A Princess of Roumania

by Paul Park

  It was his new agent at the embassy since Herr Greuben’s arrest. He had a ridiculous name—what was it? Ganz, Franz Ganz—was that possible? The elector’s head was reeling. Half the world away, Dr. Theodore stood with his hand in his pocket where he kept his knife.

  “Excuse me, your grace,” said Franz Ganz. “I would not have disturbed you. But you instructed me to tell you under any circumstances—you know we have been watching the Saltpetre house. I am here to tell you that the subject has returned.”

  What was the man talking about? Momentarily, the elector closed his eyes.

  “The subject Nicola Ceausescu,” Ganz continued. “She has returned home. Before dawn we saw a light and we investigated. I believe there is a secret entrance under the street.”

  So that was it. The elector brought his fist to his forehead, which was burning. “We are not involved in this,” he said. “The metropolitan police have an outstanding warrant. They should be notified. I’m asking for a piece of German property, which I’m sure…”

  “Yes, your grace. I spoke to a Herr Luckacz at the precinct. I had the impression there would be no action taken. With the change in government, you understand…”

  The elector stared down at his small black shoes, which seemed abnormally far away. On the toe of the right shoe there was a cut in the shiny leather; he would have to search for another pair. What an intolerable waste of effort that would be. “She stole something that belongs to Germany,” he said.

  “Yes, your grace.”

  “She is a criminal, complicit in the murder of a Jew. Please tell the ambassador. Tell him to provide a detachment of four soldiers. It is important to clear Greuben’s name.”

  “Yes, your grace.”

  “The ambassador has taken residence in this hotel. On the first floor.”

  Franz Ganz was a bald man, dressed in a black overcoat and a fedora, which he now placed on his head. “I know where the ambassador lives,” he said, obviously aggrieved. What did it matter? Only the tiniest fragment of the elector’s cerebrum was available for conversation. It was remarkable that he made sense at all, that he didn’t babble like a monkey. If Ganz had been aware of what the elector was doing, he would have been amazed.

  But he wouldn’t leave. He stood in his hat and overcoat, shuffling his big feet. “Your grace,” he said. “It is possible the ambassador will be occupied. He is inquiring into the death of Sergeant-Colonel Blum, you understand.…”

  “He will allow himself to be interrupted, if you say you come from me.”

  The elector turned his head, and in a moment he heard the door close. But this bald man had already hurt him, wounded him, distracted him, and not more so than by mentioning that name—Boris Blum.

  The previous morning he’d been standing in the portico of the hotel under the Minerva statue, looking at the ugly, pitted face of Colonel Blum as he stumbled drunkenly to the revolving door. As always the square was full of beggars, and the elector saw a woman grab the colonel’s arm. He saw the man smile, saw him pulling at the end of his absurd moustache, digging into the pocket of his military cloak. Then in a moment someone had appeared out of the crowd, had pushed a revolver into the colonel’s fat stomach.

  But that was not the end of it. That was not what had disturbed him. He had stood in the portico while men rushed to overpower the boy. As they were leading him away, they passed quite close.

  Under his heavy, single brow, the boy’s eyes were clouded. Idly curious, the elector had searched for the five signs of hypnotic suggestion. Idly appreciative, he had admired the boy’s pale, handsome face, preternaturally still in the middle of the uproar. But when he saw the elector, it was as if he suddenly awoke. And an expression of such violence had come into his eyes that the elector was astonished. He understood the bullet had been meant for him.

  * * *

  “YOU MUST GO. Go now to help her.” Captain Raevsky lay in the bottom of the boat. Peter thought he had gone crazy. Miranda and Peter had pulled him down before he capsized the boat and ruined everything, but where was Miranda now? Peter had seen neither the man nor the house.

  They were in shallow water, and Andromeda was whimpering. Peter sat back on his knees in the flat bottom of the pirogue, and looked away from Raevsky for a moment—where had Miranda gone? Why had she left him with this lunatic, who when he looked back had actually drawn his revolver, and Andromeda was barking now. The old man had a wild expression on his face, and he gestured with the gun—“Go now, help her!”—what was he talking about? But Peter couldn’t see Miranda on the shore. And now the old man heaved himself over the side into the freezing, shallow water. He splashed up the beach, then stumbled, and continued on his hands and knees. He had a revolver in his right hand, and from time to time he raised it up. “Oh, God—don’t you smell? Do not eat the food,” he said. “Oh, it is poison.”

  Whining, the dog jumped over Peter’s legs and scrambled up the bank. Peter brought the boat in about twenty yards downstream, then stepped onto the stones and pulled it up onto the sand. Then he followed as quickly as he could, although he didn’t understand why. What was the danger? And if there was danger, why had they left the boat?

  When he got to the top of the bank, there was a woman walking toward him from the line of trees. It was the woman from the night before, and now he could see her more clearly. Her dark hair was pinned back from her face, which was expressionless. As before, she was underdressed, and her arms were bare. She wore a long black skirt over heavy boots, and she was walking toward him over the crusts of snow, and through the stubble of frozen grass. In one hand she held a long, heavy bone. Gobbets of meat hung from its smooth, white ball—it looked like the leg bone of a deer, or even a cow.

  In her other hand she carried a waffle on a plate.

  “Nu, opreste-te,” shouted Captain Raevsky from the edge of the woods, and he brought his gun up to fire. But he must have gotten it wet. Nothing happened. The woman didn’t pause, and there was nothing in her face to suggest she saw him or the dog that now ran barking and snarling toward her through the tough, golden grass. No, she was for him alone, and maybe it was the waffles, and maybe it was some other bitter and unwelcome illusion, but she seemed older now, more maternal, and in her beautiful face he now saw a resemblance to his own mother, though the cow bone, of course, was all wrong. Nevertheless, he paused as she came toward him, and for a moment he forgot about Miranda. Raevsky was shouting like a crazy man, and the dog was barking, and he scarcely heard them. He felt nothing but anger at what he knew was a trick.

  * * *

  “I WANT TO SHOW MY friends,” Miranda said. She turned her back on the doctor and walked to the door. There were long, diamond-paned windows on either side of it. On her way she stepped over the place on the floorboards where the burning piece of charcoal had left a mark; it was gone now. But she had seen it just a moment ago, and seeing it had made her remember—what? Yes, Juliana had snatched her up when she was playing on the floor with the wooden wagon. Miranda had sat staring at the red coal as it sank into the floor, until Juliana had brought a cup of water. Where was Juliana now? Where was the puppy, Rex? Where were Andromeda and Peter? The sun must have sunk behind a cloud, because it was darker in the cottage.

  She felt the presence of Dr. Theodore behind her, and she turned. The long table was gone. The bowl had broken on the floor, the dish of ham, the plate of croissants, though she had not heard a noise. One of the apples was still rolling toward her. Dr. Theodore was smiling and his red lips were moving, but no sound came out. And the far end of the room was shrouded in darkness as if night had fallen, though she imagined it was scarcely nine o’clock. Behind her as she turned again, she saw the iron latch of the door had gone, but there was still the hole where it had been. She thrust her fingers into it and pulled the door open. The river was out of sight behind the trees. But she heard shouting down there, and the dog barking.

  * * *

  IN BUCHAREST IT was the end of the afternoon. I
n Saltpetre Street, in her husband’s laboratory, Nicola Ceausescu stood at her husband’s table. There in the small glass, the baroness could see the battle as it first emerged. Yes, that was it. Under the pyramid’s dark surface, she could see the serpent coiled to strike. The glass was clouded, but she was not wrong. She saw the serpent curling back on itself, pale as a fish’s belly—it was the Elector of Ratisbon. And in the darkness at the bottom of the pyramid, now as she decided to challenge him, she saw her own spirit animal take shape. And it was a cat as she’d predicted, a stinking, baggy-kneed old alley cat, or no. Maybe not. She could see more clearly now. In her right hand she held the tourmaline, and she brought it to the surface of the glass.

  All day she had been reading in her husband’s books, preparing for this confrontation. Now she was ready. She was willing to take a desperate chance against a strong opponent. She was in her own familiar house again, in the cold, hidden, quilted room under the eaves. In front of her stood the ironwood table, the tall, crystal pyramid. The tourmaline seemed to light a flame inside of it.

  Through Markasev she’d struck at the elector and she’d failed. But in the baron’s papers she had found other ways to fight. Every human being has a spirit creature, and sometimes those animals will bite each other, scratch each other, overwhelm each other, even when the people they inhabit are far apart—in this case, she thought, on opposite sides of the same city. A trained alchemist can manipulate that fight, though there is always an element of chance.

  Until the sport had been banned by her husband in the year before his death, bear-baiting had been popular in the lower wards of the city. Often when she was young she had picked pockets and solicited among the crowds—one place she remembered especially, an abandoned warehouse in the Nerva Road. Inside was the arena with the cloud of tobacco smoke, and the smell of liquor and vomit, and the rows of shouting men and the money changing hands. Dogs, wolves, and bears all fought, and in the intervals, smaller animals fought in cages or aquariums—the baroness’s crystal pyramid was like one of those small cages. Once she had seen a snake and a rat. The furry, enraged creature was dropped in, the snake was taken by surprise, though it was stronger and faster, and the rat was its natural prey.

  Surprise was essential, which was why, as the darkness inside the crystal dissipated, the baroness was horrified to see the fight already joined, as if instead of choosing her moment, she had broken into an ongoing struggle. Nevertheless, the little cat seemed to be holding her own. Always the baroness underestimated herself.

  She could see the small, peering head of the reptile, the outline of the cat. It seemed for a moment to exist in two dimensions only, drawn on the inside of the pyramid’s black base. Drawn in white ink, for a moment. And then it took shape as if from its own image—not a seedy, scratched-up creature, as she had anticipated. But it was something more elegant. Its long, striped tail curved back and forth, back and forth.

  For a moment the baroness stood astonished as the little creature struck out with its paw, then jumped back out of range. In its corner, the serpent coiled and writhed. Yes, she would attack him. She would attack him as he sat in his hotel room in the Athenée, or as he walked the streets. She would crush him with her paw, and he would die of an aneurism or a heart attack. Or she would seize him behind his thin, white neck.

  All night she had pored over her husband’s Life of Zosimus, searching for a charm. She had sent a message to her husband on the ansible, but he had not responded—that was good. She was relieved. She had no need of him. This was her fight now. Always she had simultaneously imagined herself as something greater and more miserable than she was. With the split parts of her mind she was now watching the white cat and the snake. And in one part she was doubtful and astonished. But in the other part she felt a growing sense of triumph: It was true. She recognized this little beast from paintings and embroidered images—the delicate head, the unimaginably rich fur. So rare it was, not seen in generations, feared extinct. But now she knew, and she’d been a fool not to suspect before. In all the legends, the white tyger had first appeared in the Carpathian mountains near the town of Pietrosul, where she, Nicola Ceausescu, had been born.

  She could not be mistaken—she was staring down at her own spirit animal, fighting her own enemy. Still, how could it be possible, a criminal like her? Had Kepler’s Eye transformed her, changed a ragged-eared old cat into this perfect, small, and vicious beast, who now pulled back her paw? Her husband had suggested something of the kind. But if so, what about the Popescu girl? Everyone had made such a fuss over her, the baroness included—that was all wasted labor now, and wasted money. Nothing mattered but the outcome of this fight. Oh, she had taken a chance, but if the baroness prevailed here, as the white tyger had prevailed against the Turks long before, then tomorrow and the next day, what else could be attained?

  * * *

  THE BARONESS CEAUSESCU was mistaken about all this. One thing was true: The Elector of Ratisbon was poised to strike. But the battle was not yet in Bucharest, but on an empty stretch of river far away. “Stop, what are you doing?” Miranda said. She stood in the doorway of the little cottage, and she could no longer see the path she had followed from the water. It had disappeared. The trees blocked out the light. Andromeda was barking, and Dr. Theodore had come up suddenly behind her, and when she turned from the door, she had the impression that the room had gotten smaller, had closed in. The details were lost in new shadows, out of which loomed the doctor’s handsome and immobile face. One hand was in his pocket, while the other reached out toward her. And without any expression or intonation, he was saying, “I have a smallpox clinic. I was able to import the vaccine from Europe to save lives. I had not thought you were so beautiful. Will you join me for an apple?”

  Frightened, she fell back toward the open door, but it had disappeared. In its place there was a dark, rough, plastered wall.

  “Now you see you are my guest,” murmured Dr. Theodore, though in Bucharest the elector found himself gasping for breath. His hand trembled on the coverlet. Prostrate on his sofa, he felt the weight of these massed illusions, and it was too much of a burden.

  But if he was worthy of the position he had coveted for so long, then there was nothing he must not attempt. The more difficult the challenge, the sweeter the triumph. Who else but he was capable of carrying out these separate struggles across half the world? In one part of his mind the succubus flung down her bone and dish. And in another part the clear-eyed Theodore flattered and scraped, while at the same time he was gripping in his trousers pocket the knife that would end this crushing headache once for all. Was it time yet? Was it time?

  On the Hoosick riverbank, the doctor pulled out his hooked blade. But in Bucharest the elector found himself staring once again at the fat face of Herr Ganz the attaché. How had the man come in? What was he doing here? The elector sat up on the sofa, his hand shaking.

  “Forgive me, your grace. I wouldn’t have disturbed you, except for a matter of urgency. The ambassador requires your presence.”

  “What?”

  “Immediately, sir. He has a matter to discuss. General Stoessel is there.”

  The elector had not expected such a quick response to his letter to the foreign minister. Now he slid his legs from the sofa and stood up.

  Perhaps out of a premonition, that morning he had dressed in formal clothes. It required only the addition of his dinner jacket to make himself complete. But what should he do with this pain in his temples? The succubus had grabbed hold of the boy, while at the same time the incubus held out his knife. Was it possible for the elector to break away and allow everything to disappear? No, the trap for Miranda Popescu had been too laborious for him to end it now. And surely it would be a mark of greatness to achieve these triumphs simultaneously—the thanks and plaudits of his country, and the death of the white tyger. He would put in the hooked knife just at the moment he was shaking the general’s hand. With modesty and humility, he would receive the appointment
or commendation or whatever it was, and no one would be aware of anything at all.

  Like all great men, he had secrets he could never reveal. Now with a new and frantic energy, he put on his dinner jacket, which was hanging from the back of a chair. He made fists out of his hands. Staring straight ahead, he followed Herr Ganz out of the door and down the hall toward the elevator. He didn’t glance at the long patterns on the carpet, which threatened to nauseate him.

  As he rode down in the cage, he found himself suppressing a little smile. He had heard Stoessel was an old-fashioned fellow, the kind of man who had no understanding of the complicated world. Like most of the military officers, he had no appreciation of the enemies that must be conquered on all fronts, no conception of the dangers that threatened Germany. No doubt he was galled and irritated by the prime minister’s new appointment, if that was what it was. No doubt for him and the other generals it suggested a change of power, a new ascendancy of modern, younger, scientific men, no longer hampered by old prejudices and laws. No doubt that was why he had given the elector so peremptory a summons—out of a lingering sense of spite, which in the future he would not be able to indulge.

  The elector sifted gradually and slowly through these thoughts with one one-hundredth of his consciousness. Elsewhere, on the riverbank, he had managed to divide the succubus into three parts. One was a cloud of darkness that had settled on the man with the gun, blinding him as he knelt crippled in the frozen grass. The other was a white-headed eagle that was stooping from the clouds onto the back of the dog. And one was the woman—Inez de Rougemont—struggling with the boy.

  The elector found, as he came out of the elevator cage on the first floor above the lobby, that he had lost most of his peripheral vision. Up ahead, Herr Ganz was holding open the door to the drawing room, which had been taken over by the German general staff. It was a small room, overdecorated and overheated. The elector stood on the threshold. Another man sat in an armchair next to the stove. The ambassador was at the windows, looking out over the square.