by Igor Štiks
CHAPTER THE TENTH
She covered her head with a pillow and sobbed loudly without even trying to cover her nakedness. They dragged Enzo—speechless, bare-bottomed, and pale with fear—toward the basement, through the corridors that had begun filling with soldiers and subjects awakened by the bells.
Catarina shuddered when the door slammed. Mardi stood there motionless and firm.
“If you want to keep your life,” he began quietly, like a man resigned to his bitter fate, “you will do so only as my wife. This house will see no scandal. Soon we will search through his chambers, after which everyone will know that yet another spy has been discovered in the region and that Francesco Mardi himself has prevented the violation of his own wife. You will tell the bishop’s investigators what really happened; that is, you will confirm before chief investigator, Fra Giovanni, what I will announce to the bishop and the people tomorrow morning.”
He gave special emphasis to his final words, then paused briefly in order to make himself still clearer and more credible, and finally continued, raising his voice slightly: “Now then. You’ll say that you caught him going through my things two hours after I rode from the castle, that he attacked you and dragged you into your room, bound you, and tried to force himself upon you, but he could not go through with it because I saved you at the last moment. That is, my dear, you were saved by a message that I received from the castle, delivered to me by Umberto, in which a good soul informed me that Enzo was sneaking through my chambers, performing his devious duties, which were the reason he came here from the north.” Then, as if speaking to himself, he added, “Enzo, that snake in our bosom.”
Mardi was quiet for some moments, and then, before leaving the room, he said, “I hope I’ve made myself clear?” He waited for another moment, but there was no answer. “All right,” he concluded. “I’m glad to see we agree on something at least.”
Mardi sent Maria and several other girls to Catarina’s room, where they found her pulling her hair out, screaming and striking her body with her fists. They struggled with her until the morning, when, under the influence of countless soporifics, she at last fell asleep.
It could be said that, witnessing Catarina’s madness, Maria felt repentant for the first time. In the days that followed Enzo’s quick downfall, Catarina’s advanced illness, her empty glances and muteness, and the questions of the bishop’s investigator, Fra Giovanni, which lasted for hours on end, transformed that remorse into inevitable despair. Despite everything, it must be admitted, she remained true to herself in her revenge.
Having left Catarina’s chambers, Mardi knew that the defense of his honor was only half-complete. The betrayal, deception, falsehood, and deaths to follow made him pause for several minutes. But he quickly snapped out of his numbness and, just as he began writing the first letter to his captain of the guards, reflected that life was a turncoat and a whore. This idea stayed with him as he completed the second letter, in which he informed the bishop of the discovery that had forced him to leave the meeting, of the latest success in the bishop’s mission, and of the urgency of action. In short, the bishop was told that Mardi had discovered a spy in his own house, but that this was not the end of the matter, for he was convinced that some of the guards and village leaders were involved with the enemy. “This obviously explains,” he wrote in conclusion, “their lack of cooperation.”
His writing complete, Mardi scattered his papers across the room, turned drawers inside out, and upended several chairs. He then went into Enzo’s room, ordering his lieutenant and secretary to accompany him.
We may note that the consequence of the first letter was the arrest of the two guards who, together with Mardi, had apprehended his wife and Enzo together, shall we say, in flagrante. Indeed, just after they had removed their heavy boots, sometime before early morning, and dozed off on their pallets, they were awakened by heavy blows between which they barely managed to grasp the incomprehensible accusation of collaboration with the enemy. The outcome of the second letter would be seen on the following morning, when the bishop’s guards, led by Fra Giovanni, reached the castle gate.
What was put into the logbook that night?
I note here the possessions enumerated by Master Francesco Mardi and his lieutenant, Giuliano Sesso, who examined the quarters of the accused Enzo Strecci.
A desk containing pens (three items), an inkstand (half-empty), sheets of paper filled out from top to bottom in regular lines, though of uneven length (seventy items). Contents irrelevant.
A chest of drawers beside the bed containing apple seeds (four items), an empty glass smelling of brandy (one item), and a leather-bound book: Le Cose Volgari di Messer Francesco Petrarcha, published in Venice by Aldo Romano, in the year MDI (one item, numerous pages; contents irrelevant).
A closet containing tight-fitting chintz trousers (two items), silk underwear (ten items), a gold-trimmed plush undergarment (one item), white flaxen shirts (seven items), three chintz jackets (white, yellow, azure), among which a concealed piece of small black fabric was discovered, with an iron coat of arms on which a two-headed eagle with legs apart could be recognized; one half-empty bottle (of brandy).
This concludes the logbook upon Master Mardi’s request, for sufficient evidence against the accused Enzo Strecci has been discovered.
Signed,
Francesco Mardi, Master
Giuliano Sesso, Lieutenant
Fulvio Bosso, Scribe
And what was placed into the logbook of Fra Giovanni, the bishop’s investigator?
The Statement of Mardi:
Thank God, someone caught sight of the beast I had taken into my house like my own son, as he roamed my chambers. You ask me why that worthy message, which I lost somewhere in the commotion, was anonymous? I suppose the good soul was frightened by the degree of kindness my wife and I had so openly bestowed upon the gentleman such that, it could be said, he became a minor deity in the house. So I left the meeting suddenly, realizing what was going on, understanding that I’d been betrayed in such a vile way. Two guards came with me. The way Enzo addressed them while they dragged him down the corridor—saying all the time, “Don’t, brothers!” and crying, “Don’t you recognize me? It’s me, Enzo!”—along with my long political experience in dealing with such people, made me suspicious. That morning they were taken to be interrogated, while Lieutenant Sesso and I found among their belongings something that confirmed my presentiment—two iron Habsburg coats of arms on a dark cloth. They claim there was no attempted rape at all, according to what they saw, is that it? Ha. Well, does that require comment? Never mind, quite all right. I know you’re just doing your duty. Indeed, you have performed it well to this day at least, Fra Giovanni. You are sure you do not need anything else? Still, I will add something. The servants can confirm that, a day after we arrested those spies at San Benedetto, Strecci asked me questions about the action for hours after our meal. My kindness, dear Giovanni, blinded me.
The Statement of Maria:
Don’t ask me anything about politics; I don’t know anything. I couldn’t even suspect something like this would happen. When he had just arrived, he stood in the corridor before the master’s door like a pigeon in the rain. Had I known what I know now, I would have understood from his glare, which was focused at Mistress Catarina, that he was up to something. I can tell you what I know, and what everybody knows, and that is that he displayed his perverse passion during the hunt and on numerous occasions during lunch, and that he would dance around her the minute the master left the castle. It’s not her fault, it’s his. Excuse me? You’re asking if it’s true that I was in love with him? What? I told everyone he’d be my fiancé? I shall say only two words about that—verily, let me fall into the abyss if I lie: No. Never.
The Statement of Umberto:
I never liked that Lombardian boy. I knew he was up to something from the beginning, when he took that lute out of my hands and exclaimed, “It will be just like Milan here!” Whom
was he speaking to, I ask you? I saw him, strolling and strutting, especially during the last couple of days, and then he went straight into my stable, asked how many horses I had, which was the fastest, then this, then that. The fellow asked questions. I was suspicious. And just look where he ended up. Yes, sir, I saw through him from the start.
The Statement of Little Beppo:
That is some strange man. He hit me twice so hard that it still hurts when I touch the spot. Just like that. A violent man. No wonder he got caught up in such business. His kind hits whether he gets what he wants or not. He never asks the same question twice. That’s my opinion. I remember one of his questions very clearly: he asked a lot about whether the master often left the castle. And when I met him walking in the fields, he would give me a strange look. Now it’s clear to me, he’d prop himself up and tip his head a bit to the side—they call such people dreamers—and then we’d have a long talk. He was interested in everything—my mother, the old man . . . Sorry? Is that all, you say? So have I helped at all?
The Statement of Niccolò Brizzi, Village Leaders’ Representative:
I swear on Mary, Mother of God, that I never saw the man, neither I nor any of the village leaders, and that he is not, as you claim, our chief. We love our homeland and Master Mardi, and we would never . . . What? Why didn’t we pay the required quarter? Well, I already talked about that with the bishop, and he promised me he would consider the matter. Look, I’m telling you for the hundredth time, people are starving. Draft everyone you like, but don’t take the bread from their plates. Excuse me, what Habsburg ornaments were found among our belongings? What are you talking about? In my house!
The Statement of Catarina:
Two hours after the master rode from the castle, I caught Enzo going through his things. He attacked me and dragged me into my room, bound me, and attempted to force himself on me but was stopped when my husband came to my rescue at the last moment; that is, I was saved by the message that was sent from the castle, the one Umberto brought to Rimini, in which a happy little soul declared that Enzo had been seen rummaging through the master’s chamber and performing his espionage duties because of which he came from the north. Enzo, that sweet snake in our bosom . . .
There follows Fra Giovanni’s commentary:
In concurrence with Francesco Mardi, much to my relief, I here cease the questioning of the victim, whose physical appearance and incoherent, unclear testimony has left no doubt that her state—after the Habsburg spy, Enzo Strecci, attempted to violate her, according to the accumulated evidence—is that of advanced madness. May God grant peace to her soul.
THE FINAL CHAPTER
Let it be remembered that the rain fell heavily upon the heads of those citizens gathered at the square in Rimini. Despite the rain, they awaited the execution patiently. Enzo came before the crowd, trembling like some frail animal. He was a bit surprised, though only for a moment, when he saw two well-beaten youths and after them three village leaders, who, blue with bruises after a ten-day torture, were thrown before his feet and told to admit that, to ease their souls before the world and God, Enzo Strecci was a rebel commander. As I said, his surprise lasted only a moment, for he knew the logic of power better than any risqué lines he might have penned. The youths confessed, the whip cracking audibly over their backs, and their heads were cut off first. Next the other three were decapitated without their saying a word. It must be said that with his head on the block, Enzo Strecci could not see the sea a mere twenty paces away. Instead he saw an utter grayness that reached from the water to the sky. And then it was as if a black standard covered his eyes.
THE LAST CHAPTER
The friar went silent. I thought his story had ended with the description of Enzo Strecci’s demise.
“So you won’t ask what happened to her?”
“I was about to.”
“I’d tell you, anyway, because everything I told you this afternoon and evening would be incomplete without Petra’s end. And, of course, her father’s, too.”
In Rome, several years after my escape, I met a man from my homeland. He had arrived in Italy a year after me, and I hurriedly asked about her fate. What he told me made me think that the circle of suffering would never end. I was its center, he whom death had enclosed but who remained protected from it, he who was forced by fate to repent for his own guilt and regret, but never die.
The morning after I left, Petra was dead. She had leaped from the tower of St. Mary’s, the tallest and loveliest bell tower on Rab, landing at the feet of her father and the crowd. She had laughed hysterically as she climbed to its top, pointing in the direction of our house, where a red flag flew. He told me that Nižetić had completely lost his mind when they took him away. She was buried in the Rab cemetery as a suicide, to lie quiet and lonely.
No one ordered the flag to be taken down. It flew above my father’s house until the wind tore it apart. This happened before Nižetić had recovered and been transferred to the nearby prison island, where, due to the nature of the times, he soon lost his position as warden of that unfortunate institution and ended up beaten to death by his former prisoners.
When the friar spoke the last sentences of his story and dropped his eyes to his lap, as if lowering a curtain on a stage where too many difficult scenes had been played, only then did I become aware that Castello Mardi had fallen into the deep dark of night. But it was nothing like the night of the friar’s escape. As I stood and approached the window, I could see the moon and the sky brimming with stars.
The story was all told. Several minutes went by without either of us saying a word. I wanted to continue the conversation, but the friar did not raise his eyes. At that moment the sound of the car horn could be heard from the other side of the yard—another world, it seemed to me—and for the first time in hours, I remembered the girls with whom I’d discovered this man, whose story had kept me with him and whom now I had to leave.
It was as if he’d been waiting for just this. He stood up and taunted, “That would be your companions, Bosniaco, whom you abandoned for the unpleasant friar. It is time at last to leave his company.”
“I had almost forgotten about them,” I said in all honesty.
He put his hand on my shoulder and concluded our short-lived association, “By God, we can’t have that! What will they say? Come on then. Time to go. I’ll see you to the exit. I’ve already kept you too long with my stories.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2014 Velija Hasanbegović
Igor Štiks was born in Sarajevo in 1977 and has lived in Zagreb, Paris, Chicago, Edinburgh, and Belgrade. His first novel, A Castle in Romagna, won the Slavić prize for best first novel in Croatia and was nominated for the International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award for 2006. Earning his PhD at the Institut d’Études Politiques de Paris and Northwestern University, Štiks later published a monograph, Nations and Citizens in Yugoslavia and the Post-Yugoslav States: One Hundred Years of Citizenship. His novel The Judgment of Richard Richter, originally published as Elijah’s Chair, won the Gjalski and Kiklop Awards for the best novel in Croatia and has been translated into fifteen languages. In addition to winning the Grand Prix of the 2011 Belgrade International Theatre Festival for his stage adaptation of Elijah’s Chair, Štiks was honored with the prestigious Chevalier des arts et des lettres for his literary and intellectual achievements.
ABOUT THE TRANSLATORS
Tomislav Kuzmanović translates between Croatian and English. His translations into English include The Death of the Little Match Girl by Zoran Ferić, The Hill by Ivica Prtenjača, A Frame for the Family Lion by Roman Simić, and My Son Just Walks a Bit Slower by Ivor Martinić, while into Croatian he has translated prose works, poetry, and plays by Vladimir Nabokov, Ted Hughes, David Mamet, Tracy Letts, Colum McCann, Margaret Edson, Tim Winton, and others. His translations of fiction and poetry have also appeared in Absinthe, Granta, Ugly Duckling Presse’s 6X6, The Iowa Review, 91st Meridian, Exile, eXchanges, Poetry In
ternational Web, The International Literary Quarterly, and elsewhere. His work was included in Graywolf Press’s New European Poets anthology and Dalkey Archive’s Best European Fiction. He earned an MFA in literary translation from the University of Iowa’s Translation Workshop. He works with the Festival of the European Short Story and teaches literary translation at the University of Zadar, Croatia.
Russell Scott Valentino is the author of two scholarly monographs, coeditor of three literary and scholarly collections, and translator of seven books of fiction and literary nonfiction from Italian, Russian, Bosnian, and Croatian into English, including Fulvio Tomizza’s Materada, Carlo Michelstaedter’s Persuasion and Rhetoric, Sabit Madaliev’s The Silence of the Sufi, and Predrag Matvejevic’s The Other Venice. His essays and short translations have appeared in the New York Times, Modern Fiction Studies, Defunct, Del Sol Review, the Iowa Review, the Buenos Aires Review, Translation Review, Slavic Review, 91st Meridian, and elsewhere. He is the recipient of two Fulbright research awards and three National Endowment for the Arts translation grants. He was editor in chief at the Iowa Review from 2009 to 2013 and president of the American Literary Translators Association from 2013 to 2016, and has served as senior editor at Autumn Hill Books since 2005. He is currently professor of Slavic and East European Languages and Cultures at Indiana University. His translation of Miljenko Jergović’s monumental 2013 novel, Kin, is forthcoming from Archipelago Books.