Fear and His Servant

by Mirjana Novakovic; Terence McEneny

  Madame de Pompadour froze. Then with her folded fan she pointed to a group of half a dozen figures in the shadows. I started towards them, and when I looked back at Madame she was no longer there. I decided to deal with Wittgenau later. Tristero himself had said that Wittgenau wasn’t important.

  Next in line for inspection was Joan of Arc. It didn’t take long to find her, standing and gazing out of the south windows. As her back was turned, I was able to approach from behind without being noticed.

  ‘Are you the one I seek?’

  She wheeled around as if I’d struck her. ‘That depends’, she whispered, ‘what you’re looking for.’

  It was an old trick. A whisper will never give away your identity. You can’t even tell whether the whisperer is a man or a woman, let alone recognize someone in particular. There was a lot of whispering at costume balls. Her whisper could only mean one thing: she thought we knew each other. Furthermore, she knew who I was, or at least thought she did. Or perhaps she thought I was the other one; perhaps she’d got us mixed up, and I could ask the right questions to find out.

  ‘I’m looking for a woman.’

  ‘There are many women here.’

  ‘I seek a soul that suffers and loves.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m a man of wealth, a man of taste. I’ve got almost everything and know almost everyone. But what good does it do me without a soulmate who knows how to suffer and to love?’

  ‘That’s not much of a proposal.’

  ‘The truth always sounds ordinary and down to earth.’

  ‘It’s more likely that you just lack the spirit for it.’

  ‘You’re right, when I’m in love. When I love, it’s as if I lose the gift of speech, for true love speaks haltingly while base motives sing.’

  ‘How nicely put. Your motives for talking to me must be rather base after all to bring on such a torrent of words.’

  ‘Right you are.’ She had managed to annoy me with her incessant whispering. If she was Maria Augusta there could be no hope for our union, and the woman wasn’t the one for me. I can’t bear petty souls. I like my souls with breadth and badness.

  I offered a few unpleasantries and took my leave of the whispering wench. The way the conversation was going, I’d hardly learn anything valuable.

  I poured myself a glass of Tokay and looked out of the south windows. The thunder and lightning had been raging all this time as if it were really summer, not just St Martin’s. The rain fell without stopping, and the air in the hall was damp and stuffy. I had never seen a storm last so long. Again I scouted the room, hoping to set eyes on Madame de Pompadour. Anyone who runs away from you is sure to be useful.

  I wasn’t long in finding her. She was speaking to the regent. I tried to draw near without being noticed but still couldn’t get close enough to hear their voices. I watched Madame de Pompadour gently take the regent’s hand and was close enough to see her make what seemed to be a slight curtsy. I saw her carefully lay her other hand on the back of his. I saw her caress the back of his hand and watched him pull away. I drew closer to them. They spoke only briefly. I heard everything. Then he left. She called out after him and buried her mask in her hands.

  4

  Someone must have opened the windows or doors because the wind suddenly began to rush through the hall. Wigs were flying. Madame de Pompadour gave no ground, her wig firmly in place, in courtly French style. That wig was not about to be blown away. But the music stopped, and the dancers were obliged to follow suit.

  I assumed that Madame de Pompadour was one of the regent’s lovers. She was certainly dressed the part, maîtresse to Louis XV. The regent had many lovers. It was no longer even gossiped about in Vienna. Not having mistresses – now that would have set tongues wagging. I’ve done a good job of changing people’s habits over the years.

  The doors or windows were still open, and the wind was blowing harder and harder. All at once it became very cold, as though a whirlwind were blasting through the court. I thought I’d better hold on to one of the columns. My hands were like ice. I shut my eyes.

  I opened them again when the wind stopped, some moments later. That’s when I saw him. He was standing in the centre of the hall, surrounded by lords and ladies in their masks. He wore no mask, and his white shirt was crusted with blood. His hair was slicked back, his face pale, terrible to behold in the light of the few candles that had somehow not been snuffed out. One of his riding-boots was missing its sole, his breeches torn.

  His voice rang out. ‘My Lord Regent!’

  And the regent appeared before him.

  ‘Lieutenant Mackensen reporting,’ he gasped. ‘Niš has fallen!’

  Württemberg said nothing. The others began to murmur. ‘Niš has fallen. General Doxat came to terms with the Turks. To surrender the city if they let the people and the army withdraw. They’re on the move now. Ten thousand Serbs and some Jews with the army. They’re coming north. They’ll be in Belgrade in seven days’ time – if the Turks keep their word and don’t attack.’

  ‘Niš has fallen,’ the regent repeated, as if to himself.

  Several people escorted Mackensen outside. The doors were shut now, although the wind had stopped.

  The music began to play. The masked guests began to dance and the swirling skirts blocked my view of the regent.

  Someone beside me spoke in Serbian. ‘What happened?’

  Another voice answered, ‘Nothing.’

  I looked out of the window. There was no more lightning, no more thunder. As if the skies had cleared. The rest of the candles were relit, and everything was brighter than before the bad news.

  I poured myself more wine and looked across the table to see Joan of Arc. I called out to her, ‘Shouldn’t you be in Niš?’

  She walked all the way around the table just so she could whisper her answer. ‘It’s the English I can’t stand.’

  I poured some wine into her half-empty glass. She was stubborn, and I liked that. Her free hand reached out to stop me from serving more wine. Such a feminine gesture.

  I enquired, ‘Madame de Pompadour?’

  ‘If Joan of Arc had been a man no one would remember her,’ she whispered. ‘No one here is in disguise. People have no idea how to disguise themselves. Whatever they put on, they change into themselves. Our entire civilization depends on successful fakery.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Because it is easier to bear your own self if you can pass it off as unreal. Truth is indecent and not, as you said, ordinary. Truth is unbearable. I find my own self indecent and unbearable and think the same of all others.’

  What torment this soul was suffering! I had not erred in my first assessment. How I adore such tortured souls, simply adore them, as well as those that have never known a moment’s pain. But then, the ones that have never suffered are always perfectly happy and therefore perfectly dull.

  ‘What then do you believe in?’ I asked her.

  ‘In the city,’ she whispered, draining her glass.

  ‘The city?’

  ‘Yes, the city, as in Belgrade.’

  The lovelorn princess had gone out of her mind, that was the only reasonable explanation. The sudden change was surely the result of madness. The princess filled her glass with more wine. She drank it down then poured again. I felt rather de trop. And suddenly weary.

  ‘Please excuse me, I find I am tired from all that has happened today.’

  She nodded.

  I didn’t even attempt to say goodbye to the regent, so badly did I want to sleep. That was a good sign. A sign that the tension was letting up. I stepped outside and jumped into the first carriage. In no time we had rattled our way back to Kalemegdan.

  We passed through the King’s Gate and entered the fortress. As it was nearly daybreak I could see out of the carriage window. There was the building that held the cistern and two guards standing out front. They had not been there the day before, as far as I could recall.

  I doffed
my mask and costume and lay down to sleep, but as unluck would have it, sleep did not come until late in the morning. I heard Novak staggering back at about nine o’clock, and only then did I fall asleep. The blasted cock crows woke me more than once, but I refused to admit defeat.

  Part the Second

  BEHIND THE MASK

  ONE

  Second Exodus

  1

  The story begins, I think, the day after the costume ball. I was late in rising, well past midday, I’m sure. Now that I think about it, I wonder why my husband ever invited me to accompany the vampire commission to Dedinaberg. At the time I didn’t give it much thought, and an excursion outside the city walls seemed a pleasant diversion, even exciting.

  I’d never been outside the city before, not in Serbia.

  I insisted on riding. I didn’t want to go by carriage. Before, I’d always been driven about in a six-in-hand. Alexander had them saddle up his favourite mare …

  What’s that you ask?

  Who went along?

  From the fortress, there was Baron Schmidlin and Count Schmettau. Of course, first and foremost were the three members of the commission: Klaus Radetzky and the two other men of science whose names I’ve forgotten, one with a blond wig and the other with a red one. Our group also included Otto von Hausburg, the one you’re so keen to know about, and his servant. Why do I mention his servant? Because of all the servants he was the only one to ride with us; our own servants, two or three of my maids and some others, followed behind. Later, after we’d crossed the field line outside the city, we were joined by another Serb. I believe he was an Oberkapitän – I’ve always been hope less with ranks.

  Yes, there were eight of us counting the Serb.

  Vuk Isakovič.

  The leader of the party was Baron Schmidlin. Our destination was the watermill at Dedinaberg. The Serbs had complained of vampires appearing there. Anyone who spent the night in the place would be dead by dawn and whatnot. Radetzky thought it would be a simple matter to show the Serbian peasants that vampires didn’t exist if he were to spend the night and come out alive. While he was at the mill the rest of us would lodge at a nearby house. The house belonged to the richest peasant in Dedinaberg, and, although it was hardly up to the standards at court, it could offer a hearty meal and a good night’s sleep.

  At the gate leading out of the fortress my horse shied and would go no further. I had to spend quite some time stroking her and calming her down before she would reluctantly continue. That’s when I saw the poor little girl. She was begging at the gate, in rags, barefoot, sad and alone. God had taken away both her reason and the power of speech, and I felt a boundless desire to help her. It’s a terrible thing to witness human suffering. I have also suffered – on silk pillows, but it’s suffering just the same – and if only someone had looked kindly on me I’d have been so grateful. The poor child had no one and was probably afraid of people. There’s no worse punishment than to live in fear of others. She had no one and nothing to call her own. I got down from my horse and took her in my arms: let her see that not everyone is a brute who passes by with a cold heart, a sharp tongue or ready fists. I knew that the five kreutzers I was giving her was next to nothing, that it would buy her no more than a few meals, but it tugged at my heartstrings to hold her and kiss her. And I began to weep. I was longing for the love of one man, and here this child was longing for the love of anyone at all. I felt how warm, how gentle she was, and – knowing that I had at least shown her my own gentleness and love – I was happy to have been able to help the poor child even that much. What a joy it is to give to others!

  We had to keep going, and I left her, promising myself that I would bring her into the palace when I returned.

  What?

  Very well, then, back to the story.

  At the time, I hadn’t given the vampires a moment’s thought. I believed them to be a superstition for the ignorant. The conversation I heard between Count von Hausburg and his servant Novak only confirmed my belief that the Serbs were superstitious and that there was no such thing as vampires.

  The servant was telling him what the Serbs were saying, how the Archangel Michael had come to Belgrade. When he heard this von Hausburg nearly fell out of the saddle. He turned pale and began to ask questions: when did he arrive, where did he arrive, what did they say was his reason for coming, what did he say was his reason for coming and so on. It occurred to me that the count was not in his right mind because he clearly believed the story of the archangel’s appearance. His servant began to laugh, and I felt uncomfortable at witnessing such unseemly behaviour.

  When his laughter had died down he said, ‘It’s not the real archangel. Remember that Russian we met on the way to Belgrade, the tall fair-haired one. From the description, I’d say it’s him. The peasants are saying that the archangel speaks heavenly Serbian, that he’s tall and fair and all in rags, because that’s what angels always do: they pretend to be poor because the human soul shows through in the way we treat the poor and the simple and the sick.’

  When his servant had finished speaking, von Hausburg also began to laugh, but with a great guffaw, in a way that struck me as rather forced. He added, ‘And here I thought the human soul could best be seen in its dealings with the powerful and the more intelligent and the rich and the happy. For even the worst of men can summon up a little compassion, but even the best find it hard to resist envy, hypocrisy and cowardice. I don’t understand why angels and saints don’t come dressed as kings and counts or poets decked with laurels.’

  ‘Because those are your favourite roles. You want to see the worst in people, and angels and saints want to see the best.’

  ‘Hence their ignorance of the world.’

  The conversation did not surprise me. If you only knew all the things I’ve heard you wouldn’t ask that. Besides, what did I know? I was still young, and a princess at that. And what can one possibly learn or understand in trappings of silk and velvet? It was only when I began to suffer that I began to think, first about myself, and then about others. What good have they ever done me, those easy days of peace and happiness? But that’s why the times of suffering mean so much to me, the arduous, sleepless nights, the tears, the pain and fear, the sorrow and hopelessness. For those months, those years, built up the best in me, while the carefree days were nothing but ruin. There’s no deep wisdom in what I’m saying. Every hero in every fairy-tale my grandmother ever told me, unlike the false heroes, always takes the dark and difficult and thorny path to vanquish the dragon at the end. The ones who take the broad, smooth road never get anywhere.

  Yes, all right, back to the story.

  We had not yet crossed the city’s defensive line, meaning that we were still in the part called Unter Ratzenstadt, when Count Schmettau approached me.

  No, of course he wasn’t my lover. I’ve already told you that I didn’t have lovers. With Count Schmettau I had never exchanged more than a handful of pleasantries. And I was surprised at his forward behaviour.

  Count Schmettau was … he was responsible for the fortress. He was an architect or something along those lines. I know he was always at his drawings. I think his plan for Kalemegdan was the first to be accepted by the administration. Later it turned out that something wasn’t right, I don’t know what, and his plans were rejected in favour of Doxat’s. That’s how Doxat became chief engineer. And the fortress was built under Doxat’s personal supervision, right up until we declared war on the Turks for the second time. Then Doxat was sent to lead the second regiment. He was a very able man. He took Niš in a matter of months after the fighting had started. That’s why he was promoted to general.

  So, Count Schmettau rode up alongside me and said, ‘Do you know who’s coming to replace your husband?’

  Such effrontery caught me quite off guard.

  ‘Why should the regent be replaced at all?’

  ‘Because of the defeat. Because of the loss of Niš and the south of Serbia.’

 
‘I take it you know who is to be regent?’

  ‘Let’s see …’ he said slowly, staring me right in the eye, and then he spat out, ‘Count Wittgenau!’ before bursting into mad laughter.

  ‘I fail to see the humour in that.’

  ‘Oh?’

  We rode along in silence for some time.

  ‘Your impudence can only mean that someone is coming to replace my husband, someone who will protect you. There can be no other explanation for your behaviour.’

  ‘That’s right. And now at last your husband and his band of toadies will answer for all their crimes. He struck fear into the heart of Serbia, surrounded by his miserable servants. In one week he will be servant to his own fear. And I’ll tell you which investigation is to come first: the murder of Count Wittgenau.’

  ‘Is that a threat?’

  ‘Yes. For the new judge and master will be Count Marulli.’

  2

  As for me, what am I to do? And who will stand with me? The Devil’s strength is in his own hands, as they say. I have a servant who is a cross to bear but who also comes in quite handy. If there are questions I am prevented from asking by my breeding and position, I send Novak, for low origins entitle one to behave in the worst possible manner. How else would one family ever rise to replace another? The first thing I told him to ask about was Tristero. Next, Wittgenstein. Third, who was wearing what at the costume ball.

  He was able to discover nothing. Granted, he hadn’t much time. He woke me at noon, for we had to prepare for the journey out of Belgrade to the watermill. We were to set off at the first hour after midday, and Novak had to pack my things. I left the room to have a walk around the fortress and a look at the two rivers. I was agitated, as if I were about to embark on a long, important voyage. I smoked some tobacco, hoping to be calmed by the slow, deep breaths. But I was not.

  I walked to one of the bastions on the southwest side of the fortress. Below me was the Lower Town. The army was drilling formations. Men ran to and fro, the Oberkapitäne sat and smoked. Beyond them flowed the murky Sava, the blue Danube. Rivers are like people. Too many obstacles, too many painful twists and turns, and they become bad. But I simply haven’t the time to make everyone’s life bitter myself, so I’ve had to come up with certain schemes for getting the job done.