Fear and His Servant

by Mirjana Novakovic; Terence McEneny

  Leading the way, head held high, came the young man who’d been playing mah-jong that morning with Schmettau, Isakovič and Novak. He was carrying a sharpened stake and a heavy mallet.

  Everyone was in place at last.

  Schmettau fell quiet, as if affected for once by something taking place outside his own thoughts. We went in silence for a long time, following the peasants. They had no idea which way to go, I could see that much. They were looking for elm trees and not finding them; they were finding valleys and gullies, even crooked ones, but still no elms.

  ‘You know,’ Schmettau said, picking up where he’d left off, ‘in learning how to play the game I learned the most awful truth of all. I came to know the rules and to understand the object of the game. And what a pleasure it was, discovering the various kinds of tiles, the ways of taking them out of play, the strategies for offence and defence – the whole point of it was becoming clear! And what a terrible thing it was to have finally mastered it all. I began to recognize weaknesses and limitations, to see defeat coming before it became inevitable, to know how to win all too easily and all too soon. The thrill was gone.’

  ‘I see,’ I said.

  He made no reply. We walked along without speaking, thank God. I was too anxious and uneasy to lend an ear to any more of Schmettau and his talk.

  From time to time we’d halt, and the peasants would start digging, as if there were graves all around us and a body would be sure to turn up no matter where you stuck a spade. We’d pace back and forth and wait apprehensively. Silently the peasants would dig then stop, shovel the earth back in and move on. There hadn’t been a single whinny from the horse. The young man with the stake would sit and lean on it like a walking-stick, keeping a close eye on the mallet beside him as if worried that someone might steal it.

  We didn’t do much talking. I suppose none of us really felt like it. Baron Schmidlin seemed to watch all that digging more closely than anyone.

  ‘Do you know what the Serbs believe?’ he said, on one of the few occasions the silence was broken that day. ‘When the dead are disturbed and their bones unearthed great evil shall follow. It’s not good to lay hands on the dead.’

  ‘Do you think it’s better not to search for the vampire?’

  ‘Often,’ interjected von Hausburg, ‘when they can’t do anything to the living they go after the dead.’

  ‘The Serbs?’ I asked.

  ‘As if the other hell weren’t enough for the dead and they should suffer this one besides,’ he answered, avoiding the question.

  The peasants began to shout, and Schmidlin ran to join them. Von Hausburg and I watched him go, but we didn’t move. I was sure it would be nothing but another false alarm, and I continued my conversation with von Hausburg.

  ‘This hell and the other?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ he said, taken aback. ‘We stand at the furthermost point of Hell, although Hell knows no boundaries and therefore has no furthermost point.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’

  ‘Don’t be afraid of not understanding. Be afraid when you do understand.’

  7

  Of course, I didn’t think von Hausburg was the Devil – I didn’t believe the Devil would be able simply to go about his business as if he were a normal human. Besides, he seemed to talk like any other philosopher – particularly concerning things he couldn’t have known anything about. Unfortunately, regarding what he could have known, he was mistaken. Like him, many believe that knowledge and intelligence are the swiftest road to misfortune, that the more people know and the more intelligent they are, the harder their lives. But blessed are the ignorant and foolish, they’d say.

  Dull-witted, simple-minded people are doomed to base and foolish pleasures. They have no idea of all the wonderful, fascinating, thrilling things the world holds. And sooner or later, everyone must grow bored of even the choicest pheasant, the best French vintage, the most arousing entertainments in the boudoir and the most inventive gossip. What stupid people find pleasurable can fit on a very short list. And once they’ve worked their way to the bottom of it there’s no end to their misery and woe. Even if they’re rich, their money is useless, for it can only buy them more things that have lost all meaning.

  They hate change. They especially hate anything that’s different, and that’s why they’re all the same. They think their lives are a vale of tears, that each day is no different from the one that came before, that everyone else is just like them and that they themselves can never change. They’re unhappy because they’re all the same.

  All unhappy people are the same. Anyone who is happy must be happy in his own way. Because happy people, the ones who use their minds, who have learned something and even understand a thing or two, know how to enjoy little things, uncommon things, quick ideas, books and more books and how to be glad when something changes or when they uncover a new side of something, some rare beauty. Clever people simply have more ways of satisfying themselves and in more unusual ways. They’re not slaves to habit, their own or anyone else’s.

  And that’s why they’re a hundred times more likely to be happy.

  Von Hausburg was wrong when he said I should fear understanding. Could the Devil make such a mistake?

  A deliberate lie?

  Why should the Devil lie? The Devil is the only one who always and everywhere tells the truth. He’s the only one who stands to benefit from it.

  I asked him about Hell.

  And this is what he told me, ‘Hell is vast and never ends. Greater than infinity is Hell. Beyond its seven seas, beyond its seven mountains, lie seven more and seven more, and on and on for ever. The reaches of Hell are not measured in yards or any other measurement of latitude and longitude (for do not forget that the mountains and seas of Hell are endless); rather, they are counted, in hours and days and years and centuries and millennia and all the other ways we have of marking time, and yet, he who roams in Hell must know, never shall he meet another soul, not even with all eternity before him. Can there be a greater punishment, a longer sentence? The truth is also that Hell is small, smaller than nothing. In that one speck, that most infinitesimal shadow of the inconceivable inexistent, all the souls of all the sinners of all ages and places must press together tightly. There is no movement, for there is nowhere to go, and the souls are together for ever and are nearly as one. Not a single soul can be itself, an individual. Can there be a greater punishment, a longer sentence?’

  ‘Then how can we be standing at the furthermost point of Hell?’

  ‘I never said Hell has no gates,’ he answered, laughing.

  8

  It was growing dark. They told me the deed must be done before the first stars appeared in the sky, for vampires emerge by starlight and cannot be overpowered then. The night belongs to them. We hurried along, at times even breaking into a run. I was sweating, gasping for breath. The baron reassured me that it would all be over soon and we could go back to the city and put the whole thing behind us as if it had never happened.

  Our hopes were fading with the sun’s last rays when the horse let out a whinny. Whinnied and dug its hooves in. And then began to rear up. The sweaty black hide was tinged with red by the setting sun.

  The peasants seized their mattocks and spades. Shovelling quickly, they soon struck something solid. We were in turmoil and began shouting over one another. One of the peasants fainted from excitement, from exhaustion or from too much rakija. The others dragged him swiftly out of the way. Again the mattock made a hollow thud. The coffin, we hoped. Someone shouted to be careful, not to wake the vampire, for the light was almost gone and we would be at his mercy. Gingerly the peasants cleared the remaining dirt away.

  It was nothing but an old tree stump.

  Disappointed, the young man sat with his tools on a nearby stone, propping himself up with the stake. The priest, meanwhile, leaned in for a better look.

  ‘An elm in youth, in her old age a stump.’

  ‘The stump of
the old elm tree!’ the peasants cried. Baron Schmidlin’s voice joined them. We all joined in.

  ‘Keep digging,’ the baron commanded. The sun had nearly slipped below the horizon.

  Don’t go, I thought to myself. Oh stay, damn you. And then you can set for two whole days.

  The peasants dug on, frenzied and lathered with sweat. Again and again they wiped their brows.

  Soon the spades were scraping against wood. We all drew near. They had reached the coffin. The man with the stake was jumping for joy. The coffin had already begun to fall apart. It was unpainted, of common planks. The peasants dug it out quickly and hoisted it to the surface. Their courage had not yet left them, for some daylight still remained. Baron Schmidlin ordered them to remove the lid. At their touch the rotten wood crumbled away. Slowly they pulled back the lid.

  The man inside was firm and ruddy in the face, as if he were sleeping and on the verge of waking up. And yet he had been lying dead for ninety years. What surprised me most was that face. I’d been expecting something formless, loathsome, belonging to nobody. And Sava had the face of a man, but not just any face. Sharply defined features. A nose to remember. Open eyes. Mouth. Hair. Cheeks. Even a smile. Slanting eyebrows. If only I could have looked a little longer. It was the face of someone who was somebody.

  ‘The vampire!’ cried the peasants.

  I said nothing. I wanted to say Sava Savanović.

  There was no time to waste. Soon it would be night. The priest began to chant in his nasal voice. He hadn’t even finished chanting when he flung the water in Sava’s face. The young man with the stake waited eagerly. The sun was going down. He pushed the priest aside to everyone’s approval.

  He held the stake to Sava’s heart. With his other hand he raised the mallet high. He struck the stake, pounding it in. Through the heart it went, and up came the blood. Gushing and gushing and gushing. Spreading towards my feet. Spotting my boots. I stepped back. The others remained where they were.

  When it was over, nothing remained of Sava but a shrivelled white corpse. And then – I couldn’t see it, because I had stepped back – they began to shout.

  ‘Leptirak!’

  ‘Leptirak!’

  9

  The peasants surrounded Schmidlin. They raised their spades and mattocks. The young man pulled the stake out of Sava and advanced on Schmidlin. I didn’t know what was happening. They dared not strike him, not yet. He was reasoning with them in a frightened voice. They didn’t seem to heed him. Closer and closer they came, angrily brandishing their tools. The one with the stake and mallet struck the baron on the head. The baron collapsed. And then they were upon him. I picked up a rock and gave the nearest peasant a blow to the back of the head, knocking him down. Blood began to flow. Novak struck down another peasant, I saw. Count Schmettau never moved.

  A shot rang out. Von Hausburg’s little pistol was smoking. Another peasant lay on the ground. The others froze. Von Hausburg took aim at the nearest one.

  He said something in Serbian and reluctantly they dropped their weapons. They glared at us with hatred, but still they turned and went away. I ran to the baron’s side.

  ‘Changed my trousers. Something … on them. Spilled. Handkerchief … in my other trousers. The peasants said … cover the vampire’s mouth … so the … leptirak … can’t get out … Forgot my … handkerchief … Afraid …’ – the blood was pouring now – ‘to put my hand … my bare hand …’ I could barely make out what he was saying. He gripped my hand. ‘You! I … I … love …’

  And then he was gone.

  ‘So, the peasants turned on him for letting the leptirak get away,’ said von Hausburg.

  ‘Not good, not good,’ Novak was saying. ‘Now someone else will be turning into a vampire.’

  I looked at the unfortunate baron. He seemed quite different now, and not just because he was dead but because he was different. I had trouble standing up, and the two men from the commission had to help me to my feet.

  ‘Just how many vampires are there?’ I asked.

  No one answered. Which was an answer of sorts.

  ‘How many vampires are there?’ echoed Schmidlin.

  He got the same response.

  ‘And can anyone guarantee that they’ll stay in Serbia and not cross the Prince-Eugene line?’ Schmettau persisted. The answer this time was no different.

  ‘I didn’t believe in vampires,’ Schmettau said in agitation. ‘I really didn’t. I thought it was something your husband had made up. I thought evil was of this world only. This is another matter entirely. And where’s the leptirak? It could have bitten anybody. Any one of us! Not me, though. I’m no vampire. I’m not! I’m not!’

  And shouting that he wasn’t a vampire, off he ran. None of us moved, and none of us wanted to go after him. Soon he was lost to sight.

  10

  Was it the face of evil?

  11

  ‘I think it would be best to return to the house where we spent the night to avoid the journey to Belgrade by dark,’ said the red-wigged member of the commission.

  I disliked having to sleep in that dank hovel again, but after all that had happened I certainly didn’t want to travel by night. With fear at our heels, we returned to the hut.

  It didn’t take us long. In fact, it was all quite close. I must have been mistaken in thinking we’d ranged far and wide in search of the vampire’s grave. We’d probably been going around in circles the whole time. I can think of no other explanation.

  SIX

  In the Subsequent Course of Events

  1

  Now that I’ve told you so much of the story, may I have a peek at that book? Don’t you think I’ve earned it? I know I still haven’t told you the most important part, but since I’ve come this far do you really think I’ll start misleading you or lying about the rest?

  Thank you.

  Let’s see, I’ll just open it at random. Like when you’re feeling sad or hopeless, don’t you know, and you open the Bible au hasard and read something that comforts you in your distress. I’m partial to the New Testament, the bits towards the end.

  Now then, let’s see what it says:

  Thus ends our tale of the events at Belgrade. All that remains is to apprise the gentle reader of the fate of our heroes and heroine.

  Count Josef Schmettau remained in Belgrade. Earlier we neglected to tell you the count’s Christian name, it having entirely slipped our minds, but now, along with his name, there has occurred to us the possibility that you may mistake him for another count, one by the name of Schmettau – Waldemar Schmettau. Count Waldemar Schmettau is an entirely different person, although it is true he had some connection with Serbia, having been the first to propose the reinstatement of that country as a partially autonomous state under Turkish vassalage. This proposal was submitted through official channels of the French government, by which we mean His Majesty’s now-defunct rule and not the current revolutionary administration. This was in 1774 and, as you are undoubtedly aware, led to naught. But let us leave Waldemar and return to Josef Schmettau.

  It so happens that our worthy count, among his other marks of distinction, also held the rank of general in the artillery, master of defence for fortified cities. Within a year of the events of our tale he had already undertaken the defence of Belgrade. With consummate knowledge and skill he made provision for the defenders of the principle rampart and bastion. In the projecting fortifications ringing the city he stationed small but strong detachments. Indeed, his first victory came with the failed Turkish attack on the Danubeside redoubt. The count was convinced that the city could be held, and he prepared with equal assiduity for a prolonged siege as for a surprise counterattack. There was but one eventuality for which he remained unready, the one that no one has been able to foresee since time began.

  Betrayal.

  Although betrayal, as you know, is never simply an internal affair. For Austrian treachery, as witnessed throughout these pages, thrived on Serbian indifferen
ce (which has surely not escaped the reader’s attention) and Turkish desire to penetrate close to the heart of Europe. A desire which, unfortunately, we have neither the time nor the space to relate.

  Thus, although our count was told that the Austrian negotiators were not informed of the successful defence and had therefore hastily sued for peace with the Turks, the truth of the matter is that the negotiators were only too aware of what was happening.

  Belgrade was surrendered without a true fight, following a mere month-long siege during which the Turks never attempted a direct attack on the city. At most there was the occasional bombardment – and from inferior Turkish cannon at that, with their tendency to explode into pieces, thereby posing a greater danger to the men who were firing them than to those on the receiving end.

  The first stipulation of the peace treaty was that the Austrians must demolish everything they had built from 1717 onwards. This meant dismantling a line of bastions of such modern and superior design that Marshal Vauban himself would have been proud of them. They were required to level earthworks, to tear down curtain walls, to block up secret tunnels, even to raze the barracks within the fortress as well as the residence of the princess and all other such buildings in both the upper and lower town. The Prince-Eugene line was wiped from the face of the earth.

  Only the cistern did not figure among the Turkish demands. Or perhaps the Austrians deliberately refrained from destroying it, and the Turks failed to notice. Or perhaps this was a last act of defiance by Count Josef Schmettau.

  And then … as if Austria had never been: the mighty ramparts, the great bastions, the deep trenches, all as if they had never existed; the dances and costume balls, gone; the lofty nobles and their Shakespeare, gone; the cathedrals and seminaries, the schools, the great victory at Mali Mokri Lug, the Baroque looking-glasses – all, all of them gone. Even the great cistern itself would thereafter be known as the Roman Well as if unbuilt by Austrian hands.