The Dedalus Book of Austrian Fantasy;1890-2000

by Mike Mitchell

  Strangely, these words had the effect of completely dispersing the concern, of which he had previously made such a show.

  ‘There,’ he said with suppressed rejoicing in his voice, while an expression of extreme relief appeared on his pale features, ‘there you have hit the nail on the head.’ He left the hole in the table unfinished and placed both hands on my shoulders. ‘And doubtless,’ he went on, his sharp claws boring almost painfully into my flesh, ‘doubtless you will be very interested to find out what those mysterious rituals are like?’

  ‘Well,’ I stammered in alarm, for I could not fail to note the menacing undertone in the question, ‘well, I could imagine the society would not be at all happy to have an outsider observing its meetings.’

  ‘That conjecture,’ the Sewermaster replied, refilling my glass with inexplicable enthusiasm, ‘that conjecture is also correct. Except that it does not extend to a man like you, whose keen powers of observation could be so uncommonly useful for our society that I feel I simply must propose that you become a member of our lodge.’

  I was flattered. But I had reservations. Especially as regarded the aims and intentions of that strange society. I had the feeling they might perhaps be contrary to my own beliefs.

  However, after the Sewermaster had assured me the goals of the society were entirely consistent with our constitution and in no way ran counter to the established religion of the land, and that, what is more, it insisted on good breeding, perfect manners, irreproachable morals and sensitivity to culture in its members, I agreed, provided I was by that not committing myself to anything, to accompany my strange companion to the meeting place of the mysterious lodge, where I would be further enlightened.

  Now that my reservations had been dispelled, we set off. The Sewermaster paid the waitress with a coin which, as a joke, he bent at right angles in his fingers. Then we went out into the night, into the deserted street. Immediately he set about nudging me, propelling me in front of him with jaunty impatience, sometimes hopping on one foot or giggling as he rubbed his hands, humming shrill, incoherent tunes to himself, even trying the occasional dance-step, the effect of which was odd and childish. I soon began to find his antics unbearable. In his maniac high spirits, he kept pushing me so violently I stumbled more than once and almost fell over several times. The sensible thing to do seemed to be to wake up from this unlikely dream or simply to walk away from the Sewer-master. A friend coming home late could see me in his company, something I would have found extremely embarrassing. On the other hand I was very keen to be introduced to this secret society and become acquainted with their remarkable customs.

  ‘If you don’t mind my asking,’ I said in an attempt to distract my companion from his eccentric caperings, ‘how is it that you have a forked tongue? To inquire about only one of your – mmmm – physical peculiarities.’

  I thought that such an impolite question would make him forget his embarrassing antics and I was not mistaken.

  The Sewermaster halted in his tracks. He was a few steps in front and now he turned round and scuttled up to me with such a menacing expression on his face that the sudden shock almost made my hair stand on end. But he recovered his composure and his teeth, bared in fury, vanished behind lips which twisted in a smile.

  ‘And how is it,’ he murmured, half an inch of the subject of our conversation shooting out several times between his lips, ‘and how is it, sir, that your tongue only has one tip?’

  I had no answer to that. I was glad to see that by this time we had reached our destination, the pillar.

  With a movement that was so rapid I could not follow it with my eyes, the Sewermaster opened a door which fitted so neatly it was invisible among the colourful posters pasted on the pillar. What I did notice when I had a closer look, however, was a hole in the picture of one of the adverts, allowing someone standing inside a view out.

  As I made to follow, the Sewermaster gestured me back. ‘No,’ he insisted with a shake of the head, ‘no, we must follow the traditional ritual, it’s a little habit of mine. I shut myself in here, you go back to the corner, then walk to the pillar and past it as if you knew nothing. I will open the door and,’ he bared his pointed teeth in an exceedingly unpleasant manner, ‘formally invite you to enter.’

  Though a little surprised, I agreed and followed his instructions precisely. I had almost passed the secret door and was beginning to suspect the Sewermaster had played a joke on me, when the flap suddenly shot open, two steely hands were placed round my neck and I was dragged inside the pillar. Before I even had time to think, he had flung me against a wall and, with lightning movements that betrayed years of practice, chained me to an iron frame. Then he turned a handle, setting the frame, which was in the form of an X, rotating on its axis, so that my feet went up and I was left hanging head down. My hair was trailing in some sticky, half-dried fluid on the ground, and my eyes almost leapt out of their sockets when I realised it was coagulated blood. It had trickled along a dark channel to a circular opening in the ground in which the top rung of a rusty iron ladder could be seen leading down into the shaft, out of which rose the fetid fumes of the sewers. The scene was dimly lit by an oil lamp, and to my inexpressible horror I saw in its light that the Sewermaster had drawn a long, gleaming, uncommonly sharp-looking knife. Holding it, he squatted down in front of me.

  ‘I do very much regret,’ he said, rocking back and forwards on his heels, ‘I do very much regret having to disappoint you like this. It is true that there is a secret society that goes about its business down here in the sewers, but the men and women whose disappearance you, sir, were unfortunate enough to witness, do not belong to it. There are only a few of us who lurk in the advertising pillars of this city –’

  I tried to scream, but like lightning his hand was over my mouth.

  ‘– waiting for prey when we’re hungry.’

  His hand pulled my head down, presenting my neck to his knife, the sharp edge of which touched my throat. Out of my mind with fear, I jerked and the steel slit the skin. I felt a drop of warm blood run down my neck and onto my chin.

  Enough was enough. I couldn’t stand it any longer. I had to wake up.

  ‘It’s only a dream,’ I shouted, almost bursting my lungs in the process. The Sewermaster’s terrible grip turned the words into a groan.

  But the fiend understood and shook his head with a grin. ‘That,’ he said with such an undreamlike smacking of the lips that the awful truth dawned on me in a flash, ‘that is a mistake many have made before you, sir.’

  Then he cut my throat.

  Funeral Meats

  Peter Marginter

  Since so many people die in this city, supposedly one every four-fourteenths of a minute, and since everything has to have its proper place, most of them are buried in the one big cemetery, making them easier to find, if anyone should want to look for them, using alphabetic lists and numbers and maps and signposts. There’s always plenty going on in such a large cemetery. The average burial lasts all of three-quarters of an hour, so, assuming the statistic about the four-fourteenths of a minute is accurate, that must mean there are ten funerals going on at any one time. In fact there are more, since people die at any of the twenty-four hours, while they are only buried during the day. In winter, when the days are short, it’s no simple task for the cemetery managers to route the funeral processions so that they don’t get in each other’s way. So-called ‘transverse intersections’ are sometimes unavoidable and after them mourners often discover too late – or not at all – that they are at the wrong funeral. Indeed, it is claimed that more than one body has ended up in the wrong grave because after a ‘transverse intersection’ the pall-bearers followed the wrong cortège leader. These leaders, particularly dignified-looking gentlemen in black cocked hats, never look round and so have no idea who is following them. It has often happened that in the jostling a funeral procession lost sight of its leader several times, each time having to return to the starting point, while a wh
ole row of cortège leaders was lined up beside the open grave.

  This confusion was to prove fateful for Alfred B.

  Alfred B, the work-shy offspring of a respectable but impoverished family, lived off his naturally mournful expression. Every morning he went through the long list that was pinned up on the notice-board outside the cemetery manager’s office, and noted a few promising funerals in his diary. Punctually and with measured tread, he would make his way to the mortuary in question, where initially he would mingle unobtrusively with the mourners, keeping a sharp ear open for the quiet conversations of those around. Once the short service of blessing was over he was usually in a position to take part in the discussions himself. With practised eye he would select, from among those present, the person he would walk beside to the grave, a person, as far as possible, who did not quite belong to the close circle of the deceased’s friends, and was consequently happy to find someone whom they could tell how well they had known Mr, Mrs, Miss or even Ms X. During the funeral orations at the grave-side, Alfred would gradually edge closer to the relatives, not those most immediately involved, they were too preoccupied with their own grief, but those for whom the funeral was a kind of solemn family gathering. He would express his sorrow at the loss of his old friend or the lady of his acquaintance he had so much admired, recalling, with tears in his eyes, times they had spent together. His ‘we were in the army together’ was a virtuoso performance and he had saved countless lives that were now finally lost. Yes, there’s nothing that binds men together like having faced danger side by side. They hadn’t seen much of each other in recent years, work you know, been abroad. And now it was too late. A tear would creep down his cheek and be wiped away in a gesture of quiet embarrassment.

  The closer relatives were the most difficult hurdle to surmount. With them, who had quite commonly been in fact less close to the deceased than a really good friend, he had first to overcome the petty, almost unconscious jealousy directed towards him. Once that was accomplished, he could be so bold as to ask to be introduced to the immediate family. It would be intruding on their grief, he knew, but he had always regretted not knowing those who came first in his dear friend’s affections. This request had a double effect. His implied admission that blood was, after all, thicker than the water of friendship, cleared away the last jealous misgivings, at the same time bringing him to his goal. Now he would patiently wait for the end of the ceremony, when his patron would introduce him to the chief mourners. His desire to hear more about poor X was well-nigh insatiable and coincided with the need the bereaved felt to honour his or her memory. It was quite natural that the charming stranger should be invited to the subsequent meal. That was all Alfred, ever modest in his requirements, could wish. They often asked him if he would not like some small memento, some item from the deceased’s personal possessions. Or did he have a use for any of his clothes? Alfred did not say no, was both delighted and deeply moved as he expressed his thanks. The things he came by in this manner were not particularly valuable, mainly walking sticks and paper-knives, but Alfred knew where he could dispose of them. He never forgot to ask for a photograph of his late friend. This touching request was always granted and also hinted at the idea of a memento when that had not already been suggested. Alfred stuck these pictures in an album, meticulously noting underneath them what he had to thank the person portrayed for.

  Of course, not every funeral passed off in this ideal manner. It was not always easy to choose the right one from the many on offer. Names and titles were clues, but they did not tell one everything. They were sufficient to cross off certain funerals from the outset, for example those of very high-born or very rich people, whose nearest and dearest never bothered to conceal their instinctive antipathy to acquaintances unbefitting the deceased’s rank and station. Anyway, instead of the hearty feast, they at most provided a mourning cocktail, to say nothing of souvenirs. From that kind of people there was not even so much as a moustache-trainer to be had. To be avoided were also the working classes, whatever their financial status. A man like Alfred, who could not, indeed would not, disguise his family background and education, would only have aroused suspicion. Here the names were not much help, nor the standard of the funeral. That it would be at most out of sociological interest that Alfred would accompany a pauper, whose coffin was transported on a trolley pushed by a single cemetery attendant, to his final resting place, is understandable. But what should he make of a Herr Krachler or a Frau Prikopa with a middle-of-the-range funeral? It called for a personal inspection, and it was fortunate that the previous burgomaster had had the various mortuaries brought together in a small number of appropriately dignified buildings. This allowed Alfred, hovering on the threshold as if unacquainted with the topography of the place, to establish with a brief glance at those present whether it looked promising, or whether he should quietly continue on his way until he found representatives of the better-off middle classes, with whom his best chances lay.

  The risks were greatest with female funerals. Basically there was no need for Alfred to attend them, he did so more out of a sense of artistic pride.

  When talking to cemetery officials, he would often point out that respect for the dead, if nothing else, required that the obituary notices, which would indicate the deceased’s background, should be displayed on the cemetery board. This suggestion, however, was never taken up by the authorities; why should he, of all people, who appeared so often as a mourner, need more precise information? But it is by no means certain that he really desired something like that, which would have made his assignment easier. For the artist, whom we can see here as the complementary counterpart to the official, the attraction of a task grows with the uncertainty as to whether he will be able to carry it out, and in this respect Alfred had to be considered an artist. The risk was great and the outcome remained uncertain until he had taken his modest, but accepted place at the table. On some days nothing worked at all, while on others he was passing over dishes because his stomach was still full from the previous meal, which he had enjoyed only a few hours ago.

  Thus the years passed. What is there to say? We can only shake our heads, along with all right-thinking citizens, at the mental and physical exertions to which a person will descend to avoid at all costs taking proper employment or doing anything we understand by honest work.

  One mild and cloudless spring day, after death had brought in a rich harvest, Alfred joined a particularly promising funeral procession heading for Burial Plot 80796e, on Side Avenue 7 of Section F (north); or, to use his professional jargon, ‘climbed aboard a well-stocked cold-meat wagon.’ In the handsome coffin with its bronze-finish cardboard ornaments were the mortal remains of a small lemonade manufacturer who, in the face of stiff competition from his powerful rivals, had managed to keep his head above water, commercially speaking, into ripe old age, much to his own enjoyment and the detriment of his heirs. Alfred had talked to some of his former employees and come to the conclusion that with just a modicum of good luck his programme should run like clockwork. There was a large number of mourners, since the late factory owner had been a philanthropist of the old-fashioned kind, one of those, that is, who simply helped people in need without having to make it part of a sales promotion; he was also a keen patron of the arts who in many amateur groups had defended the muses against the moderns bent on raping them. From Alfred’s experience a large gathering was always the better bet, since a sparse group of sorrowful faces indicated that the deceased, relatives apart, had had only a few friends, and those particularly intimate. Alfred, as a wartime comrade of the lemonade manufacturer, was treated with diffident respect by those around him. The nephews and nieces following the van, which purred along at a leisurely pace, enveloping their black-clad legs in pungent little clouds of petrol fumes, were all said to be comfortably off and forward-looking; it was assumed they would want to dispose of their late lamented uncle’s personal and household effects as quickly as his lemonade factory. In his pocket Alf
red had a list of items he urgently required, at the top of which was a new winter coat. The meal, as he had also already established, was to be held in the Black Lion Hotel, renowned for its simple but substantial fare.

  In the broad thoroughfare separating Sections C and D another procession could be seen approaching from the opposite direction. Most of the mourners, who visited the cemetery only rarely, if at all, thought nothing of it, many not even noticing, being immersed in conversation or grief, or unable to see over the person in front. Alfred was not concerned either. The generous proportions of the avenue, lined on either side with splendid monuments, were sufficient to allow two state funerals to pass comfortably. When they turned off to the right before reaching the procession coming in the opposite direction, all danger seemed past. The chaos that then ensued behind the memorial to Dr Girowetz, a former speaker of the regional parliament, was, therefore, all the greater. As it turned out – too late, unfortunately – the other procession had also branched off, in order to take a short cut in a north-easterly direction. Alfred’s lemonade manufacturer had to go to the north-west.

  Such short cuts were common on busy days. They avoided the intersections of the major avenues, at the same time revealing to the public various idyllic corners of the cemetery, often familiar to the gardeners alone, whose job satisfaction was slightly increased if they felt they could count on the fruits of their labours coming to the notice of a human eye at some point. Alfred had often mused on the paradoxical silence that reigned in the cemetery, despite the fact that it was teeming with activity, and he loved those secluded places, which were perhaps rediscovered by the odd visitor on All Soul’s Day, even though they were no more than a few dozen steps from the crowded paths.