Fear and His Servant

by Mirjana Novakovic; Terence McEneny

  Suddenly I saw light ahead. It was weak and far off, but it was still light. The light of day, I hoped. We were nearly out. We stopped. Listened. Not a sound. Again we broke into a run. Von Hausburg slipped and fell, and Novak and I came back to help him up. He’d cut the palm of his hand, shielding his face from the sharp edges of the channel.

  ‘A fine time to trip and fall, master, now that we’re in the light.’

  ‘You imbecile!’ cried von Hausburg irritably. ‘Everyone gets careless in the light. Most accidents happen close to home. Statistics show.’

  Isn’t that so, dear cousin?

  After von Hausburg’s fall there was no more running. Still stooping, we moved along at a normal pace. It wasn’t exactly a leisurely stroll, more like the steps of those who know where they’re going and where they’ll end up. And the light was getting stronger all the time. It was strong and clear. Daylight. There was a gate of bars in our way. Novak tore it right off its rusty hinges.

  I went first as we stepped outside. It was so glaringly bright that I had to squint.

  2

  As soon as I opened my eyes again I saw Alexander. He was standing only a few hundred feet away. Astonished.

  ‘Maria Augusta!’ he cried.

  I flew into his arms. He held me tight.

  ‘Bist du ein Vampir?’ he whispered into my ear. Was I a vampire?

  The first thing I noticed was that he had addressed me with the intimate Du. I made no answer. I knew what I must look like, bleeding in several places, covered in cuts and bruises. It was a wonder he’d recognized me in that filthy, tattered state. But he had recognized me.

  It was at that point that he noticed Novak and von Hausburg. Still holding me, he shouted, ‘Seize them!’

  Only then did I notice all the soldiers. Surrounding us. But none of them moved to obey Alexander’s order. They merely stood there, glowering and full of menace, aiming their muskets. Von Hausburg spoke.

  ‘Wait! We’re not vampires. We’re just like you. Look at us. Do we look like vampires?’

  The soldiers looked and looked – not that it would do them much good, for they had never seen vampires before. I said as much.

  Alexander smiled, then suddenly grew serious. ‘They’re down there!’

  ‘Where?’ I asked.

  ‘In the cistern.’

  ‘They’ve entered the city?’ von Hausburg said, enunciating each syllable. ‘Across the Prince-Eugene line?’

  ‘Across every line in their path,’ my husband said, jabbing his finger at Novak and von Hausburg. ‘You two! If you’ve managed to survive the vampires this long, then you’ll manage yet. It’s you they’re looking for. And it’s you we’re going to give them.’

  ‘But,’ I said. ‘How can you be sure it’s not me they’re looking for?’ I had also begun to address him in the familiar form. Du, Alexander.

  ‘Because I know. They’re after von Hausburg. Who else? And that’s who they’re going to get, with his servant besides.’

  The soldiers prodded von Hausburg and Novak into motion. We’d all been standing at the mouth of the tunnel. To the right was the Vizier’s Fountain, which is built into the north wall of the Upper Town. From there it was only a few dozen steps to the cistern, or rather the structure covering it. Von Hausburg and Novak moved slowly, the soldiers at their heels. Alexander and I followed. At one point von Hausburg stopped and turned around. He looked into my eyes. In this position he remained until the soldiers forced him on towards the cistern. I saw that he was carrying the small pistol at his waist, but he and I both knew that the powder was wet. And that he wouldn’t have time to reload it. The only question was whether he preferred to die right then, in the light of the sun, looking out over the place where the Sava meets the Danube, or to face the vampires down below.

  They had reached the entrance to the cistern. The soldiers made quick work of opening the doors, but von Hausburg and Novak held back. The soldiers pushed them forward with the butts of their muskets. I slipped out of Alexander’s embrace.

  ‘I’m going with them!’

  ‘No!’ cried my husband. ‘No!’

  ‘I am,’ I said again. ‘That’s how we came, and that’s how we’ll go. An angel … An angel showed us the way. No evil can come of it.’

  ‘An angel? You don’t know what you’re doing. What angel? Angels have never saved anyone from death. This is no time to start believing.’

  ‘You don’t understand. If I don’t go down there I’ll never be able to live with myself. This is my chance, I know it. My chance. It’s not every day an angel comes along. And I’ve already seen a vampire. He was … His face was just like anyone else’s. A face …’

  Alexander looked at me, perplexed. The soldiers began to shout that the cistern doors must be secured. I pushed him away at last and followed von Hausburg and Novak inside. Behind me the doors slammed shut.

  Torchlight. And the sound of voices. Thousands of voices. Louder and louder. We looked at each other. Von Hausburg drew his pistol.

  ‘Your powder is damp,’ I said, but he only glanced at me and gripped the pistol more tightly.

  Novak took my arm. ‘Princess, I’ll go. You stay here. I’ll go down. Maybe that will be enough for them.’

  ‘Can’t you hear them? There are thousands of them. Thousands. They haven’t come by the thousands for just one. This is why I’m here. To go down there. Not to wait but to face it directly.’

  ‘The master stays,’ said Novak.

  ‘Naturally. I never leave the high ground. You two go right ahead. I don’t mind a bit.’

  ‘Can you smell the brimstone?’ I asked, imagining the stench of Hell wafting up towards us.

  ‘Never mind the sulphur,’ said Novak. ‘Cisterns always smell a bit off.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said von Hausburg, pressing his back against the doors. The pistol was at his heart. ‘Novak, you’re free to go. I’ve finished the story I had to tell. There’s nothing left to hear. As for you, Princess, you’ve made your choice. Off you go.’

  There was no more discussion. We crossed to a low wooden door that led to a stairwell. On the opposite side was a matching door and another set of stairs. One was meant for going down and the other for coming back up. They were only used when the water-screw was not working. The system was in good repair at the time, although no water was being drawn. I told Novak it would be best to split up, one to each stairwell, because if we both went the same way, we might go right past the vampires. I also said that I would take the up-staircase. I expected the vampires to be coming that way. That’s why I wanted to go by myself to head them off. Novak didn’t object; my reasons probably hadn’t even occurred to him. Or else he didn’t know what the different stairs were for. He turned to go, and I heard his steps echoing as he skirted the top edge of the cistern. I heard his door creaking open.

  The voices were getting louder and louder. Merging into one great voice. One language. I couldn’t understand the words – not just because it would have been Serbian but because every voice was saying something different, yet all in unison. Like the finest church choirs, the ones I’d heard at Orthodox churches during the high holy days: I’d been able to pick out each individual voice, and yet the chant as a whole made a perfect harmony.

  I opened my door. I had to bend low to pass through it. The steps were slippery from the damp. The smell of sulphur was gone. Slowly I began to climb down. Painfully. It took as much effort as going up. After every few steps I would stop to rest, breathe deeply and gather my strength. Fortunately, there was quite enough light.

  Out there was the angel who had pointed his jewel-bedecked finger at the entrance to the aqueduct. Out there was my husband who had taken me in his arms. Embraced me and asked me whether I had turned into a vampire. He hadn’t run away. Hadn’t pretended not to know me. Not to see me.

  The voices were ringing in my head. I wanted to sing something, anything, as loud as I could, till I could hear only myself. So I’d know
I was there, and that I could out-sing them all.

  The steps spiralled around and around. One turn after another. The way down was becoming harder and harder. I felt the pain in every step, my calves, my thighs. I was short of breath. Now as I rested I gulped great mouthfuls of air, as if it were running out.

  I thought I’d never reach the bottom. It felt like hours. I was soaked with sweat, my ears rang with the sound of the choir down below. It was as loud as someone shouting in your ear.

  And then there were no more turns. No more steps. I looked through a slit in the wall and saw the surface of the water. I had arrived. Slowly I went a few steps forward. I saw an open space ahead. The voices were coming from there. I entered.

  The space was immense. Beyond any I had ever seen. Its walls stretched so far on every side that they were lost to sight. It was full. Full of people. Or vampires. And all speaking at the same time. There was Vuk Isakovič. I spotted him at once. And there beside him was himself again, only much older. Even so, I knew him. Several feet away from him stood Sava Savanović. The voices grew so loud that I could no longer hear them. A perfect silence reigned.

  From out of the many stepped one figure. I had never seen his face before. Nor would I ever see it again. From his shoulders hung a robe of royal crimson-purple.

  SEVEN

  The Secret Chapter

  What are you saying? I can’t hear you!

  Oh, I owe you a story. The one about art. From the Chinese feast. And you want to hear it. It can’t wait? Right now?

  All right then.

  Now, I can’t take any credit for this story, even though I did tell it at the time. I heard from it someone else, you see.

  Yes. At the costume ball. Told by someone dressed up as the Devil. My husband had been asking something, I don’t remember what, or perhaps I didn’t hear. And the Devil began to speak. What he said is what I repeated over lunch, trying to get the words just right.

  He spoke as if he truly were the Devil and had taken part in the events he was describing. It was the best disguise at the ball. Because a disguise isn’t a matter of what you’re wearing, it’s the story you tell.

  And here’s what he and I said, as follows:

  ‘Do you know what art is? And the difference between art and the real world? I thought it up. Created it. No, I didn’t say “Let there be art” – that’s not the way I work. It was on the seventh day when he was resting. Resting from what? Really, I ask you, from what? For six days he spoke, let there be this, let there be that, tiring himself out. By the way, lest I forget: I was the first thing he spoke. Created. Because the first thing he said was “Let there be light”, and there I was. For I am Lucifer, the light-bearer. And, do you know, the other angels could never forgive me for that. Especially Michael.

  ‘So, it was the seventh day, and he was resting, and he called all the angels together and told us each to paint a picture, and once we’d finished he would choose the most beautiful one of all. And we set to work. I knew what I was going to make. True, at the very beginning it wasn’t quite clear in my mind, but as the work progressed I understood it more and more.

  ‘From time to time I’d look up from my work and steal a glance in his direction, at the ill-tempered old man with the glowering brow. He sat on his throne of granite, resting his chin in his hand, lost in thought, weary. Left eye blue, right eye brown. I wondered whether he regretted creating it all, whether he was having second thoughts and would he rather have everything the way it was before, as nothing? After being by himself for so long – only he knew how long – was he like any other old man who lives alone, losing his temper with noisy children, looking back wistfully on the peace and quiet he once knew? What was it he wanted to say to the rest of us? Let there not be any of you? Or, with a mocking smile, Oh, just let it be. I’m sure that afterwards, once the seventh day had ended, he was often sorry – although a bruised reed he would not break, as they say. Yes, that bearded old man we could never live up to – I’m sure he was sorry ever after.

  ‘He had said, “Paint the world for me”, and that’s what we were doing. And it wouldn’t be like me not to have a peek at what the other angels were doing. You should have seen the hamfisted nonsense Uriel was turning out. What a mess! Pure pandering to the audience. He’d depicted him as ostensibly happy upon his throne, a hundred times bigger than the rest of us. You men and women were the size of ants, while we angels with our wings could have passed for houseflies. There was no night in the picture, no seas.

  ‘I also saw what some of the others were painting. They were doing such a meticulous job. Everything was exactly as it really is, and you could hardly tell the image apart from the real thing. I considered this another form of pandering.

  ‘Unfortunately, Michael was too far away for me to see what he was up to. I thought and thought, trying to come up with an excuse to leave my work and casually saunter past. I couldn’t think of anything. I was probably too wrapped up in the task at hand.

  ‘The sweat ran as I worked. I put my head to one side. Liked what I saw. Or bit my lip. Retouched. Admired. Reconsidered. Rubbed out. I was creating from fog and darkness, feeling my way along. It was becoming clearer and clearer to me.

  ‘At the very bottom I put the seas …’

  ‘Were you using bamboo ink on silk?’ whispered Joan of Arc.

  ‘Was I what? On silk? And with bamboo ink no less.’ He chortled. ‘You haven’t understood. My materials … Well, you’ll see.

  ‘So, down at the bottom are the never-ending waves of the sea and the coasts above them. On the water there’s a ship, broken in two by the force of the waves. The sailors leap from the deck as it sinks. There are only a few rafts to cling to, but some reach the shore, and the shores are all different: from stretches of sand that slope gently down to the water’s edge to jagged cliffs that end like certain mortal lives, plunging into the raging foam at the bottom of the picture. I’ve thought of everything. I’ve put in palm trees and cypresses and bushes growing from the rocks, the sweet smell of vineyards and stunted olive trees. Goats and donkeys and human limbs browned by the sun, and women biding their time. The picture rises to hills with plum groves and herds of swine. Villages are dotted here and there, people whistle, night falls. The moon and the morning star keep watch and see eye to eye. In a fair valley, extending part-way up the hills, the first city can be seen. Its walls are high and thick, messengers knock at its gates. Inside the walls, all is movement: the barking of dogs can be heard and the hammering of blacksmiths. In the air, the fragrance of sweetmeats, the stench of slops and swill. The streets are paved with cobblestones, carriages creak past. Children are at their games behind the houses. And no one sees the army approaching from the south, marching swiftly to the sound of fife and drum. But the army is still far off, somewhere in the valley between the high mountains. In another city sits a woman, fanning herself in the heat of the day. On her fan I’ve drawn everything I’ve already drawn. Another world just like the first, but immeasurably smaller and utterly false. That’s the one I painted with bamboo ink on silk. A carriage passes a school where children are playing during breaktime. Stalks of wheat peer in as the carriage goes by. It’s summertime and the living is easy, the cotton is high in the fields. The fish are jumping in the streams, and the serpent wends its way among the tall grass, ready to strike at any treading heel. Its eyes are green as emeralds, its scales smooth and lustrous. Not far off, a city is under siege. The army encamped outside its gates is in disarray, its fair-haired hero refusing to fight – although he’ll change his mind when his comrade-at-arms and lover is killed. From there a man will make his way home, after a long journey, only to encounter his own wife’s suitors. She weaves the world the way I made it, but every morning she undoes her work and with it goes the world. That world is also false, because it is made of wool. And because it can be destroyed. Far from where she sits at her loom I send great numbers on a journey. I trace the way ahead of them, the royal road that yearns for
the horizon. Others struggle over mountains and through valleys, far from the cities of men, their destination uncharted on any map.

  ‘Again I wanted to see what Michael was up to. I craned my neck, ambled about a bit, but I couldn’t get close enough to see his handiwork.

  ‘I turned my attention back to what I was doing. Solitude was standing beside the window; the woman came in to find it waiting for her. Not far from there a young man was making oil paintings – oil, you see, not bamboo ink – of Flemish masters, better than the ones in Europe. Never his own paintings, only the work of others. I sent a boy into Egypt to learn the tricks and illusions of sorcerers, to heal lepers in the marketplace with enchanted waters. He crossed the Sinai and came to Alexandria. There they taught him the secrets of the carpenter’s trade. I sent for him again, but he never came back. I gave the king a lyre, and he broke out in song. I taught him major and minor, halleluia, halleluia, halleluia. I put in men and women who meet and know each other and who also go their separate ways like strangers at the crossroads. I put in the crossroads, too. Next came the peaks. I adorned them with pines and firs and put in monks with shaven heads and told them to believe in yin and yang. I never drew good and evil, not ever. That was added later by someone else. I only gave them red robes or yellow robes and sweeping vistas from the mountaintops. Silk scrolls. Brush tips dipped in bamboo ink. On the most forbidding cliff faces I set impregnable cities. The watchmen were on the lookout night and day. Waiting. The invading armies never came. No one ever came. High above their helmeted heads flew eagles, their wings barely moving, carried aloft on currents of air. Winds blowing from the four corners of the world – I painted them, too, in transparent colours. At the windswept heights I made bare mountaintops. Crystal streams bathing the rocks and a path winding to the summit. Wide enough for only one traveller and paved with yellow bricks. It led directly to the sky, for above the mountains I put the sky – blue here, black there, with sparkling points of white. And I hung the sun and allowed the moon to wax and wane and made the morning star to be first and last.