Cemetery of the Nameless

by Rick Blechta

  “Bore da,” I said in my thickest Welsh accent while keeping my head down and trying to look half-asleep. “Please don’t let me disturb you. It’s the bathroom I’ll be using.”

  I quickly went in and shut the door behind me, leaning against it for a few moments to catch my breath. While I was doing one of those things nature intended to be a daily occurrence but which I hadn’t accomplished since I’d fled the baron’s—mainly because I’d hardly had anything to eat—I felt a sharp pain followed by the sound of heavy dripping. Dizziness washed over me as I realized that something was horribly wrong, and I made the mistake of trying to get up. The world tilted crazily when I saw all the blood, and with an involuntary moan, I slipped away into the now-familiar blackness.

  My two final thoughts were that it was really going to hurt when I landed, and that I certainly wasn’t being a very good guest.

  ***

  I eventually came to, but generally wished I hadn’t. In most ways it was the worst of the four “coming to’s” I had experienced in the past few days. My head ached abominably, I felt totally sapped of energy— and somebody was poking around at my back door. My eyes instantly opened wide.

  “Are you with us again, Tory?” Elen’s voice asked, and I turned my head so I could see her.

  At least, I had the presence of mind not to ask, “What happened?” I knew damn well what had happened, and the thought of it revolted me, vividly driving home just how viciously that bastard Rudolph had used my body. I think if he had still been alive at that moment, I definitely would have killed him. I felt a chill wind blow through my soul at the ease with which the anger had washed over me.

  I was lying on my side on Elen’s bed. She bent over and wiped my face gently with a cool washcloth. It felt so comforting my eyes misted up. A new voice spoke, a male voice with a German accent. I didn’t try to turn around and see because I knew exactly where he was.

  “Well, my dear, although you seem to have bled considerably, you are fortunate it is not a bad tear and easy to mend.”

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  “This is Max, Tory,” Elen answered for him. “He owns this apartment, and he’s also a doctor, fortunately for us. If he hadn’t been here when you collapsed, I don’t know what I would have done.”

  “Chucked me into the alley and walked away for all the trouble I’ve caused you,” I answered glumly.

  Elen was spared answering by Doktor Max. “The local anesthetic I injected earlier should have taken effect by now. You should not feel much while I suture this up. Please tell me if there is any discomfort.”

  “Believe me, you’ll be the first to know.”

  I’ll give the man one thing: he was fast, and although it felt pretty strange, it certainly didn’t hurt.

  “You must be very careful when you evacuate your bowels for the next week. A bran cereal would be much help. With that in mind, you must also drink much liquid, at least two litres per day.”

  “My eyeballs will be floating!” I said, finally rolling onto my stomach to get a look at my saviour as he tidied up his equipment. “So where do we go from here?”

  “I know what you’re thinking, Tory,” Elen said, “but what choice did I have? You needed help. I couldn’t take you to the hospital, not without giving you up.”

  “I agree,” Max chimed in. “You are in a very difficult situation. However, the damage I have seen which you sustained at the hands of Baron von Heislinger could be very helpful to you in the courts later on.”

  “You didn’t tell him what happened, did you?” I reproached Elen.

  “I would not be much of a physician if I couldn’t have figured it out,” Doktor Max replied. “You have been treated most shamefully.”

  “But are you going to turn me in?” I asked, getting right to the point.

  The good doktor took his time answering which didn’t do much for my stress level. “If you are captured by the police, the information will not come from my lips, although I agree with Elen that you should consider turning yourself in.”

  “I can’t! Not yet, at least.”

  Elen already knew why and fortunately it seemed that she hadn’t told her friend.

  With a raging headache from the second knock to my head in so many days, and the impending pain from the suturing job, Doktor Max decided to give me an injection, then left me with a bottle of pain pills for afterwards and said he’d look in on me the next morning. He closed his bag, and I heard the door to the bedroom shut.

  I remember having vivid dreams that kept threatening to go in the direction I feared so much, but whether it was the drugs or luck, the monsters were kept at bay.

  I woke up about five hours later. Making my second exit of the day from the bedroom, I found Elen, a pen crossways in her mouth, typing away furiously on her laptop. Open books and papers covered the dining room table. I shuffled over and carefully sat on the sofa, body twisted to one side to avoid the tender spot as much as possible.

  Elen stopped typing. “Sut y’ch chi’n teimlo?”

  She didn’t know how comforting it was to hear my second language, especially when I felt so cruddy. It always makes me think of Mamgu, my paternal grandmother, and the way she took special care of me whenever I was sick. Later on, she was my best counselor for “boy problems”—in spite of our age difference. I miss her dreadfully.

  “I’m feeling about the way you might expect,” I said, answering Elen’s question.

  She smiled sympathetically. “That bad?” We were both silent for a moment, then she added, “Why don’t you get ahold of your husband?”

  I ignored what she had said and looked over at the laptop. “Speaking of which, maybe we should check to see if there are any email messages for me.”

  Almost without hope, I told my friend what to do and she called up my web-mail server. Sadly, there wasn’t a peep out of Rocky, but there was a message that sent my hopes through the roof and banished the dark gloom like little else could.

  It was from Thekla. She was in Vienna—and as I’d been praying, she had the concerto.

  “…yet no one can alter his own destiny. One must resign oneself to whatever shall be, for that is the will of Providence.”

  —Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

  Chapter 13

  ROCKY

  Ah, Vienna! I’d always longed to see it. Years ago, the old empire had nurtured several minor bureaucrats from the Lukesh family who had been posted here from Hungary. As well, everyone I knew who’d visited had waxed poetic about the beauty and wonder of the grand palaces, the churches, the great governmental buildings, the parks, the art, the Vienna Woods, etc, etc. As a musician, I had even more reason to go. Tory and I had spoken of it many times, but my accompanying her had always gotten put off until “next tour”. When I mentioned the city to people who’d actually seen it, they’d always go all dreamy-eyed and would sigh longingly, “Ah, Vienna!”

  Bah humbug!

  That’s the way I felt as I left the café. I had too much time on my hands until Roderick’s return. Being stuck in some hotel room was not an especially attractive option, so I headed out into the most musical city on the planet—but more to gather my thoughts than to sightsee. It’s kind of hard to get into touristy things when the police are out searching for your wife, the infamous murderess.

  Even in the daylight, the narrow streets in the heart of Vienna felt strangely alive with the shades of its long-dead citizens. Perhaps it was the buildings, many several hundred years old, or the lack of cars, but any moment I expected a slightly chubby man with wire-rim glasses might pass me, humming something from his latest song or symphony: Schubert on his way to a coffee house or tavern to meet friends. Or if a slight man with hooked nose and powdered wig had stepped out of a carriage, it wouldn’t have felt out of place to bow and say, “Guten Tag, Herr Mozart.” Of course it might have been a swarthy figure in a dark frock coat stumping along, hands behind his back and an ugly scowl on his face. I think if I had seen that, I
would have punched him in his big nose for his part in all this trouble.

  As the hours ticked by into days, dread filled me over what might be happening. Where was Tory? What was she doing? What was going through her mind? Had she simply found a dark corner to hide in, waiting for the inevitable? Why didn’t she contact the people who would do anything to help her? Was her silence caused by shame over what had happened, or was it guilt?

  I couldn’t sort out how I felt about the conversation I’d had with Ertmann. The average guy would have been appalled to find out that the woman he’d married had been cavorting naked with another man. Unfortunately, I’d lived through that before—not that it hurt any less.

  Now this: a dead body, the knife still sticking in it, with Tory’s fingerprints all over the handle. It was only a matter of time before she got caught. Tory had been on too many magazine covers, too many tabloids, too many talk shows to go unrecognized for long.

  So what had actually happened? Ertmann had been more forthcoming than I deserved.

  “Can you tell me anything else?” I’d asked Ertmann at the tail end of our conversation.

  “About one-thirty in the morning, your wife called for the maid assigned to her and attacked this girl. After taking her clothes and identification, she tied the girl to a chair and stole one of the household’s cars, fleeing into Italy. The investigating officers are now working on tracing her from there.”

  “And the maid carries her passport around with her when she dusts the castle, and all this at one thirty in the morning?” I asked skeptically.

  “The maid says that Fräulein Morgan threatened to do to her what had been done to her employer if she didn’t cooperate. I think in the same situation you would have cooperated also, ja?”

  “Look, I know my wife and this doesn’t sound like anything she’d do in a million years!”

  “Can any man say he truly knows any woman?” Ertmann answered with a grim smile.

  ***

  Eventually arriving back at the hotel (ducking around the media stakeout by using the parking lot ramp, same as the outbound trip), I asked at the front desk for any messages. There were several that I expected: two concerned sets of parents, journalists, and of course, Marty. The pretty, blonde desk clerk also handed me an envelope. It contained a handwritten note on expensive paper.

  “Who left this for me?” I asked.

  “That gentleman over there,” she answered, pointing to a man sitting on the other side of the lobby with a newspaper in front of his face. “He told me he would wait for your return. I trust that I have not done wrong?”

  She’d probably been given a handful of cash for her help in the matter, but I didn’t begrudge that because the note was extremely intriguing. I crossed to where the gentleman sat.

  When I said, “I’m Oscar Lukesh,” he put down his paper and looked up. “I understand that you’ve been instructed to drive me to meet your employer.”

  The man nodded, put down his paper and without a word, we left the hotel through the basement car park. Score now 3 to 1 for Lukesh over the media.

  As I rode in the back of the black Mercedes limo to an outlying district called Grinzing, I thought about what this all might mean.

  My Dear Herr Lukesh,

  First of all, I wish to tell you how sorry I am for the present troubles of you and your wife.

  It might be of interest for you to know that I, too, was present at Schloss Heislinger at the time of the unfortunate incident. I wonder if I could impose myself on you for the purpose of telling you something which might be to both of our advantages? I will be available this very afternoon and would be pleased to welcome you at my house in Grinzing. I have instructed my driver to wait at your hotel, and he is at your disposal to bring you here as soon as is convenient.

  I am looking forward with great anticipation to meeting you.

  Yours with great sincerity,

  Dr. Heinrich Schatzader

  After a lengthy drive through a great deal of city to a decidedly more rural-looking area on the edge of the Vienna Woods, we eventually passed through some gates, pulling up in front of an imposing stone edifice. This Schatzader character had money. The silent chauffeur (who looked like he could bench press the car) got out and opened my door. Even though winter was fast approaching, a surprising number of birds still flitted around in the trees dotting the walled grounds. Somewhere in the distance, a cuckoo’s hollow call sounded, and I had a momentary mental image of a clock up in the branches high overhead.

  The vast foyer of the mansion was as impressive as the outside, all marble, paintings and statues, with a scarlet and gold carpet, but as another dark-suited figure hurried forward to help me with my ski jacket, I reflected that the joint felt about as homey as a museum.

  “Herr Doktor awaits you in the library,” the servant said. Without waiting for a response, he turned and started down a long hall and up the stone staircase at the end.

  I followed along meekly, trying not to un-coolly ogle the tapestries and paintings we passed on the way up to the second floor library. The use of the word “library” in this case was not overblown hyperbole. I’d been in smaller public ones back home in Brooklyn.

  The room was two stories high, with almost every square foot of the walls covered by bookshelves. A magnificent oriental carpet covered the floor and was dotted here and there with glass-topped cases containing yellowed music manuscripts or ancient leather bound books. One case I passed contained a Schubert song, which, at a glance, appeared to be the real thing. The Allegretto movement of Beethoven’s Symphony #7 played softly from hidden speakers: a perfect, soothing counterpoint to the elegance of the setting.

  Who was this guy?

  A man in an impeccably-tailored charcoal suit stood at the far end of the room, looking out at a wooded hillside through one of three huge windows. As I walked up behind him, he turned and looked down at me. He must have been at least six foot six.

  “Ah, Herr Lukesh! Thank you for coming. I am Heinrich Schatzader.” He stuck out his hand.

  I shook it, saying, “Oscar Lukesh.” I wasn’t about to mention my nickname. He’d probably have found it “quaint”.

  He motioned to a cluster of comfortable-looking chairs set around a low table off to one side. “You would like some refreshments? Coffee or a drink, perhaps?”

  “Coffee would be fine.”

  Schatzader walked over to a formidable desk on the opposite side of the room and spoke some rapid German into the phone, then came back and sat very erectly in the chair across from me.

  “I am sure you are wondering why I have asked you here.”

  To impress the hell out of me—which you’ve done more than adequately, I thought. “It had crossed my mind,” I answered more directly.

  “Then let us get down to ‘brass tacks’—as I believe the saying goes in your language. I wrote in my note that I had the pleasure of meeting your wife at the home of Rudolph von Heislinger at the time of his unfortunate demise. This may be indelicate of me to ask, but have you, ah, been in contact with her?”

  “No, I haven’t. My wife has not seen fit to get in touch.”

  A maid came in with the coffee things, which she quickly laid out.

  “I was hoping that you would be in possession of more information,” Schatzader told me as he took a sip from his cup and carefully wiped his lips on a linen napkin, “but that cannot be helped. You see my great passion in life is music, particularly the music of Beethoven. Baron von Heislinger, an acquaintance of mine, asked me to come to his home in order to accompany your wife in the reading of a concerto which he had reason to believe had been written by the Master shortly before his death. I have some considerable knowledge as a musicologist and Beethoven historian.”

  “Interesting,” I said noncommittally while my brain slipped into high gear. Where was Schatzader heading with this? “I have heard rumours about this mysterious piece of music. You’ve played it. Do you believe it’s Beethoven?”


  “I am not completely certain. There were several telltale musical signs as well as solid historical reasons which showed me that it was either the work of an inferior composer, perhaps Czerny, or else a clever forgery my friend had been duped into buying.”

  “Why are you telling me all this? My only concern is to find out what happened to my wife, and if possible, prove that she didn’t murder this Rudolph von Heislinger. Whether the concerto he got her down there to play is a lost Beethoven work or not really doesn’t matter in light of that. What I desperately need is more information about what happened the night von Heislinger died.”

  “I am afraid that I cannot help you with that. My wife and I retired shortly after the playing of the concerto and we heard nothing.”

  “Then at the risk of sounding rude, why did you drag me all the way out here?”

  Schatzader hesitated as if he were embarrassed.“Because the work your wife played, even if it isn’t by Beethoven, is worth preserving— as a historical curiosity if nothing else. I collect such things and I would be willing to buy it if it were available. I need not add that the funds which would be realized would go a long way to help defray the considerable cost of your wife’s defense.”

  “Shouldn’t you speak to von Heislinger’s heirs about that?”

  “The manuscript has not been seen since...that unfortunate evening. I had thought that your wife might have, ah, taken it with her when she...departed. In any event, the manuscript could not really be called the property of Baron von Heislinger. I have a firm legal opinion on that.”

  “I see.”

  “Perhaps if you are in contact with her, you might ask?”

  Schatzader’s eyes reminded me of a hawk, an effect heightened by his beak-like nose and the quick movements of his head. If Tory had been there, she would have told me not to trust him, but then she’s never let a good emotion stand in the way of clear reason. Still, there was obviously more to this than a simple request by a collector with more money than he knew what to do with. Montenegro was no fool, yet he was convinced the music had been Beethoven’s. Both men were very interested in it, regardless. I decided not to mention the other inquiry—for the moment.