by Paul Park
She stopped, put her hand on it, and Peter turned around to face her. “Are you coming with me?” she said.
He smiled again, timidly, she thought. “Sure. My father had a job in Albany.” He looked around. “This will take us to the bottom of Cole Avenue. That’s where we’ll meet the river.”
It was like something he might have said a couple of days before. She felt another rush of gratitude. “I’m sorry to get you into this,” she said. “You and Andromeda. My aunt told me there were two people I could trust, and I know you’re one of them.”
“‘Oh, life is a marvelous cycle of song,’” muttered Peter, and she smiled.
“Anyway,” he said. “Andromeda looks like she’s having a good time. Wouldn’t she know?” And it was true. The dog was running back and forth along the path.
“What about you?” Miranda asked.
He shrugged. “I’m worried about my dad.”
Gregor Splaa was coming back for them. “Miss Popescu, come!” he said. “This way. There are the pirogues. She was right! Sennacherib—”
* * *
EVERY TIME HE HEARD THIS name, Peter thought about the poem. “For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,” he thought. “And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed. And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, and their hearts but once heaved and for ever grew still.”
These lines came automatically, which did not make them welcome. They reminded him of what he’d seen that morning—four men in a row, some wrapped in blankets with only their white faces showing. Snow had blown over them during the night.
He closed his eyes to get away from them. And then immediately he found himself with another mental image, just as unwelcome—his mother sitting up with him after supper when he was supposed to be doing homework, and his father watched TV in another room. She’d taught him the Byron poem, the Dorothy Parker poem; now as he looked at her soft face in the middle of his head, he felt a kind of panic. To distract himself, he opened his eyes again and studied Gregor Splaa’s hooked, narrow nose, his chapped lips, his beard tucked into the collar of his shirt.
The stream had turned away from them and Peter could no longer hear it. It would reach the river upstream of where they were. They’d cut off a big circle coming down this way. Gregor Splaa already must have found the riverbank. “Sennacherib has given us their boats!” he said.
“What do you mean?” asked Miranda.
“This trail leads to Raevsky’s camp. We will take his boats. Rodica said so—I know all about his camp. He was here some weeks.”
“To his camp? What are you talking about? Why—?”
“I tell you he is gone. Gone, disappeared. There is no reason to be afraid. Rodica died for that. You must have trust.”
He pointed down the path. The dog came back, and she was excited, too. She barked and hesitated, as if eager to show them the way.
But Miranda was furious and unsure, Peter thought. A flush came to her cheeks. “You said you had some letters from my mother. Can I see them now?”
Splaa shook his head. “They are in my pack—no time. I will show you tonight when we are in the tent.”
“I thought you said there was no danger.”
“No. But still we have lost time.”
Now Peter was studying Miranda’s face. Her expression first: doubtful, suspicious. And then the rest of it, because she’d changed.
He’d been wondering about it off and on. The summer before, when they’d first been friends, he’d spent a lot of time watching her face and her body, too, when he thought she wasn’t looking. Now he knew she was different from that girl. But because the difference wasn’t obvious, wasn’t like, say, a new arm or a new taxonomy, now he found the older image steadily supplanted. Black hair, square jaw, pale skin, dark eyebrows, dark blue eyes, which he’d loved to look at and still loved to look at—all that was the same. Maybe, like everything here, she was just more solid, denser, and more real.
“I’m not going to his camp,” she said. Maybe the difference was in her voice. Or in her gestures. Before, Peter had always been conscious he was older than she. Now she was the one who seemed older, like a grown-up.
She turned to him. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know,” he said. He’d barely paid attention to the argument. Andromeda seemed eager, though. She stood with one paw raised, whining.
* * *
“IT SHOULD BE ALL RIGHT,” said Peter after a pause.
Suddenly Miranda felt like a coward. And it wasn’t as if she had another plan. It was true—she must have trust. Faith in Andromeda, in Peter, and in everyone who was trying to help her. Everyone who had looked after her all these years. Twelve years Gregor Splaa had had to plan for this. Only it was hard to ignore a whining voice of doubt.
“Well, okay,” she said. But even so she let the others go on ahead. The path ran through some oak trees along the length of where Cole Avenue had been. And then the river was there, flowing broad and flat through the trees. Miranda could see below her the steep bank, and a wide, gravel strand set about with boulders.
Splaa was climbing down, and Peter followed him. Miranda hung back to pee.
Andromeda was at the water, but now she turned back suddenly, spooked and frantic. Miranda had stepped off the path, had slipped off her backpack and was squatting in an awkward and vulnerable position when she felt between her shoulder blades the pressure of a small, steel circle. She would have known what it was, even if she hadn’t heard Raevsky’s voice telling her what to do.
7
Princess Aegypta
IN BUCHAREST, IN THE HOUSE on Saltpetre Street, Nicola Ceausescu was alone. She had stood at the bedroom window and watched her coach drive out of sight. She had watched Jean-Baptiste climb the icy steps of the house, a smile on his thin face—she had fooled him, she was sure. Now by a pressure of the mind she could put herself into the cold, jolting carriage, could feel the paint on her face, the bench under her hand. At intervals that night she planned to enter part of the simulacrum’s small mind, so she could observe at intervals the palace decorations, the dresses of the ladies at the empress’s supper. Observe also how people treated her, how they responded to her words and gestures—that would be painful, she knew. But there is power in the world if you can seize it.
Now she looked to herself. She flung open the door of her long cabinet and ran her hand along the clothes and costumes. She’d heard Princess Aegypta was now living at a chapel in the woods, a hermit’s cottage at the shrine of Venus not far from where her house had been. Monkey-people lived in those woods. Peasants brought food in return for the water of the fountain, which took away their sins.
Standing at her cabinet, Nicola Ceausescu began to understand what she would do. Always her understanding lagged behind her instinct. It was not to punish her that she would seek out Aegypta Schenck. It was not anger that would drive her, but self-interest, as was prudent, as was right.
After Prince Frederick’s death, his widow, Princess Clara, had escaped to Germany. The German government imagined they could use her, use the outrage at the prince’s murder. Invasion plans were complete. Roumanians of German blood were to be liberated. Schenck von Schenck would be avenged. But his widow told what she knew to his sister Aegypta, who had come Ratisbon to help her with the pregnancy. Aegypta Schenck had smuggled the baby out. She brought it with her on the train when she crossed into Roumania. She warned Ion Antonescu, an ordinary battalion commander at that time. The German cavalry was cut to pieces in the woods near Kaposvar, as they reached the Roumanian frontier.
That was why the Elector of Ratisbon had put Princess Clara into prison. And that was why the Germans were interested in her daughter, who had slipped once through their fingers. Maybe they imagined if they held the white tyger, then Roumania would fall. Whoever gave them the white tyger, the baroness now guessed, they would make rich.
How wonderful it would be to leave the city, live luxuriously abroa
d, in Venice maybe, or Alexandria! Now the baroness imagined the beginning of a plan. If Raevsky had failed, then Miranda Popescu was in the hands of Gregor Splaa, who was Aegypta’s man. Would it be possible for her to convince the princess, even after what had happened, that they were on the same side? Or at least that they wanted the same thing, a country freed from Antonescu’s tyranny?
Now she regretted her impetuousness on the night the princess’s house had burned. But even so, all might not be lost. Maybe she could convince her that she might be useful, even if she couldn’t be forgiven. And if that was impossible, maybe she could find out how Aegypta Schenck could communicate with Gregor Splaa, what her plans were, what she might do next. The important thing was to stay close to these events as they transpired.
The Baroness Ceausescu hesitated for a moment, then chose from among her clothes the gray woolen robe of a pilgrim, a traveling friar, complete with a hood and long, open sleeves. It would attract attention in the city, and so she rolled it up and packed it in her bag, along with a rope, a stiletto, and a flask of brandy. Then she dressed in her ordinary clothes—riding boots and pants, a silk camisole and a wool shirt. She pulled on leather gloves, and then her leather coat and black cap.
Jean-Baptiste was in the kitchen, so she slipped down the back stairs. From the cellar there was a passage under the street. It led into the house opposite, which she rented out. From there it was a simple matter to slip unobserved into the garden, then into the street beyond.
It was five in the afternoon when she left her house. A light snow was falling. She took the train from the Gara de Nord and sat in the smoking car. Sometimes she read from a newspaper, but sometimes also she slipped into the palace for ten or twenty minutes at a time. She was there when Herr Greuben approached her in an upper gallery. She dropped her glove, and he bent to pick it up. “The Elector of Ratisbon is interested in what you told me,” he whispered over her hand. “Meet me tomorrow at the Cathedral Walk. Two o’clock?”
“… two o’clock.”
Aegypta Schenck had ruined everything. The Elector of Ratisbon was a powerful man. He would want to bargain for Miranda Popescu, when it was no longer in the baroness’s power to deliver her.
The simulacrum felt no anger, but the baroness felt it. In the railway car, she watched them light the lamps in the suburban stations. She felt the ties go by under her feet. The conductor asked if she wanted tea. Irritated, she shook her head, and in an instant she was standing by the balustrade again, looking down at the dancers from the mezzanine gallery. Servants had lit the gaslight chandeliers, and under them the men and women spun and twirled. The band was loud. She found herself in conversation with a Monsieur Spitz, who owned a number of jewelry stores here and abroad. He was speaking French, as was the custom. Roumanian was what you used to talk to servants, which Monsieur Spitz was not. He was an elegant man of fifty-five, with a good stomach and good legs; he leaned over the stone balustrade, making rude remarks. “There’s the general’s wife,” he said, pointing out a small, pretty woman on the floor below them. “Tell me, how do you think it’s possible? A dachshund married to a Great Dane.” As if to emphasize his words, General Antonescu now appeared in a corner of the room, towering above his aides. The empress was with him. The top of her elaborate headdress reached the middle of his chest.
Or Monsieur Spitz was talking about precious stones. Words that might have been vulgar and stupid in someone else’s mouth did not seem so in his, because of his passion. His eyes glittered when he spoke of rubies and diamonds, as if instead of pieces of crystallized carbon he was describing religious relics or pure ideas.
“Look,” he said, “that one was stolen from an African temple,” or else, “I sold her that for one hundred thousand francs.” Standing in the gallery, he and the simulacrum were well situated for this kind of conversation, because the fashion of the moment was for women to wear their stones in their hair, either as part of a headdress or else in a simple net. “There’s Mademoiselle Corelli—does she have it? Yes! I’d give all the rest for that one,” said Monsieur Spitz with true emotion. A horse-faced girl waltzed underneath them.
“Kepler’s Eye,” said Monsieur Spitz. “Oh, it is astonishing. Do you know the history?”
The simulacrum nodded, shook her head.
“Johannes Kepler was the richest man in Germany. After his death, the doctors had his body broken apart. The story is, that stone was found inside his skull, a tourmaline. Who knows? People say that it will show you secrets of the universe, although that doesn’t seem to have affected its present owner.”
“… present owner,” the baroness heard herself say.
“Oh, it is priceless, because of its pedigree. But it can’t be sold. I would say two million francs. See how it burns!”
It was a clear, green stone. “… can’t be sold…”
“It is too famous. I’ll tell the truth, I am amazed she wears it openly like that. Of course here, not everyone will understand what it is. But her father keeps it at the bank, because there have been five attempts to break into his house…”
Later Monsieur Spitz talked of other things, of German politics. “Do you think there’ll be a war?” he asked.
“… a war?”
“We are too weak. We are just waiting for a provocation.…”
He didn’t seem concerned. He shrugged. Her hand was on the balustrade, and he put his hand over it. He almost touched it. “Please,” he said, “I’d feel a fool if I didn’t at least ask you for a dance. You’ll humor me?”
North of the city, the baroness heard the squeal of the pneumatic brake. Her train stopped on the curve, then limped into the station at Mogosoaia, where she left Monsieur Spitz to lead the simulacrum down the stair. The baroness was the best dancer in Bucharest, but she felt the simulacrum would not disgrace her. She imagined the other dancers might pull back to leave room.
She put her bag over her shoulder and got out on the dark platform. No one was there. She walked through the turnstile and down the road toward the village. On the other side of the lake was the centuries-old palace of Constantin Brancoveanu, and from where she stood, she could see the lights of the park. Around her the houses were wooden and poor. She strode to the end of the dirt street and set out across the snowy fields. But after a few miles she came into the canopy of the oak forest, so she turned aside through the trees and followed a dirt road past the ruins of the princess’s house. It was a cold night, and the stars shone like diamonds, sapphires, rhinestones, tourmalines.
There in the dark beside the collapsed timbers, she changed clothes. She hung her leather coat on a protruding nail and unrolled from her bag the pilgrim’s robe.
Venus was the goddess of beauty. Her shrine in the woods was a holy place to many soldiers especially. As she put on her robe, the baroness put on the part of one of them, as if preparing for the stage. She arranged the hood over her face. She said a few things out loud, roughening her voice until it sounded true. She took a mouthful of brandy, gargled it, and spat it out.
Now her bag was almost empty—just her cap in it, the flask, the stiletto, and a length of silken rope. She put it over her shoulder and strode whistling down the path, kicking at the stiff, frozen mud. After a few steps she had found a walk—flat-footed, pigeon-toed—that suited her, that matched the soft whistling.
This was her special skill. During her years on the stage, she had become famous for the way she could transform herself, not with masks and makeup, but with these small details. Pieces had been written which required her to play half a dozen parts—a sailor, for example, a pig farmer, a clock maker, a prostitute, a waitress, a king. During her performance, not once did she once change her costume, contort her face, or adopt an artificial voice. Yet people were astonished when they saw her name at six places in the programme. Even when they were looking for the trick, they were astonished. Watching her now, it would have been hard to imagine she was a small, weak woman with small feet. The pilgrim’s cloak w
as a disguise; it was meant to appear so. Yet it seemed to cloak something different from what she was. Almost you could see under it the features and qualities she had assumed: the heavy face, the four-day beard, the menacing, strong arms.
After ten minutes or so she found a smaller path into the woods. She followed it for about an hour through the pines until she found herself in a small clearing. There ahead was the shrine of the goddess, the cottage, the low cliff, and the cave that led into the rock.
A light burned in the stone house. The baroness stood for a moment on the mossy path and smoked a cigarette. Though she had brooded about it in the train, still she would not have been able to explain how she would accomplish what she intended. Always she tried to act first, then decipher what she planned by what she did. What was the rope for? She didn’t know. Yet her hands had selected it and tested its strength, a soft, white length of cord. It would not chafe or bite. But why was it necessary? Would it help her to convince the princess of her good intentions? Would it help her find out how she’d conjured up the demon who’d destroyed Raevsky and his men?
Why even was she wearing a disguise? She’d have to see. It must be because if Aegypta saw her, she wouldn’t even let her in, wouldn’t listen to her. She ground out the cigarette under her boot heel. Then, frightened suddenly, she let herself slip back into the simulacrum. She wanted to postpone the moment when she knocked upon the door, to see also what was happening at the Winter Keep, and if she might be lucky enough to taste at second hand some of the empress’s collation. Maybe it would give her strength. She had eaten nothing all evening. But still it must have been too early: She found herself in line for the second seating. Leaning her shoulder against the wallpaper, she watched the general and his wife, the empress, and the first rank of aristocracy eat at a central table in the dining room. In fact she had chosen the worst time to return, because she could see and smell the food without tasting it. The general was a big eater, and his manners were disgusting; he took a spoonful of cold soup and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. The empress picked at a small plate of unappetizing herbs. She was self-conscious about her weight, and made a show of eating nothing, though doubtless she would gorge herself in private.
