‘Oh, yes indeed. We only think we suffer because of love. But in truth we suffer because love is not strong enough to overcome the evils that afflict us.’
‘How nicely put.’
‘No flattery …’ When she said this I knew that my tactics had worked. She wanted to open up to me, and I was drawing closer.
‘If I may ask, what are these evils that afflict you that love is powerless to defeat?’
‘Do you imagine, Herr Graf, that I’ll tell you everything, simply because you’ve shown that you can come straight to the point?’
I was silent. All in all, my first encounter with the princess was going well, as we made our way towards a small outbuilding. I hadn’t even noticed it at first, with its unprepossessing air, its look of abandonment. However, the closer we came to it the more her pace quickened. I suddenly realized that my presence was unwelcome and for this very reason I would not take my leave. When we had reached the shack Maria Augusta stood between me and the door, turned to me and asked, ‘Do you like doves?’
‘I don’t know,’ I lied. I hate them, and not just because they’re scrawled all over churches as a representation of the Holy Spirit. I hate them because, like all birds, they can fly.
‘I love them dearly.’
From the shack came the sounds of fluttering wings and cooing birds. The princess clearly did not want me to step inside.
‘Would you be so kind as to wait here?’ she asked. ‘But of course, Your Highness.’
She went inside, and I stood and thought. What could she be doing in the dovecote that she didn’t want me to see? She’d hardly choose such a place for a rendezvous with a lover. And she certainly wasn’t raiding the coop for raw birds. Whatever the reason, she quickly returned with a dove in her hands. The dove had a slightly upturned beak, no doubt a defect of birth. The princess took a few steps towards the fortress walls, paying no attention to me at all, and then flung the bird high into the air. The bird took flight, at first in tight circles, spiralling higher and higher, then swooping in ever-widening arcs, until at last, just before it was lost to sight, it flew off to the south. The princess stood and watched, and only when the bird had vanished over the horizon did she turn back to me, smiling broadly and as though she had done nothing out of the ordinary.
‘Did you know that tonight is the costume ball?’ she asked.
I had forgotten, because I don’t care for such things. Winning a soul at a costume ball is most difficult.
‘Think what sort of costume and mask you’d like then send your man to Count Schmettau. He’s in charge of the ball. Don’t worry, there’s still time for you to have something done up. Our tailors are quick-fingered, and the other guests will all have their costumes by now, so this afternoon won’t be too busy.’
‘Have no fear, Your Highness, I shall be disguised in such a way that everyone will recognize me.’
Maria Augusta laughed, and I wanted to seize the opportunity, for if you can make someone laugh, that soul is yours for the moment.
I asked, ‘And how will you be disguised?’
5
She didn’t answer. We took leave of each other, and I hurried off to my chambers to rest before the costume ball.
When I awoke some hours later and looked out of the window I saw that dark clouds were gathering and a stiff wind was blowing. A storm was brewing. I called for Novak and briefly explained the plan.
‘Tomorrow Radetzky will be spending the night at the watermill in Dedinaberg where vampires have been sighted. This time they really will appear, you understand? I want Radetzky scared into believing they do exist. One of them, preferably the most frightening one, must introduce himself as Sava Savanović.’
‘Sava Savanović?’
‘You’ve heard of him?’
‘Yes, he’s a real vampire.’
‘What’s the point of saying that now? Haven’t those two thieves already explained that there are no vampires?’
‘Master, they only said that vampires were not involved in one particular case, which doesn’t mean that vampires aren’t real.’
‘You reek of drink, and you’re babbling.’
‘Your biggest problem, master, is that you only believe what suits you. And I don’t understand why you’re so interested in the vampires. You’re obviously afraid of them, but here you’ve come all this way to Serbia on account of them.’
‘I’m not afraid of vampires, and I haven’t come to Serbia because of them, and they don’t exist.’
‘As you wish, master.’
‘I wish you to go and pay some wild-looking Serbs’ – as if there were any tame-looking ones – ‘to introduce themselves to Radetzky. And I’m not giving you any money for it either because of your insolence, so you’ll just have to take it out of your own wages. Less money on rakija, more on your duties.’
And off the lout went to the Serbian part of town while I made ready to pay a visit to Count Schmettau.
I was shown into his workroom. He was sitting at the desk and drawing something with the help of a rule. Papers were falling from the piles on the desk. The man barely raised his head to squint at me. He was clearly short-sighted. He was young, no older than thirty, and he wore a grey wig. The young always want to seem older, the older want to seem younger, and no one considers himself to be just the right age. There comes a certain point in life when everything is reversed, as in a looking-glass; then people begin to complain of the thing they once pined for and long for the thing they once grumbled at. For instance, first men run after women and then suddenly swear off them, or they complain of other people’s love of money and then become avaricious themselves. Only a few cross this line in their twenties and are still going strong in their thirties, while fools experience the change in their old age. Hypocrites call such a change maturity, as do I. Schmettau had spent his life until his twenties despising everything and would now spend the rest of his days longing for it all back again. I knew something that Schmettau didn’t: that every moral virtue, no matter how short-lived, leaves an indelible mark on the mind and soul.
To top it off, Schmettau was the very model of a German count. Clever, young and ambitious. His interests coincided with those of the state, his stately bearing revealed his interests and all of it could be summed up in one word: authority. I could read him like a book.
‘The princess has sent me to see you about a costume for the costume ball.’
He jumped up abruptly, as if I had slapped him. Then he took his seat again and resumed drawing as calmly as if he had never left the chair.
So, he was mad, and I had utterly misread him. I repeated myself, knowing that the custom of the place was to say the same thing several times. ‘The princess has sent me to see you about a costume for the costume ball.’
He looked up from his drawings slowly, investing each movement with significance. This might work on Hungarian princesses but not on me.
‘What can I do for you?’ he asked, and I knew that not only did he not want to do anything for me, but that he would have gladly blotted out every trace of me. But then, no one can destroy the Devil.
‘I want a mask and a costume for the ball,’ I said.
‘Almost everything has been taken,’ Schmettau answered, considering this pronouncement reason enough to return to his plans.
‘You don’t say,’ I said sardonically.
‘I do say,’ he responded equally sardonically.
‘Perhaps I’m looking for something you haven’t yet given out.’
‘Perhaps,’ he answered rudely, not lifting his head at all.
‘Perhaps I’d like to attend the ball as Fishmouth.’
‘I do not know who Fishmouth is,’ he answered coldly.
‘Christ. Perhaps I’m looking for a dirty old robe and a crown of thorns.’
‘Already taken.’
‘Perhaps I’m looking for the suit of armour worn by Joan of Arc.’
‘Taken.’
‘Perhaps I’m loo
king for …’ (inspiration was failing me) ‘… the vestments of a saint who never ate meat or lay with woman.’
‘Taken.’
‘Or maybe I’d like the tunic of a Greek philosopher.’
‘Taken, several of them.’
‘The garb of a poet with a crown of laurels?’
‘So many requests that we had to order laurels from Vienna.’
‘Serbian hajduk?’
‘Taken.’
Now that I had found out what sort of grotesqueries would be on hand at the ball, I could at last reveal my true wishes.
6
‘The Devil?’
‘We’ve got one.’
‘I’ll take it.’
Schmettau got up grudgingly and went into the adjoining room. I stole a look at the plans he had been working on. As far as I could tell they were fortress ground-plans: ramparts, bastions, curtain walls and whatnot – nothing I cared about. There was also a book, the one by Marshal Vauban on defending and attacking fortified places. This was the book recommended by the bumbling Schmidlin and was clearly something of a must-read in Belgrade. I opened it to the first page and ran my eye down the first few sentences. I must admit that it began interestingly enough:
The art of fortification was devised so that the rights of man might be safeguarded. Community could exist only in human innocence. Once the heart was consumed by vice, divisions necessarily arose. Conflicting interests set men apart: the strong aspired to greater things while the weak withdrew. From such origins have sprung cities and the fortifications of which we shall treat.
I found the marshal much to my liking, for, if I understood him correctly, the weak and wicked made their homes in cities behind defensive walls while the strong and wicked dwelt outside the walls and spent their days plotting to break through them.
And all of them, all of them wicked.
No sooner had I slipped the book into the secret pocket of my cloak than Schmettau returned carrying a neatly folded costume with a mask on top. The costume was, of course, red. I spotted a pointy tail. The mask was also red, with a pair of stubby horns and some ghastly teeth. And really, I do cut such a handsome figure. But that’s the lying Christian creed for you.
I returned to my room and flipped through Vauban’s little book. I didn’t care for its style. In addition to its practical bits and useful theories, it also offered a sideline in philosophy. As if it weren’t enough to just build a bastion without ascribing some higher meaning to the whole thing. Obviously, bastions get built for one reason: to defend against attacks.
But, thanks to me, this sort of writing is on its way out, and writers are quickly learning to stick to the point. I look forward to the day when all writing gets straight to the matter at hand and never veers off at a tangent. As specialized as can be, the more precise the better, and no philosophical distractions. There’s nothing worse than trying to make things meaningful.
Vauban didn’t stick to his own topic. He went out of his way to be a know-it-all and had at least two explanations for everything. Everything had its ‘higher’ cause; everything led to ‘greater’ con sequences.
The only part I liked were those opening sentences, the bit about everyone being wicked, with the weak putting up walls for protection and the strong breaking through them. It followed, therefore, that the weak had set about founding cities that the strong would promptly invade, and that this state of affairs had spawned all the ramparts and other feats of engineering associated with fortifications.
Some thoughts are quick and some are slow, and time passes at the speed of thinking. I must have been thinking swiftly because the hours of daylight were already coming to an end when my servant knocked at the door.
7
‘It is time for the ball,’ he announced in formal tones. Then, seeing the devil costume and mask, he rolled his eyes. But, wisely, he refrained from commenting.
‘Hold your tongue,’ I said, and he obeyed. He helped me on with the costume. Unfortunately, the eye-holes in the mask were set too close together, making it hard to see out. And as it was already quite dark, both from the lateness of the hour and the dark clouds overhead, I could hardly see at all.
It was starting to rain. Drops were coming in through the open window, lightning flickered in the corner of my eye, but none of it could stop me from being my usual self, shining with the brightness of the morning star.
‘Have you hired those Serbs as I told you?’
‘Nothing to it, master. I had my pick of any number of them. Everyone wanted the work.’
‘Well? Who’s the choice?’
A clap of thunder shook the room.
‘A handy lad from Požarevac. He seemed to be the most capable and trustworthy. Just back from Kosovo. Glorious Kosovo.’
‘Speaking of Kosovo, I’ve always wondered, what is it you Serbs are always celebrating? It was your great defeat after all.’
‘Defeat at Kosovo was our reward. If we’d won, who knows what evil would have befallen us.’
‘Hm, I really couldn’t say, but precious in the sight of Fishmouth is the defeat of the great … What’s the lad’s name then?’
‘Don’t know. Didn’t ask.’
‘That will be all. You’re not needed until morning.’ Novak hurried off, glad to have the night ahead of him for drinking, and I put the finishing touches to my costume. I was ready. I turned to look in the mirror and found myself face to face with the Devil. There was a flash of lightning. I bowed and said, ‘Please, allow me to introduce myself …’
I grinned with satisfaction, but the face of the Devil in the mirror hidden behind its black-painted mask showed no change. I spun around and heard the answering swish of the red robe. Again there was a crash of thunder overhead.
I stepped out into the hallway. It lay in gloom with only a few torches for illumination set some twenty paces apart in their holders. With unsteady steps I made my way to the stairs, now slippery with the rain that was blowing in at the open windows.
Lovely weather for a costume ball, I thought, peering out happily at the night and rain.
Just then I thought I saw someone. Without knowing why, wanting to get a better look, I stuck my head out through the window. Outside, in front of one of the buildings, stood some figures. I wondered who they were and why they were exposing themselves to the storm. What weal or woe did drive them thither?
In my mind’s eye I saw a storm of years long past. Lashing rain; a dark night. A man on the back of a donkey riding towards the city. He was soaked to the skin, and his shoulders were stooped. I was standing under an olive tree and was only slightly less wet than he. I knew he would be coming, and I was waiting for him. I watched two caravans enter the city and one come out. At times the shouts of the cattle drivers would reach my ears, and that was the only sound to pierce the rain.
There he came on the back of an ass. The rain stopped, but the true storm was about to begin. I noticed that his mount was treading palm fronds under its hooves. They must have fallen from one of the carts and scattered across the road.
The moon had come out from behind the clouds, and that was why I noticed the branches.
At the gates of Jerusalem.
A flash of lightning lit up the courtyard.
There were three figures in the rain. Two of them had enormous moustaches. Of these two, one was bandy-legged, the other bald. No doubt about it, it was the highwaymen, Vuk and Obren. The third man had his back to me, but I could clearly see his Austrian officer’s uniform. An instant later everything had gone black again, and through the dark and the rain I could no longer be sure that the figures were even there. Then the thunder burst in my ears, and I involuntarily stepped back into the hallway.
What on earth could two hajduks, men with an Austrian price on their heads, be talking about with an Austrian officer in the middle of the Fortress of Kalemegdan? I knew that they were up to no good, for good deeds do not seek the cover of storm and dark of night. The only question was, who c
ould they be plotting against – Fishmouth or me?
SIX
The Costume Ball
1
At the door stood a footman, waiting to usher me into the carriage that would convey me in comfort to the residence of Princess Maria Augusta. The party was being held in the grand building she had received as a wedding present from the regent upon her arrival in Serbia. The residence stood outside the fortress walls, a short ride away through the town gate, and we soon arrived at the extravagantly illuminated building.
I hurried through an anteroom and from there into a great hall. I heard a servant announce me at the entrance, clearly and unmistakably: the Devil. And, once again, clearly and unmistakably, as on so many previous occasions, I found myself among the very first at the party. Anyone with an iota of self-regard takes care to arrive fashionably late. Who else would have rushed to be there ahead of the rest? No one but me, that’s who – always getting it wrong, no better than the biggest clod of an officer, no better than the most dim-witted lady-in-waiting.
The hall held a small scattering of seated people, most of them puffing away on Turkish pipes: a pair of poets, or perhaps Apollos, it wasn’t clear which, a madman dressed as a gamecock, and one woman dressed as Madame de Pompadour. In the centre of the hall stood our proud host, the regent – wearing no mask. He spotted me and beckoned me to him.
‘Wise choice of costume you’ve got there,’ he said.
‘And how do you know who I am?’ I asked, altering my voice.
‘Only the Devil would disguise himself as himself and still not find anyone to believe it.’
‘Precisely for that reason, Your Highness, precisely. Everyone thinks there must be something quite different behind the mask. And as for those who don’t think at all, they’re just happy to see me looking as the priests describe me.’
‘Clever. As you can see, I, too, am in disguise.’
‘Indeed? How so?’
‘My face and the figure I cut are my own best disguise. I need no other.’
Fear and His Servant Page 7
