Fear and His Servant

by Mirjana Novakovic; Terence McEneny

  5

  The steps … Yes, the steps.

  ‘Have I ever told you about the time on the steps, when I was following Fishmouth on the way to Golgotha, and I caught up with Mary Magdalene? Now there was a soul, the kind of soul you rarely meet. I’ve seen my share of multitudes, and even I couldn’t resist such a suffering soul. Love …’

  ‘Master, why are you telling me this? Do you really think you can tell a story? And a love story at that? Why, you’re the last one to be telling love stories. And why? First of all, because you have no idea how to love. You may know how to put a story together, but if you don’t know how to love, all that skill and cleverness don’t mean a thing.’

  ‘You’re talking nonsense,’ I answered sharply. ‘If that were true then only murderers could speak about killing, only traitors about betrayal, only yours truly about evil and only an angel about good.’

  ‘It’s half true, master.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Because only the Devil doesn’t improve with the telling.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘It’s very simple, master. A storyteller must learn from the tale he’s telling: the character who loves must learn to love better, the murderer to repent, the traitor to fall on his face before the king. That kind of story is the only real kind.’

  ‘Everything else is merely the truth,’ I laughed.

  Novak lit his pipe. It was filled with the good Virginia tobacco from my own supplies that I’d let him have. He looked back at me as if he were smoking hashish.

  ‘Why shouldn’t I be able to tell a love story? I’ve been in love, too, you know.’

  ‘There you have it, master. How do you mean, in love? Have you ever been ready to give yourself up to the woman you love, without a second thought, without a single qualm? Have you ever been able to believe in love without hiding behind sneering words that don’t mean what they say?’

  ‘No, of course not. Women are all mortal creatures.’

  ‘I understand, master. Everyone thinks that way: I’ll never die, and all the rest of you are just passing through and falling to ruin, and it’s always someone else’s fault that we hold back. Don’t laugh, master. It’s a woeful thing.’

  ‘So?’ I asked.

  ‘So it’s a poor storyteller that doesn’t know how to end his tale. Even if he’s able to put it all together, he doesn’t know how to take it apart again. A bad story never ends, and that’s the mark of a bad storyteller.’

  ‘We’ve got ourselves a little Aristotle here!’

  ‘Even better maybe. I do know a bit more about some things than he does. I know the twists and turns of the story are like a question, and the way it plays out is like an answer. Anyone can ask the question, but not everyone can give the answer. That takes a bit more work and skill. As far as I can see, it’s all the same to you. You’ll never learn a thing, ever. That’s what makes you the Devil.’

  ‘Well, now I know,’ I said.

  But he said no more, only puffed away at the Virginia tobacco and regarded the ground at his feet. I lit my own pipe, and we sat and smoked together.

  6

  Count Schmettau brought the meal to a close. He did so rather oddly, almost imperceptibly, in a way that for Schmettau was quite out of character. It was then that I understood for the first time the greatness of not calling attention to oneself. Schmettau suffered from greatness, as you yourself may have perceived. He was afflicted with an indescribable sense of his own importance. It was not enough for him that Count Marulli, who was obviously one of his protectors, would be coming to replace my husband. Rather, in some way I could not fathom, it had to do with his own position, which at the moment was different from ours, above ours. But Schmettau couldn’t have known this yet.

  In any case, the meal was finished, and Radetzky stood up, bowed slightly and announced the decision that he was to stay the night at the mill.

  That bow, I saw later, marked the beginning of Act Two. It was then that an unknown artist, ill-disposed towards us for reasons we could not fathom, took our fates in hand and set to work. That afternoon everything still seemed the same, no worse than any unrehearsed scene from a minor drama. Tired from the day, we made ready for a short rest; but the day was short, and it was, in fact, time for bed. I was sure that the day to come would be no different from all the days before. I expected nothing from the morning but that which daybreak always brings: tasks to attend to rather than thoughts, certainty rather than doubt. At least that’s what I was thinking. Perhaps the others had something else in mind. I mean to say, perhaps some among us were ready to encounter the vampires.

  Throughout our lives we learn how to uncover false words, to turn them over and find the truth beneath them. When at last we come face to face with truth itself, we are helpless. Because falsehoods make sense, and truth does not. I was not expecting vampires.

  7

  ‘I don’t know why you’re being so harsh about this. First of all, you can trust my stories. I always tell you just what everyone said, even Fishmouth. I tell you everything that happened and how it happened. True, I sometimes get ahead of my own tale, and sometimes I fall behind, but I do that to make things more interesting for you to hear so you’ll enjoy the story more.’

  ‘Hmph, you don’t say. Your stories are all meant to show how clever you are, and that’s that. I can’t remember a single story of yours where Christ gets the last word.’

  ‘Naturally. That would be pointless. How could anyone believe in all those dire omens and threats, the sudden turnabouts, the heartfelt lessons and inspirations? And that’s just what Fishmouth is always going on and on about. I tell you, the most the hero can hope for is a minor victory, a foolish bit of insight, a pathetic little treasure. Believe you me, even that’s asking a lot.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘A good storyteller takes his time as he comes to the most important events then springs them on the reader whose eyelids are starting to droop from all the philosophical toing and froing. After the boredom, surprise. Then one surprise after another. What an ironic twist that makes! I’m telling you, irony is not of this world. There, you see? That’s the kind of storyteller I am.’

  8

  We followed after Radetzky. He went striding ahead of us courageously. His chest out. Soon we reached the mill. It would be a dark place at any time of day, at any time of year. The water-wheel was black, enormous, rotting.

  The mill itself was a hovel of wattle and daub.

  Now Klaus Radetzky removed his wig and his short coat and was left wearing only his white shirt. He rolled up his sleeves as if settling to work. Until tomorrow, he said.

  He went inside, and the door closed behind him. We stood there, watching. Nothing happened, but I felt uneasy. Some time went by before any of us spoke. It was then that I noticed the peasants who had also been watching as Radetzky went inside. After all, the whole thing was for their benefit. That’s what I believed.

  Still, even as we spoke, none of us took our eyes off the mill. For a long time we stood there, and the conversation slowly died down. At one moment it ceased entirely. Silence reigned, but not for long. Soon we heard snoring. From inside the mill. It was Radetzky, no doubt tired from the ball, now fast asleep.

  9

  When we arrived at Dedejsko Selo night was already falling. Baron Schmeddlesome gave the order for our meal to be laid out of doors. Nasty Chinese food with nasty fortunes baked inside nasty little biscuits. Nothing will convince me that Count Schmettau didn’t make up the fortunes himself (he knew Chinese, that one), then arrange for everyone to get the prediction he thought most fitting, or closest to what he hoped our fate would be. I could hardly wait for the signal to be given that the meal was over. There was a signal all right, but hardly the usual one: Count Schmettau spilled some wine on his trousers and had to leave the table. Quick as could be, Radetzky stood up and said he had to make ready for his night at the mill. Everyone seemed to feel a bit odd, no doubt from t
he Chinese confections. One by one they left the table. Only the princess and Baron Schmidlin stayed put, prattling and giggling away – her like a minx and him like an old hen.

  Radetzky came back shortly afterwards, all bristling with youthful courage. Schmidlin jumped to his feet, bowed low to the princess and with a courteous gesture invited the young man to take the lead. Radetzky stood there in confusion, not knowing where to go. That is, he knew he was supposed to go the mill, but he didn’t know the way. Since Radetzky had also been brought up in the Vienna school of manners he made his own courteous gesture for Schmidlin to go first. Baron Schmidlin, being a Viennese article himself, made another little show of letting Radetzky take the lead. That’s when Radetzky abandoned his good breeding, a sure sign he wasn’t as cool-headed as he was trying to seem, and raised his voice, ‘I don’t know the way!’

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ murmured Schmidlin, bowing slightly to Radetzky, before setting off rather uncertainly in one direction.

  The mill wasn’t far. Maybe two hundred paces from the table at which we’d just eaten. Radetzky took off his riding-coat, stripping down to his white shirt. He rolled up his sleeves and, without another look at us, went right inside. I noticed that the peasants around us were watching closely. We stood and talked for quite some time. I didn’t talk. I was casting my eye about for a suitable place to hide so I could come back later and keep watch on the mill. I just didn’t trust the Serbs or the young man from Požarevac – not to mention being far from convinced that there were no vampires.

  Some fifty paces from the mill stood a great oak tree, mostly dead wood. Its short main trunk forked into two thick branches that had long since stopped growing, but each was still topped by a leafy crown. I’d already made up my mind that I’d come back and climb up high enough to keep an eye on whatever might happen that night at the mill. But first I’d have to go back with everyone else to the hut in which we were to spend the night and then steal away later. And I’d have to do it before the witching-hour, of course. As Novak had explained, midnight and the wee hours were believed by the peasantry to be the best time for vampires.

  As I stood there thinking the conversation around me stopped. It had suddenly fallen quiet, the sort of quiet one sometimes finds in Hell.

  And then we heard the snoring. It was Radetzky, inside the mill, his fear conquered by exhaustion. Or else it was a display of snoring, I thought, a show for the peasants, or perhaps for the rest of us, to prove there was no danger.

  Someone spoke. ‘Radetzky’s asleep!’

  FOUR

  The Vienna Agreements

  1

  And he never woke up again.

  But, of course, you know that, otherwise we wouldn’t be having this belated investigation now.

  I don’t know why he fell asleep so quickly. It might not have been him snoring after all; it could have been someone else behind the mill, someone who wanted us to hear the sound. Don’t forget that Vuk Isakovič was nowhere to be seen.

  I’m not accusing anyone. I’m merely saying what happened.

  Perhaps the secret ingredient in the Chinese recipe was poison for Radetzky. One strong enough to send him to sleep right after eating but not strong enough to kill him at once. Whatever the case may be, we took the snoring as a sign to leave. We set off for the hut. It made me ill to think of the dirt and smell that awaited. And I wasn’t in much of a hurry. Several times I turned to look back. I noticed that the peasants were beginning to go their separate ways.

  I thought how brave Radetzky was. I thought how much my husband would appreciate the snoring we’d heard. Alexander despised anything in moderation. He was always trying to make his life the way he wanted it, or talking himself into believing that it was the most thrilling, the most beautiful, the mightiest and bravest, or nothing. For him there was no such thing as the journey between two points, no middle ground. He was always at one extreme or the other: the peak of excitement or the depths of despair. He was fond of saying that moderation was for cowards. I still admired him then, and so it simply never occurred to me to consider Radetzky a fool.

  I had nearly reached the hut when Count Schmettau approached me. I was glad to have someone to talk to, if only to stay outside a bit longer.

  ‘Picture, if you will,’ said Count Schmettau, ‘an army that has yet to be defeated with Doxat riding at its head, climbing towards Serbia, while its great tail sweeps across Austria. And the closer its snout comes to Belgrade, the more Turkish land is swept free behind it. Behind it flows a Danube of men and women in flight, a Sava of Turkish spies. They are now one day closer to Belgrade. And meanwhile the treasonous head waits within the city walls for the hand to reach it.’

  ‘What are you trying to say?’ I asked.

  ‘I mean what I say, nothing more. You don’t know, but I do. But you should know. If you only knew it all, how the groundwork was laid for treason, how the cursed cistern was dug, on the direct orders of Doxat, to his own plan and with your husband’s approval, and how everything stands ready for the final act: the surrender of Niš and then of Belgrade. But, mark my words, while I yet live I shall fight against it. Belgrade shall not fall, even if I have to block up the cistern myself.’

  I made no answer. To this day I wouldn’t know what to say.

  Although, of course, we were all aware of the same thing. We all knew the army and the refugees were on their way to the city. We had even calculated how many days they would take to arrive. Seven days, that’s what Baron Schmidlin and von Hausburg were saying. Count Schmettau was saying five. Everyone else considered this out of the question. From Niš to Belgrade is thirty miles, meaning all those people would have to cover six miles a day to arrive in such a short time. People with little children, old people, the sick and injured. People carrying their belongings and bundles. People with no desire to go anywhere, who had been ordered out as part of Doxat’s agreement with the Turks.

  2

  The night was bright under the full moon.

  There were no windows in the room where the men slept, and only the smouldering fire in the hearth cast its red glow around us and the objects in the room. If the fires of Hell were to die down the effect would be the same. It felt like hours waiting for everyone to fall asleep so I could sneak out. But the costume ball and the late meal took their toll, and even I drifted off.

  When I awoke the fire had gone out, and it was pitch black. I tried to sit up without making any noise. I sat for some time, allowing my eyes to adjust to the dark. In the moonlight that still made its way through the chinks in the roof and walls I was able to make out the sleeping bodies. I counted them, just to make sure. There were three of them besides myself, meaning that someone was not in the room. Novak, of course, was with the other servants.

  Slowly and quietly I got up and looked at the nearest sleeper. It was the blond-wigged one from the commission. Beside him lay the redwigged one. Two long steps brought me to the side of the third man. He was lying face down. No sooner had I crouched down beside him to have a closer look than he changed position. I drew back, worried I might wake him. When he had settled down, I crept closer. I nearly brushed against his ear. I held my breath. He shifted again. I drew back once more. Now he was covering his face with one arm. He may have been awake. Could be Schmettau. Or maybe Schmidlin. I gave up on him, whoever he was, and made my way to the door, or what these people used as a door. Once I stepped outside, I was blinded for a moment by the moonlight. As soon as I was a safe distance from the hut I lit my pipe. That calmed me down.

  In no time at all I had found my way to the oak tree. Climbing wasn’t as easy as it used to be, and I nearly fell when a desiccated branch gave way under me. It made a loud crack, and for a few moments I hung in the air, clinging to two other branches, not daring to move to find a new foothold in case I made any more noise. Only when my hands and arms started to hurt did I swing over to a living branch where I could place my feet. The failure to fall must have given me new confidence,
for with surprising dexterity I climbed several branches higher, coming to rest in a fork at a good distance from the ground.

  I was pleased with my hiding-place, counting above all on people’s disinclination to ever look up. From there I had a clear view of the mill and, more importantly, anyone coming in or out.

  I had no idea of the time, except to reckon that I hadn’t slept long and that it couldn’t be much later than nine or ten o’clock. Although I was on a thick branch it was still quite uncomfortable. This may be why the hours seemed to crawl by so slowly.

  Sometimes sheer exhaustion is stronger than fear. Or an excess of fear merely dulls its own edge. Whatever the case, I soon fell asleep again. It was a miracle I didn’t fall. Who knows how much longer the miracle would have held out had a sudden noise not awoken me.

  I looked down and saw a group of five men sitting next to the oak. They were dressed in white. And speaking Serbian. I recognized one of them immediately – Vuk Isakovič. In white, he seemed like a bear disguised as a miller. They spoke in hushed voices. Isakovič would raise his voice at times, but I could make out no more than a word here and there, without being able to understand what they were talking about. I dared not move. I was barely breathing.

  I couldn’t say why I suddenly looked away from them. But I did. That’s when I saw the man in crimson coming out of the mill. I thought I would scream. I bit my knuckles. The man in crimson never even turned around. He came down the few rungs of the mill-ladder as if he were descending the palace steps, as if a throng of loyal subjects were waiting below to catch a glimpse of him.