by Igor Štiks
All this flashed before my eyes. I staggered out of the room, and the only thing I remember was the terrified expression on Ivan’s face. When they brought us into the cell, we sat silently, apart from one another, as if unaware of the presence of others, as if defending our right to solitude, now as we awaited our final moments. I leaned against the wall, sobbing silently. So this was where it ended.
Several hours passed in silence. Then somebody moved, asked a question. One Italian seemed as if he’d been waiting for just that to begin telling his story. All heads turned in his direction. Everyone listened carefully, without questions or interruptions.
The room had been dark for some time when a guard opened the door and let Ivan in. “Stand up!” Ivan ordered. “The captain has accepted your request to see your father once more.”
I did not want to contradict him. I could discern no signal of comfort in his face, so I feared my final hour had come. I said nothing and followed him, unconscious, as I barely lifted my feet, that I was escaping death, on whose list of unfinished tasks were the men I left behind. One of them patted me on the shoulder, which I understood as a final good-bye.
I shivered as we went down that same staircase toward the basement. Ivan’s appearance frightened me, and I thought how, in the end, we were each alone in our misfortunes. I took his behavior hard, the way one takes the betrayal of those considered friends and benefactors. I reproached him in those minutes, utterly unaware of his noble sacrifice.
Things became clearer to me when he brought me into a dark basement room in the middle of which lay my father. The nearly unbearable stench of a decaying body filled the space, but I knelt before it all the same, took his cold hand into mine and brought it to my face.
Ivan interrupted me: “Hurry if you want to see tomorrow.”
Baffled and confused, I watched him unbutton the top of his uniform, lift his collar, remove his handcuffs, and tousle his hair.
“He’s dead, and so will you be if you don’t step away from him.”
He tossed me the keys and directed me to use the middle one to open the padlock on the wooden boards that covered the window from the inside. He said I’d need the smallest for the handcuffs, and I realized what he was doing, understood the insane boy was saving my life. I tried to express my thanks somehow.
“Just be quiet. Listen to me and don’t screw up,” he warned. “You know it takes less than ten minutes to get from here to the pine grove outside town. That’s how long it’ll take them to find me and start after you. In the bay in front of the grove, there’s a boat. Run toward Italy or somewhere else. You’ll have enough time to row a good distance while they’re looking for you in town. Now open these shades.”
I spread the wooden boards. It was completely dark, without moonlight at all: excellent conditions for saving one’s life. He told me to tie him up against the door. Then he ordered me to hit him several times. I barely mustered the strength to do it, as he urged me on. In the end, in thanks and repentance, I embraced him.
“It’s clear that’s all you know,” he said, laughing, and those were the last words I heard from that extraordinary youth, before he slumped down and pretended to be unconscious.
CHAPTER THE NINTH
Several days passed, whose length, for those in love and those whose blood had been poisoned by vengeance, could not be measured by any instrument known to that age. While Mardi wrote missives, read replies, checked the conditions of his guards here and there, and dedicated more and more time and energy to the village leaders’ stubbornness (the reason for the aforementioned intensive correspondence), Catarina’s heart was troubled by Maria’s ever more frequent absences, her isolation, and her obvious ill humor. But her worries would be whisked away, as if by an implacable wind, by the thought of an invitation from the bishop, a diversion set by spies, or any sign of trouble.
During those days, Enzo occupied himself with long walks in the surrounding countryside, but his impatience and confusion prevented him from continuing work on his manuscript. This, among other things, is the reason why he never finished his well-known book of poetry. These walks encouraged the thought of possible encounters with her. But Catarina, as a sensible and cautious being after all, did not give herself up to these persistent temptations. She wanted least of all to be given away by trifles. Their official communications were limited to the ordinary exchange of basic information required by courtesy. Courtesy, precisely that, thought Catarina. That is the way to avoid any suspicion, prevent anyone from ever suspecting that my panties are splitting when I lay eyes on this fellow.
That she had gone too far in her pretended indifference became clear when Mardi scolded her, in a casual conversation, and asked her to treat the young man with more delicacy. She laughed to herself at his advice, but suddenly, as if she had choked on a piece of food, she was stopped short by the gloomy thought that the path she was taking offered everything except safety.
Nevertheless, on several occasions Enzo squeezed her hand, caressed her knee with the toe of his shoe during the midday meal, touched her lips on one of their walks together, and, during one encounter in the stable, when Umberto’s brief absence gave them a few moments together, managed to unfasten two of her buttons (though there was, unfortunately, not enough space to slip his hand inside her dress). These were their days. This was how their passion was stirred, nourished by frustration and fear. But this was not to last long. That it would have been better if it had, you will agree at the end of my story.
The long-awaited day for renewing amorous pleasures had arrived, some thought. Catarina made clear the fact that everything was ready, that her blood was boiling, that, in short, she had lost her head, when she broke into tears and pretended anger upon Mardi’s receipt of the bishop’s urgent missive, which was brought to him by a panting youth. The old cuckold tried to calm her, citing reasons she had heard at least a hundred times. He bribed her with promises of hunting expeditions and balls, even offered to build a new villa by the sea. Enzo consoled him on his way out, bidding him good fortune, because duty was duty and women were women. And this woman’s abilities, he thought excitedly, watching her tears, seemed inexhaustible.
You needn’t believe me, but if even half a minute passed after the tramp of Mardi’s personal guard had grown quiet before Catarina felt the uneven surface of the floor on her back for the first time, let lightning split me in two. And who then would have had the time to remember what was supposed to protect their love? Who would have had the time to remember that the flag on the main tower had not been raised, that the order to raise it according to the custom created by the mistress had not been issued, that most of the guards did not know of the master’s departure and that no trumpet would sound, unless he himself were so wise, or so foolish, as to send a messenger before him, as every good custom requires? Who would have remembered all that under such circumstances, I ask you? Not I, certainly.
Well, so now you see exactly what it was that vengeance was waiting for.
Maria did not need to be told twice that the iron was hot when Catarina, without saying a word—indeed, as I said, without issuing any order at all—hurried toward her private chambers. This time it seems there’s no headache, thought the girl, realizing in a flash that her revenge was now at hand. Oh, the deceived child had already planned everything. And she slowly began to enjoy the feeling, the reversal of roles, the ignorance on their side, the destinies she now tossed in her hands like fragile balls, like, God forgive me, a man’s testicles. She paused by the slightly opened window and looked in the direction of the main tower. There was no sign of a lynx rampant, no sign of Mardi’s banner of loyalty and devotion. With the composure of a croupier who collects other people’s bets on a pile and knows that the hand and the money are already lost but who merely smiles courteously while others grow excited and sweaty, with exactly such composure, Maria went from the window to her chamber to write—this time a much more effective missive.
Francesco Mardi
knew immediately that something was wrong when he saw the frightened Umberto at the door of the bishop’s palace. The bishop’s ill temper alone, at the interruption of his meeting, was enough to make Mardi’s face darken with every step he took toward the palace exit. On the one hand, there was the bishop and the expression of disdain on the faces of the assembled noblemen when the servant had explained to them that the honorable Master Mardi had been called from this important gathering by none other than his stable boy. On the other was a growing concern that had already begun to prick his heart, because, dammit, something must have happened.
“What devil made you interrupt me in my work, Umberto?” said Mardi sternly as he appeared at the entrance.
“Master,” Umberto said quickly, rushing forward. “I didn’t even finish unsaddling the horses when a woman with a veiled face came in—who knows who she was—and told me not to dawdle but deliver this message to you. It had to do with traitors and spies, she said, and I remembered, Master, your speech and your orders and hurried to bring you the letter, because it may be very important.”
Realizing that the boy was only talking about some letter, Mardi felt relieved. He waved away all the horrible, dark visions that had arisen before his eyes, grew angry, and reprimanded Umberto: What he had done was unacceptable except under the most urgent of circumstances, which certainly did not include some woman in disguise. If this turned out to be some trifle, then by God, he would forfeit a month’s salary. These words left a visible mark on Umberto’s face. He tried to say something about his loyalty but stopped when the master began unfolding the letter. He understood quickly that his cries were not helping, and a glimmer of hope that this missive might indeed be most urgent, that the message it contained might be extremely important, wiped the previous expression from his face.
Mardi opened the letter, moved it to approximately a cubit away from his eyes, and, before he began reading, gave Umberto a look that spoke for itself: “We understand each other, then.”
Boiling water could not have burned so much. Nor could naming all the ingredients of an old woman’s worst poisons, the likes of which simmer in the soul and simultaneously freeze the heart, ever describe the effect of the letter’s words on Mardi. The pain of the moments during which he read the message, several times bringing the paper close to his face and then moving it away again, could only be described by those unfortunates who have been executed by a faulty guillotine: once and for all, then again.
When there were no more reasons to doubt, Mardi had only to shout, “To your horses, brothers!” and his guards began to appear from around the corners of the building. As the young men saw that their master was already dashing for home, they too hurriedly mounted their horses. Umberto followed them slowly, and he seemed to be feeling a bulge of silver coins in his left pocket.
In the seconds that passed after Mardi had screamed his command and leaped to his horse, the paper that had caused such panic floated to the ground. Had someone accidentally picked it up (someone who could read), he would have read the following stylized words:
While you chase spies in the woods,
One sleeps
At your wife’s bosom.
A friend.
While Mardi raced to save his home and honor, trying to fathom all the possible significance of the strange message and discover its friendly author, in the quiet of the castle two young hearts enjoyed the sweet fruit of their—they still believed—secret love. And who could have convinced them otherwise at that moment? Who could have made them, say, open the window and glance through it to the main tower, remind the guards to stay alert and, by God, not fail to announce the master’s return, et cetera, in short, to preserve their love and, more importantly, their lives? For as he approached his home, it became more and more clear to Mardi that someone’s blood would spill.
Mardi pulled his horse up short on a hill before the castle. A single glance made him painfully accept the accuracy of the message Umberto had delivered: no flag flew atop the main tower. He could see only two guards on the castle walls. This was enough to convince him that tonight he would hear no trumpets, and that, dammit, was perhaps the only good thing about it.
To protect himself from the possible eagerness of some of his men, Mardi sent a messenger forward with the sole command that they should not sound their instruments in the usual manner upon seeing his suite before the gate. He ordered complete silence. The glance he cast at her windows, the light he saw coming from those chambers in the midst of the night, made his old heart forget all possible explanations, dismiss all excuses.
They entered the castle, as ordered, without a sound. Mardi stopped his men before the entrance. He wanted to go alone, but a hint of possible danger made him take along two guards. Inside, everything was silent and deserted, just as Mardi thought, and he climbed the stairs slowly and with difficulty. He passed the first floor, where Maria stood behind the door to her quarters, listening as his steps advanced toward the love nest, where he would wring those birds’ necks and she would know her revenge. It is hard to say what she must have felt at that moment of realization—relish or rage, pride or sorrow, rapture or despair?
When he had climbed to the third floor and reached the master chambers, glanced at his predecessors, at the proud foreheads and firm hands that had earned all that surrounded him here, he recalled the feeling of honor he had enjoyed since childhood. But then the restrained grins that hung above his crouched slink, suggesting that his otherwise proud pedigree had gone astray, made him feel like a stranger, a spy, a thief in his own house, and he took it hard. And so, exhaling completely, as if ridding himself of mercy with the expelled air, he said to himself, “Let us deal with this matter honorably, Francesco.”
It is needless to say—not so long ago we stood beside Maria—what Mardi could have heard when he put his ear to the door: a commotion, giggling, a loud sigh now and then, a clinking of glasses, and, most importantly, the snake’s name. Oh, nothing is as painful as the betrayal of one’s generosity! Everything blurred before his eyes. He felt a pounding in his chest. He tried to shake free of some unpleasant thought, which made him stumble against the objects around him. He did not feel his legs. All he felt, while two guards kept him from collapsing, was the desire, before he dropped dead, to see the boy’s handsome head on the block. That scene gave him strength to root out any hesitation. He opened the door abruptly and took a firm step toward the face of truth.
Had she ever looked more beautiful? Hard to say, seeing her satisfied in another man’s arms. But this lasted only a moment. Then the beautiful face was scarred with horror, as if by a quick sword thrust.
Enzo jumped aside and, before he could try to reach the window, he heard the strident command: “Seize the spy!”
10
Soon I reached the monastery garden. Completely taken up as I was with Ivan’s orders, I hadn’t even glanced at my father for one last time, and for a moment I wanted to go back to the basement cell. But the loud voices of the guards shouting at the entrance to the monastery, now on my right, made me rush toward the pine grove. I tell you this because my soul was pressed upon by the fact that I was leaving him without a proper good-bye. It’s hard to say exactly, but perhaps that was the reason I did what I did, turning back toward my own house, not toward the salvation of the woods.
I avoided the main streets, choosing footpaths, crossing gardens, and taking byways, and very quickly reached home. The garden and the house lay in complete darkness. Ivanka was not there, so I felt brave enough to see my mad decision through to the end and satisfy the pitiful desire of providing proof of loyalty to my dead father, for I imagine that was my reason: to do something we’re never prepared for while we believe there’s still time before us.
I took a shovel from the toolshed, and—I can see you know where I went.
“Under the fig tree,” I said. The friar nodded, content.
“Under the fig tree,” he repeated and continued his tale.
&nb
sp; Two feet down I found the barrel from my father’s story. At that moment I heard sounds and voices making their way through the dark, quiet night from the monastery. The manhunt had begun. I opened the barrel quickly, breaking into it with the shovel. Inside was a small piece of silk-like fabric, which I opened. At first, in the darkness, I could not make anything out. I raised it above my head, turning it in my hands, looking for a trace of light. Then I caught sight of the flag’s reddish glimmer. I went toward the house and in a moment managed to climb onto the roof, according to my father’s wish, which now came sadly true—in confirmation of what Petra did not want to know, and proof that even defeat has its own banner.
The pursuit had spread quickly. It seemed the whole town had been alerted. I realized now was the moment to save myself. I heard footsteps and voices around nearly every corner. I had to sneak carefully through the streets, watch for people coming out of their homes, run into passages and hide when I heard a vehicle or a police patrol approaching. Nevertheless, after a bit more than half an hour, I came down to the pine grove and found the boat. Once again I commended Ivan’s soul to God and began to row, fearing all the while that someone might see me from the shore or intercept me in the open sea. I realized that Ivan had planned my escape only to this point and that from now on the darkness and my own strength were my only chance of reaching Italian waters before dawn.
And that’s what happened. I rowed through the chamber of that God-given darkness. I rowed frantically through the black, into the night. I know today that life awaited me at one end, while at the other was memory. I realize now that it’s possible to live one’s life by embalming the past. People of such ungrateful ilk are actually everywhere you look.