by T. Frohock
A low constant fear clung to his throat until he found a turnoff leading to a back road going south. The winding route took him longer, and twice he got lost, but with fewer cars on the road, he could easily ascertain that no one followed him. It was almost five by the time he finally entered Durbach.
When he turned onto the mountain road leading into the Black Forest, he opened his window and let the sigils fly to the cold wind. A chill ran through him. He hoped it wasn’t a premonition.
The sky turned leaden as Diago neared his destination. The forest thickened along the roadside and created a tunnel of greenery. Shadows clung to the trunks and obscured the ditches. The Black Forest earned its name with its dense pines, heavy with age.
According to Suero’s instructions, Diago should be close to the estate. He slowed until he glimpsed the pale tongue of a driveway protruding between a pair of stone pillars. Pulling off the road, he shut off the engine and removed his sunglasses.
The house wasn’t visible from where he sat. The usual forest rhythms were strangely absent—no birds chirruped, no rodents scurried beneath the undergrowth. Like last night when the Rhinemaidens sang.
The neglected gates and rutted drive didn’t fit the image Diago had of the tuxedoed concertmaster. The property seemed derelict, possibly abandoned.
Maybe it’s not the right place. Diago left the car. Or it’s a trap. He thought of Guillermo’s Talavera tiles. The pine needles on the drive could easily hide sigils that would activate if anyone drove over them.
He wondered briefly if his run-in with Heines had simply left him paranoid. Then again, a little paranoia had saved his life more than once. Better to be safe.
With a stick, he drew a sigil in the dirt. Humming a tune, he channeled the vibrations of his aura into his ward. The lines flamed in hues that were more black than green and took the shape and weight of his car. He sent the phantom automobile through the gates with a gesture while he watched for the warning flash of any active sigils.
Nothing happened. Diago allowed the glyph to fade and the decoy car disappeared. Keeping the stick in his hand, he walked to the pillars, the foundations of which were constructed with old stones. There had once been a wall here, but not within the last century.
Or maybe more, Diago thought as he moved the ivy aside. A metal plaque, with karinhall spelled in Gothic lettering, was centered on the pillar.
“This is definitely it,” he muttered as he dropped the stick. Returning to the car, he got in and guided it onto the rutted drive. Foliage closed in on both sides, brushing the doors and occasionally slapping the windshield.
Then the trees fell back and the road widened as the manse came into view. Diago pulled into the yard, parking near an empty garage with open doors. He shut off the engine, hoping the brothers were home.
The house seemed normal enough, if a bit neglected. Three stories tall, the rectangular building had been constructed in the classicist style and boasted pediments on the rooflines of the left and right wings. Embedded in the center of the triangle on the left was the letter k and on the right was the letter j in the same Gothic script as on the gate.
Karin and Joachim. How deeply they must have loved each other.
Fleurs-de-lis were set at each corner of the windows. Grecian columns held up the balcony that sat above the porch. Cornices were decorated with angels’ faces, cherubs with pudgy hands and open mouths, like no angel Diago had ever seen.
In better days, it might have been an imposing structure, but the seeds of rot had taken hold. The fleurs-de-lis had shed petals, and streaks of black stained the columns. On the balcony, missing balustrades gave the railing a snaggle-toothed grin. Paint peeled from the wooden trim, and the friezes were chipped and broken, leaving the angels with jagged lips and broken smiles.
Diago left the car and walked across the weedy yard. The front door had no knocker or bell, so he raised his hand and gave the wood three sharp raps. A minute passed and then two. He knocked again. From the other side he finally heard footsteps moving rapidly in his direction. Locks clicked and the door opened a crack, emitting the odor of cabbage and onions.
From somewhere within the house, someone played a piano. The light notes of a waltz drifted onto the porch, the music at odds with the dark suspicious eye squinting at him through the slim opening.
“Ja?” It was a woman’s voice.
“Good afternoon, I am Diago Alvarez, and I’m here—”
“Not buying.” The door slammed shut.
Diago blinked. How many salesmen wandered into this desolate area? He knocked, and when the door creaked open again, he said, “I’m here to see Herr Karl Grier about a violin.”
The eye stared at him.
“A Stradivarius.” He withdrew the letter of introduction Guillermo had given him. “I’m here on behalf of Don Guillermo Ramírez de Luna of Spain.” He pushed the envelope toward the crack, hoping that Guillermo’s name might trigger a response.
“Not buying,” enunciated the woman very slowly, as if speaking to an idiot. “Leave.”
And then he placed the accent. The woman wasn’t German, she was Czechoslovakian.
He switched to Czech. “I’m not selling anything, madam. Herr Grier is expecting me. I’m here to evaluate the Stradivarius for Don Guillermo of Spain.”
She snatched the letter from his hand as if he intended to grab her and yank her onto the porch. The door slammed in his face. Three minutes passed before she returned and swung the door wide.
An imposing woman with rough red hands filled the doorway. She wore a faded housedress and a kerchief over her hair. Woolen stockings sagged around her ankles and the left one disappeared into her sturdy black shoe. Diago guessed her age to be thirty but wouldn’t have been surprised to find her younger. The story of a hard life was written on every line of her face, which didn’t look on him any more kindly even though she now knew he was expected.
“Come this way, Herr . . .”
“Alvarez,” he said.
She gestured for him to enter the house.
Diago removed his hat and stepped inside. The grand entryway revealed the home’s faded opulence. A marble staircase dominated the main hall, the stone still polished to a high sheen. In contrast, dark wainscoting met sagging wallpaper to lead the eye upward, where tobacco smoke and water stains discolored the ceiling.
A large hall tree, which would have been more at home in a medieval castle, squatted to one side of the entry. The mirror, mottled with age, formed the chair’s back and was surrounded by angels. It took Diago merely a glance to see they were falling.
He took his time removing his gloves as he ran a practiced eye over the shadows that gathered in the corners. No dark sounds seemed to be immediately evident, indicating no violent deaths had recently occurred inside the house, which lent credence to the story that Karin Grier’s death was an accident.
The housekeeper cleared her throat and held out her hands. Pushing his gloves into the coat’s pockets, he allowed her to take his jacket and hat. As she hung them on the tree, he noticed a flash of crimson by her foot. Reaching down, he rescued a silk scarf from the floor. The initials HL were embroidered on the scarf’s tail.
Diago recognized the garment immediately. It had belonged to a rogue who called himself Harvey Lucas—a British nefil with a jovial voice and a brash song. They had met during the Great War, and when Diago had admired the scarf, Harvey had sworn he’d never willingly part with it. If Diago remembered correctly, it had been a gift from a mortal paramour.
A hole on the opposite end further confirmed Diago’s suspicions. It was caused by a shell fragment. He’d been in the trench beside Harvey when it happened. Another spot was frayed, and Diago recalled the scarf had caught on barbed wire during a different battle. Had the ghostly music drawn the Brit here, too?
“This is incredible,” he said as he offered the scarf to the housekeeper. “I know a man who owns a scarf just like this. His name is Harvey Lucas.”
&nb
sp; Her mouth twitched at the name.
She knows something. “I haven’t seen Harvey in years. Is he here?”
“No,” she snapped as she grabbed the scarf. “There is no one here by that name.” She draped it over one of the wooden hooks near his hat. “This way,” she said as she began walking again.
Harvey Lucas had once crawled under machine gun fire to retrieve that scarf when it caught on a strand of barbed wire. He wouldn’t have casually left it behind as he walked out the door.
The housekeeper paused when she realized Diago wasn’t behind her. “This way,” she said more firmly.
With an uneasy glance at the scarf, Diago followed her down the corridor. She led him to a music room cluttered with furniture. Photographs of Joachim during his days as concertmaster were intermingled with family portraits.
An exceptionally pale young man with hoarfrost hair and eyes the color of ice sat at a grand piano. When Diago entered the room, he glanced up and smiled.
The letter rested unopened on the top board. Nonetheless, the youth offered his hand without rising, and said, “Buenos tarde, Señor Alvarez. Bienvenido.”
Diago went to him and shook his hand. “Mucho gusto, Señor Grier.”
“How is my pronunciation?” he asked eagerly. “I’ve been practicing ever since I found out you were coming.”
“You speak Spanish very well.” And I’m a good liar, he thought as the youth blushed with pleasure.
The young man held on to Diago’s hand just a moment too long and then said in German, “Thank you. Unfortunately, I’ve exhausted my entire vocabulary with the greeting.” He gave Diago a beat to appreciate the joke before he rushed on, his words tumbling over one another. “I’m Rudi, by the way. Karl isn’t here right now; he had several matters to attend in Offenburg today. Frau Weber was just making tea. It should be ready soon.” Without taking his gaze from Diago, he spoke to the housekeeper. “We’ll take our afternoon tea in here today.”
Frau Weber nodded and left the room.
“Please, have a seat.” Rudi waited until Diago was comfortable. Then he ripped a jazzy tune from the keyboard. “Do you play, Herr Alvarez?”
“I do.”
A quick glance to Diago’s hands prompted him to ask, “With nine fingers?”
“I’ve learned to improvise,” Diago said, noting that Rudi’s gaze lingered on the signet with Prieto’s tear.
“Are you good?” Rudi switched to another waltz.
“Some people think so.” He’s moving from one piece to the next in order to showcase his skill. Although Rudi clearly understood style and form, he played without feeling, and the lack of emotion rendered the recital flat.
Frau Weber chose that moment to return with the tea. She placed the tray on a low table and scuttled out as quickly as she had appeared. Diago noted there was only one cup.
“You must excuse her,” Rudi said. “She doesn’t speak much German. I think that is one of the reasons Karl keeps her. She can’t blab the family business all over the town.”
“Is your family often the topic of local gossip?”
“We have money and they resent us. Of course they’re going to scandalize us. In their eyes, it brings us down to their level.” The notes slowed and became cloudy like the sky before they morphed back into the waltz.
Nodding toward the tray, Rudi said, “Help yourself, Herr Alvarez. We don’t stand on ceremony here.”
The single cup seemed odd. Rudi had distinctly used the plural when he mentioned they would take their tea in the music room. Had Frau Weber misunderstood? Diago thought of Harvey’s scarf hiding beneath the hall tree.
Something wasn’t right about this pair of mortals. Could Harvey still be alive and trapped somewhere in the house?
It was time to test Rudi’s knowledge on the subject. “I noticed a lovely red scarf in the hall. A friend of mine by the name of Harvey Lucas owns an identical garment. I’m curious if you know him.”
Rudi’s fingers slowed over the keys. “No, I don’t recall ever meeting anyone by that name.”
“Oh, you would remember Harvey. He is a large Brit. A regular pugilist. His nose has been broken several times and sits a bit crooked on his face. But for all of his size and bluster, he handles his violin with the delicacy of a virtuoso. He has a beautiful old piece that he made himself.”
In the increasing gloom, the circles beneath Rudi’s eyes grew deeper. An unpleasant tone seeped into his voice, almost a buzz, like hornets, agitated by a threat. “I said I don’t know him.”
His body language contradicted the denial. He and Frau Weber have seen Harvey and they’re hiding it.
On the other side of a pair of glass doors, the foliage swayed over the terrace’s broken stones. A creeping sense of unease settled around Diago’s heart. He glanced at the lone teacup and decided he wasn’t thirsty.
The shadow fell from Rudi’s face and the timbre of his voice returned to normal. “We’ll soon have a storm.” He used the piano to mimic the patter of falling rain. The notes segued into the opening of Franz Schubert’s “Erlkönig”—the story of the elf king seducing a young boy from his father’s arms.
As if on cue, the front door opened and shut. A deeper more resonant voice spoke with Frau Weber. Their brief conversation was muted and spoken in murmurs.
Rudi gave Diago a dazzling smile that didn’t hide the fear in his eyes. “That must be Karl. Now you get to meet the boring brother.” He stood and went into the hall.
The reaction to his brother’s arrival was interesting. What is he afraid of?
Rudi called out, “We’re in here, Karl.”
“I noticed the car outside,” said Karl as his footsteps preceded him down the corridor. “Do we have company?”
“Herr Alvarez has arrived from Spain.” Rudi glanced back into the room as if to ascertain Diago was, in fact, still there.
Karl stepped past his brother and his smile froze at the sight of Diago.
Clearly, I’m not what he expected. Of course, to be fair, Diago had envisioned Karl in a Sturmabteilung uniform, proudly displaying a Nazi armband. Instead, he wore a conservative suit that seemed a little large on him. Judging from the cut and style of the lapels, Diago went so far as to guess that it was one of his father’s old suits.
With dark blond hair and a ruddier complexion, the young man was his father’s image right down to Joachim’s sublime smile. Nothing sinister marked his features, but then again monsters generally moved through the world unobtrusively, camouflaged by banality until their deeds manifested in the form of dead bodies or broken souls.
Rudi, taking a great deal of delight over Karl’s shock, turned to Diago. “Herr Alvarez, may I present my brother, Herr Karl Grier.”
Offering his hand as he stood, Diago greeted Karl. “Herr Grier, I’m pleased to meet you.”
“Welcome, sir.” He made short work of his greeting and had barely grasped Diago’s hand before he released him. As he continued to the sideboard, he brushed his palm against his pants leg as if wiping something filthy from his skin.
It was a subtle gesture, not one that was meant to be noticed. Diago forced himself to remain impassive to the slight. There was a time for confrontation, and there was a time for diplomacy. Right now, he was here on Guillermo’s behalf and the violin was the priority. His job was to play the courtier and ignore indignities, and that’s what he would do. Unless they became insufferable.
And then . . . we shall see.
Karl spoke over his shoulder. “I had no idea that Don Guillermo was sending a Jew.”
“I’m not Jewish,” Diago said for the second time that day. The disavowal was an odd refrain, one he wasn’t used to giving. And it’s a song that I’m growing tired of singing. In spite of his ire, he kept his tone civil, but barely. “Besides, I don’t see how that makes any difference. We’re here to do business, not worship together.”
“I was speaking in terms of ethnicity.” When Diago didn’t dignify the statement with a
response, Karl raised an eyebrow as he lifted a decanter from the sideboard. “A Moor, then.”
Christ. When Guillermo said Karl was obsessed with genealogies, I thought it was just his own. “Moor is a medieval word, which has no ethnological value whatsoever. My father is a Spaniard. His lineage can be traced back to the Berber tribes of Morocco.”
“And your mother?”
Was an angel. “Was from Catalonia, where people are descendants of the Visigoths. You might be familiar with them since they were one of the ancient Germanic tribes.”
The color rose to Karl’s cheeks. “You misunderstand me, Herr Alvarez. I am not prejudiced against dark-skinned people.”
There was no misunderstanding. Still, here is a chance I dare not lose. Karl was taken aback and probably wanted Diago out of the house, and that suited Diago’s needs just fine. I can return after dark and search for Harvey.
He allowed his irritation to seep into his voice. “Your actions indicate otherwise, sir, so let me be clear: I am here to assess the value of a Stradivarius on behalf of Don Guillermo Ramírez. If you will kindly bring out the violin, I will do my job and vacate your premises so you need not be offended by my presence.”
Rudi became very still.
Karl reevaluated Diago with a critical eye. Clearly such a curt response to his behavior was unanticipated. He seemed unsure how to proceed. He opted for civility. “We seem to have gotten off to a bad start, Herr Alvarez. I can assure you that I did not mean to offend you by my line of questioning, but you are a stranger here, and we are somewhat isolated. I must be certain you aren’t a charlatan.”
That he automatically equated Jews with charlatans wasn’t lost on Diago. Let it go. He’s searching for a way to save face and I need to give it to him until that violin is in my possession. Diago gestured toward the piano. “I have a letter of introduction from Don Guillermo if that would put you at ease.”
“He does!” Rudi burst into motion and hurried to snatch up the envelope. “I forgot all about it.” After he delivered it to Karl, he returned to Diago’s side.
