The Mystery of Munroe Island

by Satyajit Ray

  I realized Somerville was not at all hesitant to shoulder the entire responsibility of my personal catastrophe.

  He opened the suitcase with his key and taking a revolver, put it in his pocket. In the Venezuelan jungles he had proved time and again that his grasp over science was as good as his skills as a hunter.

  I, too, took my Annihilin pistol with me. It measures only four inches. I had, however, always resisted using this amazing weapon.

  After locking the door we both climbed down the stairs and stepped out of the hotel. Spotting a taxi, we waved our hands to stop it, but when we went closer the driver noticed me and instantly shook his head and said, ‘nein, nein’—no, no. But that same ‘nein’ soon became ‘ya, ya’ when Somerville shoved a note of 100 groschen into his hands.

  A few moments ago, I had heard the sound of a siren. As our taxi began to move, I saw a police car proceeding towards our hotel but it slowed down when they noticed our cab.

  This time Somerville shoved a 200 groschen note into the driver’s hand and said, ‘Please speed up; we have to go to Grunewaldstraße.’

  The morning had been sunny but I could now see black clouds coming from the west side, enveloping the entire sky. As a result, the temperature had also dropped to at least twenty degrees Fahrenheit. Our Mercedes taxi moved at a thunderous speed evading the traffic.

  After ten minutes of our journey we once again heard the siren from a distance. Somerville gently tapped on the driver’s back. The car picked up even greater speed. The needle of the speedometer almost touched 100 kilometres. The credit goes entirely to the driver for bringing us to Grunewaldstraße within twenty minutes, avoiding any mishap on the way.

  There was a procession on in front of us, forcing us to slow down. Around ten–twelve people carrying a coffin turned in to the cemetery on the left. I could identify two of them. One was the fellow who had served me the hot chocolate and the other was Gropius himself.

  When our car crossed the cemetery gate and just before it was to reach Gropius’s gate, Somerville shouted—

  ‘Stop the car!—Turn your car back.’

  The driver instantly stopped his car, and backed it all the way to the graveyard gate. As we got out, the sound of sirens pierced the silence of the cemetery. The police car, too, arrived and stopped next to our taxi.

  A coffin had been placed right next to a freshly-dug pit in the cemetery. All the mourners present looked in our direction, including Gropius himself.

  Along with one inspector and two more people, Finkelstein’s servant Anton came out of the police car and immediately pointed his finger at me and said, ‘He is that man.’

  The police officer came towards me.

  The padre had started the last rites.

  ‘Prof. Shonku, my name is Inspector Dietrich. You have to come with us for—

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  Somerville’s revolver roared three times. And the roar was followed by the sound of splitting wood.

  ‘Don’t let him escape!’ Somerville screamed—Gropius was trying to flee from the rear side of the graveyard. A policeman with a revolver in his hand chased him. Inspector Dietrich shouted, ‘Whoever tries to run will be shot.’

  Meanwhile, my eyes, wide open with amazement, were focused on the coffin. One of the three bullets had pierced one side of the coffin and entered it. The top lid had split into two and been dislodged from its original place, revealing the occupant of the coffin.

  Lying in the coffin with a pair of unblinking large eyes made of stone was my own duplicate—the second Shonku.

  Freezing the blood of the entire gathering, dislodging the revolver from Dietrich’s hand, knocking Gropius senseless while he was being held captive by the police, the fake Shonku slowly sat up in the coffin. The bullet had pierced through his ribcage, exposing the machinery inside his body. Gropius had obviously created a robot in my image. And the blast must have damaged the machinery, because the machine started uttering the words of an old lecture: ‘Dear honoured guests!—Today the words that I’m planning to talk about in this august gathering may not appeal to you all, but—’

  I took out my Annihilin gun from my pocket. I’ll attain my final freedom only when I can erase this gruesome twin of mine forever from the face of the earth.

  *

  Shonku’s Golden Opportunity

  24 June

  I’m writing my diary sitting along the edge of the famous Stonehenge, built 4,000 years ago on the Salisbury Plain of England. Today is Midsummer Day i.e. the summer solstice. When Stonehenge was under construction, the Stone Age was just being taken over by the Bronze Age. After discovering the use of metal, humanity began marching towards civilization in leaps and bounds. The European civilization, of course, appeared much later as compared to those of Egypt, India, Mesopotamia, Persia and others, yet one would hesitate to call those who built Stonehenge 4,000 years ago uncivilized. These large standing stones brought in from far-off distances have been placed erect on the ground. One stone is placed horizontally on some of the upright stones. All have been arranged to form a large circular enclosure.

  Historically, it was believed this was a place of worship for the Celts. But in the recent past, archaeologists have concluded that it had actually been an observatory. This oldest observatory was one with a difference—because one has clearly noticed a correlation of the placements of these stones with that of the sun’s positioning. But this becomes most obvious today, that is, the 24th of June when the sun is in the zenith on the Tropic of Cancer. It seems incredible now to think how in that age craftsmen managed to place those stones with such precision and design despite not having the expertise we have acquired today in the area of modern engineering.

  My friend Crole has, however, espoused another theory. His hypothesis was that apparently people of that age had attained certain knowledge of chemistry whereby they were able to reduce the weight of these stones momentarily, making it much easier to build monuments like the pyramids and the Stonehenge. Wilhelm Crole has always firmly believed in the supernatural powers of the primitive people. He has thoroughly studied the subjects of ancient witchcraft, magic and spiritualism. He had accompanied me during our ‘Unicorn’ expedition. Right now he is sitting on the grass, leaning against a Stonehenge column, playing a very special flute which he had picked up from a cave in Tibet. The flute is made of human bone. Who knew that such an amazing German folk tune could be produced from this flute?

  Other than Crole, sitting nearby, is another person who had accompanied us on the ‘Tibet’ expedition. He is pouring out coffee from a flask. He is my distinguished English friend, the noted spiritualist Jeremy Saunders. I’ve come to London on his invitation. Both Crole and I are guests at his house in Hampstead. We’ll be staying there for another week or so. The summer this year in England is wonderfully pleasant. There is no rain. The sun, visible all day amidst white clouds in the bright blue sky, helps to keep both body and mind refreshed.

  Now I must finish writing. Crole has stopped playing his flute. I have to go out with him to an auction house in London. Apparently a thirteenth-century Spanish manuscript on alchemy is to go under the hammer. Crole thinks he may acquire this quite cheaply as there’s not much interest among people on the subject of alchemy nowadays. In this molecular age it’s no longer impossible to create gold artificially.

  24 June, 10.30 p.m.

  A strange incident happened at the auction. By nature, the Bavarian Crole is a jovial and hearty person, and I’ve never seen him in such an agitated state before. The ancient manuscript on alchemy, which he hoped he could buy for about fifty pounds, could be his only after he ultimately shelled out 1500 pounds for it. That is, in our own currency it amounts to Rs 25,000. Only one individual was responsible for upping the price. In a state of desperation, he began competing with Crole and in no time raised the rate of this seven-hundred-year-old worn out bundle of paper from a nominal price to a sky-rocketing one. Judging by his dress and pronunciation he looked
like an American. It became quite obvious that after facing this defeat by Crole, he hardly looked happy. I noticed a constant frown on his face throughout the time he was at the auction house.

  Ever since our return, Crole has been poring over the manuscript, all agog. Even though the state of the papers is rather fragile, they aren’t difficult to read as the handwriting is quite clear. Moreover, Crole is quite familiar with the Spanish language. I know that during the thirteenth century in Spain, there had been a great revolution on the subject of alchemy. This influence initially came from the Arabs and had spread to quite a few other areas of Europe as well. The king of all metals is gold. It’s not just attractive to look at, it is imperishable. In epics, the sun is referred to as gold and the moon, silver. For thousands of years a certain section of people have laboured over the idea of creating artificial gold out of metals like copper, lead and such others. One refers to them as alchemists. As this method also included spells and magic charms not within the sanctity of pure science, hard-core scientists never took them too seriously. I’m in possession of a Sanskrit scripture called Dhandaprakarantantrasar which proved that our country had also practised alchemy. It describes many ways to generate gold. Here I quote one such means:

  ‘Obtain oxidized ash of copper, lead and brass by burning them over slow fire. Thereafter dig a twelve-foot-deep pit in the ground. Fill it with copper ash, the ash of burnt wood apple tree and charcoal and set it on fire. Allow it to burn for a week, remove the ashes and further burn them in a fire made out of biraju wood. This process would help in obtaining liquid copper, and thereafter add half the amount of mercury equivalent to the amount of copper; further add extracts of biraju wood, basak plant and sij tree. The completed process will yield gold.’

  As if this wasn’t enough, it adds, ‘Before the entire process commences you need to chant the dhanda mantra 10,000 times followed by another act of worship and end it by pouring oil on to fire to offer it as an act of oblation. Only this will ensure assured success.’

  No wonder I had never thought of trying this out.

  The reference to alchemists is to be found in all ages of history. Many kings of Europe employed alchemists in their courts and built them laboratories in the hope of replenishing the royal treasury if they ever ran out of gold. However, I’ve no knowledge if anyone has actually accomplished such a task.

  All said and done, it’s obvious that Crole firmly believes in such a theory. Otherwise why would he invest so much on a manuscript? According to Saunders, Crole has full faith that he can easily produce gold in his laboratory and then can make up for the expense of buying the manuscript. And if we do not laugh at his absurd idea we may get a share of his gold. After all, who knows!

  25 June

  After arriving in London, in keeping with my usual habit in Giridih, I got up at five in the morning to go for my morning walk. In summer there’s mostly bright light at this time, but as Englishmen are not in the habit of waking up early, my favourite Hampstead and its streets were now devoid of people. I strolled alone in the dawn for an hour or so in these green fields which rolled like sea waves, thinking how this morning light and air helps me to refresh my mind. When I returned home, I found Saunders up and ready with coffee. Crole usually gets up by nine as he is in the habit of studying late into the night.

  This morning, however, I was mighty surprised to find Crole, who had already helped himself to coffee and was anxiously pacing up and down the drawing room. Spotting me at the door he instantly halted and gazing fixedly at me asked a strange question:

  ‘Your zodiac sign is Scorpio, isn’t it?’

  I nodded my head and answered, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was the colour of your hair black before it greyed?

  I again answered in the positive.

  ‘Are you in the habit of having garlic?’

  ‘Well, I do once in a while.’

  ‘Good. There’s no way we can let you off. Because Saunders is a Leo and I’m a Taurus. The colour of Saunders’s hair is tawny and mine is blonde. Neither of us consume garlic.’

  ‘Why do you sound so cryptic?’

  ‘There is no mystery, Shonku. Manuel Saavedra has mentioned in his manuscript that the process of creating artificial gold in the laboratory requires the presence of at least one person in possession of all these three virtues. Hence we need you.’

  ‘Where am I needed? Will this operation take place in Hampstead itself? Will this drawing room of Saunders’s house turn into an alchemist’s laboratory?’ I wasn’t sure whether to take Crole seriously or not.

  With all earnestness, Crole pointed out his finger at a map which hung from the drawing-room wall and remarked, ‘4 degree West by 37.2 degree North.’

  Without glancing at the map I said, ‘It sounds like Spain. Isn’t this the location around Granada?’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Crole. ‘But I won’t be able to figure out the exact name of the place without looking at the map.’

  I walked towards the map. After calculating where my finger pointed to, I noticed only one name—Montefrio. Crole said, ‘Montefrio was the birthplace of Manuel Saavedra, the writer of this manuscript.’

  ‘Have you lost your mind?’ I couldn’t help saying. ‘What makes you think that this seven-hundred-year-old house still stands? Apart from that, if the manuscript indeed mentions the means of making gold then this experiment can be done in any laboratory. Where’s the need to go to Spain?’

  Crole looked rather cross at my remark. He banged the coffee mug on the table and said, ‘This doesn’t fit into the slot of the kind of scientific experiments you’re talking about, Shonku. If this were the case, then there would be no need to find out whether you ate garlic or if your hair had once been black. In this case, science needs to connect with zodiacal time, date, the geographic location of the laboratory, the examiner’s state of mind, health and appearance—they all need to unite. This is not to be dismissed. Do not treat this as a joke. Moreover, why wouldn’t a seven-hundred-year-old house still remain? Haven’t you seen European medieval castles? They are still standing firm. Saavedra belonged to a wealthy family. The description which I got of the house can easily pass as a castle. So what if it’s in a state of ruin. Can’t we find a room there which we can turn into a laboratory? Of course, if we locate people still living in that house we need to strike a deal with them. I refuse to believe that offering them monetary compensation won’t work. Alchemy is—?’

  ‘What are you both arguing about so early in the morning?’

  None of us had noticed when Saunders had entered the room. Crole was not ready to give up. He explained everything to Saunders. At the end he stated, ‘We had journeyed to Tibet in search of an imaginary animal, yet when there’s a strong possibility to create gold and we need to fly only two hours to Spain and do our work in one corner of a room, where’s the problem?’

  I noticed Saunders didn’t react. Perhaps he withheld commenting because Crole was in such a state of excitement and also looked extremely obstinate. After a while Saunders said, ‘I’ve no objection in travelling to Spain; probably Shonku, too, will have no problem. But in this experiment of yours, may I know what further elements you require other than Shonku’s presence?’

  ‘Crole replied, ‘More than ingredients, the timing is important. Saavedra had instructed to start the work on any day either a week before or after the midsummer and exactly at 12 noon—because during the entire year only on those few days does the radiation of the sun remain most intense. The materials are all very easily available. The mention of mercury and lead are found in alchemy studies of all countries; here we have both. In addition to these we require water, salt, sulphur and a collection of branches, twigs and the roots of a few particular trees. In the case of implements, we cannot use anything other than soil and glassware—this is mentioned in all other books on alchemy as well—and we also need a furnace, a stove and a water tank in the middle of the floor—’

  ‘Why do we need a w
ater tank?’ questioned Saunders.

  ‘We need to save rainwater in it. I didn’t find mention of this in any other book on alchemy.’

  ‘Have they spoken of a touchstone?’ I asked him. The tradition of touchstones has been acknowledged in all countries. Wherever I have read any descriptions of alchemy, the creation of a touchstone is the first step towards this experiment. Thereafter, when the other metals are put into contact with the touchstone, they turn into gold.

  Crole replied, ‘No. Saavedra has made no mention of a touchstone. These ingredients, as a result of a chemical reaction, form into a sticky matter. It’s then followed by a phase of purifying this matter after mixing it with the rainwater. The liquid that forms then works as a catalyst. When any common metal comes in contact with this liquid, the metal transforms into gold.’

  ‘Was this experiment a success in case of Saavedra?’ Saunders asked.

  Pausing for a while, Crole filled his pipe with tobacco and said, ‘The manuscript is actually a diary. It wasn’t meant to be used as a textbook. The more the experiment progressed towards success the more his language turned poetic. Of course, a banal statement like, “Today I created gold at this certain time”, is not anywhere in the script but Saavedra has mentioned towards the end.’ Here Crole picked up the manuscript from where it was kept on the top of the piano and read out from the last page: “Today I just don’t feel like a scientist or a magician; I feel like I’m the greatest artist amongst all artists—the one who has attained a divine talent, whose pair of hands have acquired an infallible power to lend a touch of eternity to his creations.” Now it’s entirely up to you to interpret whatever you want from this account.’

  Saunders and I exchanged a glance. The three of us remained quiet for a few moments. I can feel that Saunders, like me, has been infected by Crole’s zest. As if to suppress his excitement, he asked a question.