‘How nice for you, Your Highness. And now if you will excuse me, I have a soulmate to find.’ Under my breath I added, Meaning, your wife.
In the meantime, other guests had been arriving. There still weren’t many, perhaps twenty or so. But which one was Maria Augusta?
Madame de Pompadour?
Joan of Arc?
Or could she be disguised as a man?
My precious, suffering soul. I made my way among the costumed partygoers, trying to listen in on the conversations. It wasn’t easy, partly because I rather stood out in my Devil suit and partly because the thunder was still booming. The orchestra struck up the music, minuets and rondeaus and all those other dances I don’t know the steps to. How I hate all the things I don’t know!
The dancers paired up, bowed to one another and began to grate on my nerves. From beginning to end, their dancing was a ridiculous imitation of human relationships: first seduction, then love, then betrayal and abandonment, all ending in pretend harmony. Weren’t they dancing this particular number all the time in their day-to-day lives, and did they really need to perform it now to music? Since nearly everyone had joined the dance very few guests remained for me to engage in conversation or on whom I could eavesdrop.
Just as I was sidling up to Joan of Arc a revolting snout thrust itself into my face. The mask was so repulsive that I wanted to tear it away and prove to myself that the face underneath was just as awful. Jug ears jutted out from the sides of the mask, the right ear more prominently than the left, and from the mouth grinned teeth that only a rabbit could be proud of. The two upper incisors protruded, while the remaining teeth were rotten.
‘Sir,’ it said to me, ‘a word in your ear?’ It spoke English with the accent of the colonies.
‘No,’ I said curtly.
‘I think you’d better hear me out,’ it continued with a threat in its voice that was underscored by a flash of lightning as it said hear me out. ‘You’re making a big mistake if you think this is about vampires. It’s not. It’s not even about Wittgenau …’
‘Who on earth is Wittgenau?’ I said. There was roll of thunder.
‘It doesn’t even matter, since this isn’t about him,’ it answered.
The logic was quite sound, but I still wasn’t satisfied. That’s why I’m the Devil.
‘It’s about the doves.’
‘The doves?’
The figure looked around to make sure there was no one near by. It noticed at the same time as I did that the regent was approaching. Lightning flashed through the south windows.
‘I have to go.’
‘Wait,’ I almost shouted after the retreating figure. ‘Who are you?’
Through the rolling thunder I could just make out the answer. Something like ‘Tristero’.
The regent was already standing before me. The man just wouldn’t let me be. I almost thought he might suspect me of having designs on his wife. But then, I was quite sure he was not interested in his own wife. In the wives of others, maybe …
‘If I may ask, where will you go next?’ he asked, and on his breath I detected the strong smell of Tokay wine.
Now, a drunken man will tell you the truth. But that’s not all. You can also tell him the truth, right to his face. The alcohol washes away his memory to make room for more emotion.
‘I’m off to France, Your Highness, to Paris.’
‘Is that so? What takes you there, if it’s not a secret?’
‘No secret,’ I said, although in truth it was. I told him that deliberately, because otherwise he’d try to remember. This way it would go in one ear and out the other. ‘I’m going to see what the Third Estate want. I hear they’ve been protesting against the rights of the nobility, even against the king and the Church. There’s been talk that the burghers, the ones with the money and red blood, have grown so powerful that they’re demanding a republic.’
‘Ha. Not counting on the Third Estate to get rid of the nobility, are you?’
‘Not only am I counting on it, I’m going there to lend them a hand,’ I answered rudely.
‘So that’s it then.’ He was silent for a moment, and then he marshalled his best German artillery and opened fire. ‘You are gravely mistaken if you think that some Third Estate can do away with the nobility. Not that blue blood won’t disappear, mind you. Not because of these upstart nobodies but for another reason entirely. Because of gunpowder. We nobles are accustomed to armour, but armour cannot stand up to muskets, pistols and cannon. Armour was protection from the arrows, spears, halberds and maces of the sixteenth century, but defending yourself from these new weapons takes more than wearing something on your own body. The nobility have trouble understanding this because a nobleman is the unity of body, mind, weapon and armour, of attack and defence. And today’s armies are made up of Minds that fight not / Bodies with weapons. Defensive operations are now beyond the reach of any one man. And as for the Third Estate, that bunch of nouveaux riches …’
‘But surely one of your own distant ancestors must have been just such a nouveau riche?’ I said, egging him on.
‘Nonsense. We have true blue blood, and we’re all descended from the ancient Roman aristocracy, which was founded by the heroes of Troy, who were the offspring of the gods. But, to continue, the Third Estate knows how to do one thing, to make money, meaning they know how to steal. The whole lot of them, robbers and cutpurses, opening banks in the cities and charging interest like the Jews. But they still don’t know how to spend it. I know they do spend it, but on what, I ask you?’ Before I could get a word in edgeways, the regent continued with his broadside, ‘They spend it on gambling and whores. And the nobility do not spend money on gambling and whores. We spend it on first editions of Shakespeare, Old Masters and other such gimmicks.’
‘Gimmicks?’
‘What do you think art is, if not the biggest gimmick ever invented? Calculated to deceive, and not just once but every time, and not just some people but every last one.’
‘Hm, indeed. I’ve always thought that one can fool all people some of the time, and some people all of the time – but as you say, art fools all of the people all of the time.’
‘And whose idea was it anyway, this art? As the Devil, you must know.’
‘Of course I know. And I shall tell you right now.’
SEVEN
The Secret Chapter
I don’t understand. Why should I suddenly leave off telling you about von Hausburg? To talk about Count Wittgenau?
I barely remember him. He was only briefly in Belgrade. Ten days or so. I think he arrived at Christmastime. No one knew the real reason for his visit. I’ve heard several accounts, and I doubt any of them are correct.
But I am quite sure that General Doxat was not to blame.
You’re not interested in what happened back in ’35? I can’t hear you. You want to hear about the costume ball?
I don’t remember what I was wearing. Well, it was a long time ago. How should I remember all the masks I’ve worn in my lifetime? There have been many fancy-dress parties and many things to change into and out of. Now I’m old and I don’t remember, especially now that I know that all of those parties never did me a bit of good.
Why do it then, you ask? That is what you’re asking?
It happens all the time. Someone invites you, or you invite someone, to a costume ball. That’s how one lives, you know.
Wittgenau.
So, someone must have been having a little joke, or sending a warning, or making an accusation – I never knew which – and arrived wearing a mask that looked just like the face of Count Wittgenau. No, I never did find out who it was. I know who it wasn’t. My husband, because he was the only one to spend the entire time without a mask. At first I was frightened, for the mask seemed alive. I mean that it didn’t seem like a mask. I could have sworn that the wig really was Wittgenau’s. The hair was grey with bluish strands.
Yes, the custom was to change one’s wig for a costume ball. I mea
n, we’d have recognized one another with our own wigs on. Naturally, the quickest and easiest way to identify anyone was by utterly artificial things such as wigs.
That night, yes, it’s coming back to me now, there was a terrible storm. Thunder and lightning, just like summertime. But it was only an Indian summer. I arrived late. I know it’s hardly the done thing for the hostess to be late, but something had happened, I no longer remember what. One of my maids was giving birth, perhaps. Something like that. And right away I noticed the trickster in the Wittgenau mask. He was speaking to the Devil, or, rather, someone dressed as the Devil. I don’t know what they were talking about. I was far away, the music was still playing, and the air was filled with thunder. I don’t think they were together long.
No, as I’ve already told you, I don’t recall what I was wearing that night. I don’t recall. Perhaps someone else remembers.
Something else has just occurred to me. Something I was thinking about during the party. It was often on my mind in Belgrade. A fairy-tale, a tale my grandmother used to tell me when I was very small, back in Regensburg. I no longer remember what the story is about, and even then in Serbia I don’t think I knew. No, I’m sure I didn’t. Probably something along the lines of all fairy-tales, a prince must defeat a monster to win a princess. But there was something special about it, something quite different from all the others. A tiny detail. Really, just the tiniest detail, but enough to make its whole meaning clear. My grandmother would tell it to me before bed. Yes, that’s right. Somewhere in the middle of the story the young men are put to the test to see which one is truly a prince. All they had to do was pass through some sort of forest and reach the castle. It was an ordinary forest, no trees that could talk or do anything worse. Just an ordinary forest in the country, not particularly dark or deep, certainly not filled with yew trees. They may have been oak trees. And there was a road that led through the forest. A road paved with gold and studded with jewels. And just as there always are, there were three young men, and their task was to take the road through the forest and reach the castle on the other side. The first young man set off on horseback, but when he saw the gold he kept to the side so as not to ride over the precious metal and stones. As soon as he arrived they chopped off his head. The second young man, not knowing what had happened to the first, also rode his horse alongside the road. And he also lost his head. The third young man did not even stop to think, but galloped straight down the middle of the road, his horse’s hooves striking up golden sparks all the way and crushing the priceless jewels into powder. That was the true prince, for only a true prince, said grandmother, takes the middle way along the road of gold.
That’s what I was thinking about at the costume ball. What?
That night nothing else happened in connection with the false Wittgenau. How do I know he was not the real one? Because by then Wittgenau had been dead for a year. Besides that, you know more about Wittgenau than I. You know everything there is to know about Wittgenau and about who killed him. And why are you asking me all of these questions when I’m only a woman, one who knows nothing about heroic deeds and has nothing to do with politics.
Now, I’ve told you, Wittgenau arrived in Belgrade sometime around Christmas in 1735 and promptly disappeared. Just like that. Disappeared. All I can tell you is what I heard from the usual hopefuls at court and the servants.
Not from lovers. I didn’t have lovers.
I had heard that Wittgenau was a member of the secret imperial commission which had come to look into the construction of the Fortress of Kalemegdan. And the cistern. The emphasis was always on the cistern. From what I’d heard the investigation did not concern the money that had been spent. No one ever told me what Wittgenau was actually looking for. What else is there to investigate when building is involved, if not corruption?
Yes, the principal charges were against Doxat. At least that’s what people were saying. He hadn’t yet been made a general; he was still just a colonel in charge of building the fortress. Yes, he was Swiss and a Protestant. But the two of them never met, you know, Doxat and Wittgenau. Doxat wasn’t in Belgrade when Wittgenau arrived. By the time Doxat returned, Wittgenau had already vanished.
Who? Why do you want me to talk about my family now? You know all that. Very well.
My family hold the postal monopoly within the Habsburg Empire, Hungary, Slavonia, all the German Grafschaften, the Czech lands, Poland, the Low Countries, parts of France and northern Italy. My paternal uncle is Postmaster General to the Holy Roman Empire. This position has been passed down in my family since 1490. We have more than twenty thousand couriers who can deliver a letter from Paris to Buda in seven days. Or from Vienna to Istanbul in four days.
Sorry? Why would we deliver a letter from Vienna to Istanbul? I was only giving an example. That’s all. Naturally our letter-carriers have passed through many lands, enemy lands among them. But we haven’t carried letters for the Turks. At least not that I know of.
Who is it you are interested in, actually? Wittgenau? Or von Hausburg? Or Doxat?
You’re interested in me?
SIX
The Costume Ball (continued)
2
The regent was all ears. His eyes were watering, either from squinting short-sightedly or from drunkenness, and he was clutching a glass of wine in his left hand.
‘You may not believe me, Your Highness, but art was invented by none other than myself.’
‘I do believe you. Art is the work of the Devil.’ Lightning flashed.
‘It was in the very beginning, when mankind had been driven out of Paradise and first knew suffering. In no time at all people became wicked and were mine. For me, this was no fun at all. What I like is for a person to choose between good and evil, leaning first to one side, then the other, until finally coming to me. But since their lives were so full of ugliness from the very start, people were simply turning bad without stopping to think about it and never even believing in the existence of good.’
Thunder rolled.
‘And then I gave them art. After that I also gave them letters, so they could write things down to have for ever. I gave them the one perfect thing that exists in this world: a complete and utter lie. Quite the paradox, eh?’
‘Hm, yes. But did your adversary really sit by and do nothing?’
‘He never knew what to make of art. It’s not evil per se, you see, but it is falsehood. Not only that, but it was I who had invented it, and he never forgot it. Not long afterwards he struck back – with history. Yet another story but one that pretends to be true. That’s when all the books appeared, such as the Bible. My adversary couldn’t help but be on the side of truth – but as a man who knows his warcraft you can tell me yourself. What drives people to evil? History, which is true, or art, which is false?
‘Power and riches.’ Having said this, he abruptly turned his back on me and went off to the nearest table for more wine. I still had a few more things to tell him but decided to catch him later. I set out to find Maria Augusta. I wanted to find out which of the figures in disguise was the princess. There were quite a few women – some of them were no doubt actually men, but I hardly thought the princess would dress as a man. She had no reason to. I quickly ruled out two witches, one maiden in Serbian folk costume, three Aphrodites – two with an apple and one without, this last one surely pre-dating the bribing of Paris. I also discarded Ophelia, Lear’s three daughters, Clytemnestra, Antigone and, after wavering a bit, Lady Macbeth. The court at Belgrade certainly went in for the theatre in a big way. After eliminating some others for being the wrong size, I set my sights on Joan of Arc and Madame de Pompadour.
I was just making my way towards Madame when I happened to find myself in front of a mirror. I stopped to have a look, as much as the badly placed eyeholes would allow. I bowed slightly. The figure in the mirror did the same. I stuck my thumbs in my ears, spread my palms and wiggled my fingers. The figure in the mirror did the same. I placed my right thumb on the tip of
my nose, touched my left thumb to the little finger of my right hand, and wiggled my fingers again. The figure in the mirror did the same. I found myself so delightfully entertaining that I removed my mask to have a better look. The figure in the mirror remained behind its mask. Warily I stretched out my hands to touch the mirror and felt my fingers brush up against the Devil. I jumped back.
He said, ‘Pleased to meet you. Did you guess my name … ?’ And, with a burst of satanic laughter, he vanished into the crowd.
3
I was trembling. I don’t know why, but I suddenly remembered my reasons for coming to Belgrade. A shiver went up my spine. I wanted to call for Novak, but I knew he was nowhere to be found. There were just too many places to drink in Belgrade.
My life truly was in danger, that much was clear again, and the hajduks and the tale they’d spun had been nothing but a trick to lull me into a false sense of security. How careless I had been!
My enemies were disguised even as my own self.
But I wasn’t about to let panic get the better of me. First, to find Schmid lin and ask him whether he knew the hajduks were working for the Austrians. He might not know about it himself, but at least he’d be able to guess who had hired them. Second, ask Maria Augusta about the doves and Tristero (if that was the name). Third, ask the regent about the man in crimson. Fourth, and most importantly, ask Schmettau who else had hired a Devil costume. Back to zero, find them all among the masks, except for the regent who was standing out in the open.
I set my sights on Madame de Pompadour, and in a few steps found myself at her side. All I had to do was get her to say something; the voice of Maria Augusta would be easy to recognize.
‘Beastly weather, isn’t it?’
‘M-hm,’ she answered. I could clearly see – or rather, hear – that she was trying to avoid any answer that could be pinned down. I asked her another question.
‘Could you introduce me to Count Wittgenau?’
Fear and His Servant Page 8
