Little Red Riding Hood. Cinderella. Sleeping Beauty. Peter and the Wolf.’ Again he paused, before adding, ‘Swan Lake.’

  ‘Ah,’ repeated Marek, who had learned some English when first he had started working for Boss, and by dint of listening over and over to the CDs Boss had given him, now understood more than he generally let on. Even so, he had difficulty following Mr Smith, and anyway wasn’t sure he wanted to follow him.

  He had thought he recognised the man when first he had arrived, though he hadn’t known how or where from. He had been puzzled. Now he realized he must have seen him on tele­vision at some stage. Made-­up, no doubt, and wearing some fancy costume. Still, with that pale, haggard face, quite identifiable. So in a sense the man’s explanation was a relief. On the other hand, he didn’t like too many explanations. They solved mysteries, while at the same time they opened up other, often more complex mysteries. It was better to accept appearances as reality, Marek felt, and not question what went on off-­stage, as it were, behind the scenes.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he told Mr Smith. ‘I must get on with my work.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said the Englishman – at least Marek assumed he was English – giving Marek another of his searching looks, as if determined to make out what went on behind his scenes. ‘And I must get on with mine. Good talking to you, Marek.’

  To this Marek said nothing immediately, though he felt perplexed as he took the hand that Mr Smith offered, and shook it. He had never told the man his name; he couldn’t imagine that the others had; and he was certain that Boss hadn’t provided any personal details about his employees, before Smith had set out from London. So how –

  Without really meaning to, Marek asked, ‘How do you know my name?’

  ‘We’ve met before,’ Mr Smith said, with a slightly sad smile. ‘When . . . er . . . Boss came down here soon after he bought the place, he invited me over to lunch one day. I was staying in Geneva at the time, and – I was introduced to everyone. I have a very good memory.’

  Marek frowned, trying to remember. There had certainly been a lunch party, he recalled, at which a number of people had been present. But this gaunt, haunted man? There had been two Swiss sisters, one tiny and grey-­haired, the other blonde and statuesque. There had been a middle-­aged couple; she with a lot of make-­up and a mini-­skirt, he with a pony-­tail. There had been a slightly younger couple: a good-­looking man who had come into the kitchen and introduced himself, telling them that he was a writer, and his Chinese wife, who had been a doctor. Then there had been a tall dark-­haired man of indeterminate age, who had also made it his business to meet and shake hands with everyone working in the house. Surely though, he couldn’t be –

  ‘I have rather aged in the past few years, I’m afraid,’ Mr Smith said. ‘I have had a few . . . contretemps, let’s say, in both my personal and professional life. But – I was there, I assure you. I met you all. Your brother Alexej. Anya. And Gabriel. I remember you all most vividly.’ A pause. ‘But I remember you most vividly, Marek. You were in the garden – doing what you are doing now. And I thought . . . But forgive me,’ he said. ‘I am keeping you. Goodbye.’

  With that, Mr Smith turned and went back to his cottage, and Marek resumed his tasks.

  At lunch, however, with the others, he once again couldn’t resist initiating a conversation.

  ‘He has been here before, Mr Smith,’ he announced. ‘He remembers us all.’

  ‘When?’ Anya, Alexej and Gabriel said in unison. And on being told what Smith had told Marek, they all chorused, ‘Rubbish­!’

  ‘I remember that lunch quite well,’ Anya said. ‘There were two Swiss sisters . . .’

  ‘A Swiss writer and his Chinese wife,’ chipped in Gabriel.

  ‘A couple of middle-­aged Bohemians . . .’

  ‘And a dark-­haired man who looked like a gangster,’ Alexej said. ‘But his name wasn’t Smith and there’s no way it was this man.’

  ‘He has had some . . .’ Marek announced, hesitating before he brought the word out, ‘contretemps in his life, he said.’

  ‘I don’t care whether he’s had contretemps, car-­crashes or cancer,’ Gabriel snorted. ‘He’s not the same man who came to lunch with Boss that day. I’d bet my life on it. And no ­one else came the rest of the time Boss was here. I remember it like it was yesterday.’

  ‘Yes, so do I,’ Anya said.

  ‘You’re sure you’re not making things up again?’ Alexej asked his brother.

  ‘I – no,’ Marek said. Petulant, he went on, ‘That’s what he told me.’ Then he got up and, as he had at breakfast, walked out of the room.

  ‘Well someone’s a liar,’ Anya said, ‘and for once I don’t think it’s Marek,’ Alexej muttered. ‘I can see that man quite clearly,’ he went on.

  ‘You’re quite right,’ Gabriel said. ‘He did look like a gangster. There was something sleazy about him. Sinister. As if . . .’

  ‘He was the only person I’ve ever seen who – I got the impression Boss was frightened of him in some way,’ Anya said. ‘As if he knew more about Boss than he should have. Or as if he had some sort of hold over Boss.’

  ‘Maybe Marek misunderstood him,’ Gabriel suggested. ‘Or maybe . . .’

  ‘We’ve all changed since we got here,’ Alexej observed. ‘In ten years everyone changes. But we’re still
recognizable as the people we once were.’ He added, with what he hoped was a smile, ‘Aren’t we?’

  The three of them considered. Yes, they all thought. Though perhaps . . .

  They had been in their late twenties when Boss had first hired them; and just turned thirty when they had come to live in Switzerland. They had all felt young still, and looked it, they hoped. Buxom Anya, the qualified nurse who was to become Boss’s housekeeper. Tough, wiry Gabriel, the mason, painter and decorator of the group. And handsome, charming – at times – Alexej, the electrician, plumber and if necessary carpenter. All fair-­haired, blue-­eyed and optimistic about the future.

  Now, however, they felt middle-­aged, they looked middle-­aged. Anya had thickened, coarsened, and while she remained bright she was no longer cheerful; as if her light had shone too brightly on others’ defects, and by exposing them, sickened her. As she had swelled, Gabriel had diminished, so that though he still looked tough, he looked mean with it; a thin, bitter runt. And as for Alexej: oh, his good looks had long since faded into flabbiness, and his charm was now so rare as to be virtually extinct. Anya had once suggested that Alexej’s face and manner were the cause of Marek’s initial disaffection; for surely, she had said to Gabriel, the older boy must have resented terribly the arrival of a brother so unlike him in every way. A child on whom their parents doted, and whose birth, they had made plain, went some way to cancelling the disappointment they had always felt with their first-­born. But if those parents could see Alexej now, Anya thought – though this she did not say to Gabriel – they might feel still more disappointed in him than they had in Marek. At least Marek was the same . . .

  Nevertheless, however much Alexej had changed, however much they had all changed, he and they hadn’t changed out of all recognition. The three sitting round the table were convinced of that. Whereas Mr Smith, if Marek was right about his having been here before, had not merely changed; he had become an entirely other person. It was as if he were a magician, with the power to transform himself.