“Do you tell the child that the friend he imagines he can hear, see, talk to isn’t there? Constantin is like a child, and he will think of me and speak to me, and—”
What’s that old gypsy saying? When the last person who remembers you dies, you die again, I said, fingering the gold ring, feeling my irritation rise. Tell the truth! I demanded. You want me to give him the ring because you’re afraid, because that old saying comforts you! A gust of cold air peppered my cheeks.
“Yes,” he breathed.
And for a second, I felt a kind of triumph. And then I realized he’d made me angry intentionally to mask my fear. His will was stronger than mine. I’d wanted to smash the glass, hurl the vile stuff into the chemist’s sink, but I was already on the deserted sidewalk, hurrying along, the brown bottle of sulfuric acid cradled safely in my arms.
-46-
I saw the glow of torchlight first, then as I neared the caravan I heard the zith of a planing tool, the sound of hammering. Constantin was fitting the last few boards for Joseph’s coffin. I saw him bent at the work, his face red with cold, his nose streaming. He set the hammer down and pulled a handkerchief from under the end of his sleeve, ruffled it under his nostrils, then shoved it into his pocket. I stood in the shadows, watching awhile. He worked with the plane, a spray of shavings followed the sweep of his hands, and I realized there was a kind of tenderness in his gestures. Performing a final service, he wanted to honor his friend, and he had: Joseph’s casket wasn’t a crude knocked-up thing. The joints were beautifully dovetailed, the surface, even without finishing touches, was smooth, the wood grain gleamed.
I rubbed my fingers over the gold ring. I knew it was the last time, the last night he might ever have with Joseph. I wanted that for Constantin. I slipped the ring off.
He turned when I called to him, resting his broad hands on the planked lid, then he pointed at me, mimed a quick genuflection, crossing himself. “You see—?”
“The priest?” I asked, and he nodded. “Yes. The funeral’s in two days. In a potter’s field.”
“Fu-fiel?”
“A place for outcasts, paupers, nameless nobodies. It’s going to be bleak,” I said, trying not to think of what I knew would be harder still. “It’s cold tonight. You want me to finish this?” I tapped my fingers against the open edge.
“I—I finish—” He tapped his rounded chest, then rolled his wide eyes toward the caravan. “For him.”
I took his hand, turned it over, then laid Joseph’s ring in the center of his palm. “You keep him tonight.”
“Nu-uh,” he shook his head back and forth.
“Yes,” I said, closing his fingers around the ring, and insisting. “Yes.”
He cocked his head, gave me a questioning look.
“Talk to him,” I said. “Go on.”
Constantin closed his fingers around the ring and shut his eyes. A soft hum welled up in his throat, passed his lips—the sound of a man suddenly in possession of the thing he wants most in the world. The corners of his mouth came up in a wide grin. Then he nodded, jauntily shaking the gold ring closed in his hand like a pair of dice. He opened his eyes and smiled at me. “O-kay. I keep.”
When I went toward the caravan, he was leaning against the edge of the casket, listening eagerly. I heard him laugh, looked over my shoulder to see him wipe tears of mirth from his eyes. He chuckled again, picked up the plane, and nodding cheerfully as he listened to the last echoes of Old Joseph’s voice, plied it with long careful strokes.
***
Constantin had left a lamp burning in the old man’s caravan, and I guessed Lenore was there when I saw her berth was empty. I made my way down the steps to stand awhile by Joseph’s body. He was lying on the bed dressed in the black jacket and trousers that were too big for his gaunt frame. I saw Constantin had knotted a brilliant red silk diklo around his throat, neatly tucking the ends of the scarf.
It was only his body and nothing more, I told myself, there was nothing for me to hear; after tomorrow there would be nothing for Constantin, either. Guiltily, I removed the bottle of acid I’d hidden in the folds of my coat. The liquid had an oily, viscous look. Sinister. I swallowed uneasily, and now I was suddenly afraid to look at Joseph’s ashen face, to think about what he wanted of me, but my mind seized on small details—unearthing the casket, opening the wooden lid, standing over the night-darkened skin, removing the glass stopper, seeing the vitriol ooze up along the sides—
“Don’t do it, Imre.”
Mimi’s voice startled me. I gave a shudder, my hand shook, and I felt the glass skitter between my sweat damp fingers. My heart lurched, I flailed with the other hand, catching it. The glass pinged lightly into my palm, my clutching fingers. I let out a long exhale, swore under my breath.
She was standing in the shadows at the top of the stairs looking in. Her clothes hung flapping as if she were made of sticks instead of flesh and blood. Her black hair was a mare’s nest of whorls and spikes. Her eyes were glazed, great hollows like bruises shone out against the pale skin.
“Don’t do it,” she said again. Her gaze drifted toward Joseph, then swung back to me, and I understood at once she meant the destruction of the body. I felt my face go white. Christ, I thought, it’s Anyeta.
She gave me a sickly grin. “It’s me, Mimi,” she whispered, moving toward me into the pool of lamplight. She put one hand out, and it was then I saw both her arms were bound with strips of ragged bloody gauze.
“No,” I said, taking a step backwards; in my mind’s eye I saw her in the trance stabbing herself. Joseph’s words rose up in my head. Anyeta is afraid of pain, but what will you do the first time you find your wife, knife in hand, to keep the sorceress at bay? “Oh God,” I murmured, wincing. Beneath one of the unraveling strips I saw the edge of a crusted wound oozing a mix of blood and wet yellowish pus.
“You know it’s me,” she said, holding her hands out like a woman submitting meekly to being bound. “Here is my proof.” Her face was weary, her shoulders bent. “That I’m here now, speaking with you, standing by his bed has cost me more suffering than I hope you’ll ever know.”
“Why, Mimi?” A soft moan rolled between my lips, I let one finger lightly trace the gauze, and she flinched.
“Anyeta’s getting stronger,” Mimi said. “That’s part of it. But I wanted to be here—for Joseph, for what happened to him and my part in it. But also for Lenore.” She gave a little smile seeing the stunned expression on my face. “Lenore loved Joseph, Imre.”
Christ, I’d run out of the caravan this morning and hadn’t even thought of Lenore’s reaction. She must’ve seen Constantin making the casket, I thought. “How did she take it?”
“I found her in here this morning, barefoot and in her nightgown. She came running in when she saw the caravan parked here—she thought it was a surprise—that we were both here, that I was well.”
I flushed guiltily.
“Apparently she screamed when she saw the body. But by the time I came in, she’d calmed down. She was holding Constantin’s hand. They were like two children helping one another be brave, and he was telling her not to be afraid. Lenore tied the red scarf around his neck and placed the pipe in his hand.” She paused.
“I didn’t want to upset her. I told her Joseph had a stroke and she accepted that.”
“What about these,” I said, nodding toward the white bandages.
“She doesn’t see them, Imre,” Mimi said. “I don’t let her.”
“You—”
She cut me off, bristling. “I have some power, yet.” Her eyes met mine darkly. “Did you see through Zahara?”
“No,” I said huskily.
She nodded. “All right then. Weak and damaged as you see me—as I am—today at least, my daughter had the mother she needed. At the funeral we’ll mourn his end together—”
His end. Not the sane ritual of a funeral I thought; no, funerals are pretty. His end would be the wild work he demanded from me. “Why did you
say I shouldn’t—destroy him?” I said, my voice sinking to a whisper..
She shook her head back and forth. “I don’t know.” She squeezed her eyes shut, her mouth was drawn tight. “Something with Anyeta—but I don’t know what. The idea makes her . . . restless, angry.”
I felt myself go cold, thinking if she says anything more I’ll never do it. “Please. Don’t make this worse for me.”
“All right,” she said quietly. “I’ll keep Anyeta out of the way.” She laid her small hand against my cheek sweetly, briefly. I kissed the palm, knowing what she meant to do. I saw her straighten her shoulders—bravely, I thought; and then she turned and left the room.
A little while later I heard the sound of her breath coming in short hard gasps. There was the sharp high whisk of a knife being drawn rapidly against flesh. She gave a grunt, and I cringed, thinking of her pain.
I hung my head, laced my fingers in my lap. Then I heard the slash again and closed my eyes, knocking my palms one against the other in frustration.
God wills it.
I glanced at the old man’s corpse; his gaunt features looked softer in the dim light, as if he were at peace.
Some things in the future are better not known, not seen.
I didn’t have to see into the other room—see my wife—to know that from her gashed wrists the blood spattered, and made a pattern of round spots and thick drops that were shining darkly on the floor.
-47-
When it came to a funeral, the Roms spared no expense; and Constantin had fitted out four of the horses with waving black plumes and brand new leather traces studded with round brass medallions. We put the open casket on a sledge and the team dragged it into the woods. Now in the gathering twilight, we’d come to say goodbye—Mimi, Constantin and I. Mimi brushed Joseph’s pale cheek with the tips of her fingers. She leaned over and kissed his bluish lips.
This was the funeral (wild work!) before the funeral, I thought, looking at the old man lying in the coffin; but Constantin didn’t know it yet.
I’d taken Joseph’s signet ring from Constantin earlier. Now I pressed the gold, felt the metal cutting deep in my flesh. Help me.
Please, I whispered inwardly. Give me strength, because this is going to break his heart.
Mimi stepped back slowly, and I felt the weight of a terrible sorrow, knowing it was time.
“Tasaulor,” I began, putting my hand on Constantin’s shoulder, “tomorrow, after the funeral we’re going to leave. I’ll hitch the wagons in tandem, then all of us will go back to Hungary. So this is a kind of good bye—a private ceremony, just for us—not like tomorrow in the field—”
His round jaw dropped, his mouth gaped in growing panic. “Leave?” he shouted. “No! No fiel! No f—ff-un-ral! No ’lone!” His hand fell heavily on the coffin edge. “No ’lone! No leave! You take heem!” He pounded the wood with the flat of his palm.
I thought of the acid wrapped in my cape, lying nearby on the grass and for a fleeting instant I considered it. We could go now, take Joseph with us, I thought excitedly—
(Let the future be a dark veil.)
—But the priest was expecting us, fleeing would arouse suspicion and they’d be on our trail like a pack of bloodhounds. “No,” I shook my head.
“No ’lone,” he sobbed.
Alone. I thought of the old man in the potter’s field with its patches of bare, humped earth. The rows of rotting wooden crosses. His body would lie in an unmarked grave, far from all of us. He would be unknown, nameless. Year after year, the seasons would do their slow silent work.
Constantin was right. There’s no sadder feeling than the thought of someone you love buried away in the earth, away from sunlight. Alone—
“No ’lone for Joseph,” Constantin moaned.
“Talk to him,” I said slowly, holding the glittering ring out toward Constantin. When the last person who remembers you dies, I thought, you die again. I cleared my throat. “Tell Joseph we love him. Tell him we will remember. He lives in our memories. And we carry him with us—always—in our hearts.” I felt a spurt of painful grief—for the old man, for Constantin—rise bitterly on my tongue.
The wind gusted up, blowing the old man’s hair in a random silver spray, fluting the dark clothes of his suit. They lifted lightly flapping in the breeze, and it was a terrible sound, the sound of loneliness. Joseph, I begged, you promised. You’ve got to tell him. Please, I said, and inwardly I felt him nod.
The ring left my fingers, and Constantin clutched it to his chest.
He stood by the coffin, murmuring, one hand nervously stroking the old man’s white hair. His eyes were wet with crying, the lashes matted.
I felt Mimi’s fingers twine in mine, squeezing.
“Nuh,” Constantin said suddenly, in his broken guttural voice. His head tipped backward and he bayed. “No! Joseph! No! D-on’t make me!”
The image of the brown bottle and hissing acid rose before me. I felt a thick lump in my throat. Oh God help me, I thought. I knew what Constantin was hearing.
“Take him away,” I whispered hoarsely. “I’ll do it.”
Mimi moved toward him, her face grim. She spoke low in his ear. “NO!” he screamed sinking to his knees. He threw his arms out and clung to the side of the coffin. After a long time, she helped him up. His face was ghostly, his eyes blind with helpless terror, his fingers clutching her arm hard enough to turn his knuckles white.
They moved past me, deeper into the shadows. I stooped down and slowly began unwrapping the brown bottle. The glass was a dark gleam, the wire clamps shone dull silver. I stood up, holding the bottle by its neck, my fingers trembling against that cold narrow throat. I stepped closer to the casket, my heart thudding like some awful battering ram trying to shatter the walls of my chest.
There was a metallic click when I forced the wire clamps apart; the silky rasp of glass on glass as I drew out the stopper. I held my breath and heard the blood singing in my ears.
“I do not want the sorceress to profane my body. Give me peace. Be my son.”
I looked on Joseph’s face for the last time, while behind me Constantin’s cries filled the night.
***
Time seemed to stop. I saw the acid pour from the spout, followed its sparkling trail down and down. When it struck the flesh with a crackling sound, I turned my face away. A thin steam rose up, and on its white smoke I smelled blood. The vitriol foamed and bubbled. I shut my eyes, but I knew that with each quick hiss, it ate inward more deeply. Under my upraised arm, I felt a dreadful heat being given off, a sickly warmth that penetrated the cloth of my jacket and made my skin clammy. My stomach churned, I couldn’t bear the rank smells, the sound of that viscous gurgling any longer; and finally I twisted my wrist sharply and upended the bottle.
The last drops sputtered out, then I raised my arm and flung the bottle as hard as I could. It struck a tree, and I heard the glass shatter with a thick pop.
My mouth went dry. I broke out in a fit of shivering so hard the spasms wracked me. I sat heavily, my face turned up to the sky, my back slumping against the casket. The stars began to flicker, and I watched the dazzle of bluish light. In a little while I was aware the low seething sounds inside the coffin had stopped and I knew he was gone. It was over.
I did not look. I shut the lid softly, my fingernails clicking lightly on the wood, my mind conjuring his gaunt face, his dark penetrating eyes. Driven out, he’d left Hungary all those years before. Now his end was here in the woods above Sibiu, where Strauss had been feted and Liszt had played tunes stolen from gypsies. Everything, I ruminated sadly, is taken—bit by cruel bit—from each of us. We’re all of us, always on the edge of bereavement. His life, his time had been measured by loss; and I’d lost him.
When the last person who remembers you dies, I thought, you die again. Bending low, I wet my lips and whispered. “Here there is a body, but in our memories, Joseph—in our hearts and memories lives the man.”
I caressed the top of
the coffin briefly, and my tears came suddenly and fell in a hot rain.
-48-
I woke to a brilliant yellow glare, and at first I thought it was the morning sun streaking through the glass. Torchlight. I was alone. Mimi was gone. I sat up in the dark, my heart suddenly pounding, listening to the sound of snapping twigs, voices shouting. There was a sharp crack, another. The sound of padding feet whispering on the grass. The lights receded in the distance.
Seconds later something first brushed, then caromed into the side of the caravan, and I felt us rocking lightly on the wheels. Through the thin walls came a husky, labored breathing.
I crept to the door, jerked it open. She lay on her back, sprawling on the tiny wooden stoop, one bare foot plunged into an icy puddle at the foot of the stairs. Mimi rolled her eyes up at me. “Help me, Imre,” she breathed. “Don’t let Lenore see me like this.” Her dress was soaked in blood. There were dark shiny splashes on the steps and dripping off the short rail.
It was then I saw she was cradling her elbow, her face fierce with pain. She moved her hand aside, a small geyser of blood bubbled between her fingers, and I realized she’d been shot.
***
“What happened?” It was still too early to risk a light. I had summoned Constantin and together we bandaged the wounded arm as best we could. Lenore was sleeping in his caravan. Mimi sat propped on a mound of pillows sipping hot tea.
Closing her eyes, she leaned back against the headboard. “Anyeta came to the fore when I fell asleep,” she said. “I couldn’t help it. I saw her get out of bed, moving softly, careful not to wake you.”
I grunted. “Then what?”
“She was angry. I don’t know.”
“Don’t know—or won’t say—” I said, pacing toward the window, then pointing out. “Those men shot you—they were chasing you.”
“No, her,” Mimi said in a tight voice. “Anyeta used her power and sent them away, confused them. Then she left me to deal with the pain.”
The Gentling Box Page 25
