The Fourth Circle

by Zoran Zivkovic

  There were circles of various sizes, which overlapped in places, creating more complicated geometrical forms: a series of concentric rings, a drawing of a flower with six petals, a two-dimensional representation of a ball, a series of belts drawn so that they formed the shape of a cylinder. There were also some very intricate forms such as I had never seen before. They looked as though they could have been some kind of outlandish, twisted architecture from the Orient, full of rounded surfaces and soft intersections based on the circle.

  Several annotations accompanied every drawing. At first I only glanced at these, but when I looked more closely, I observed that they contained very few letters of the alphabet. There were many mathematical symbols, quite unreadable to me with my meager knowledge, peppered with Greek letters and some inde-cipherable abbreviations. I had had no idea until now that Holmes was so well versed in the Queen of All Sciences.

  But the biggest surprises were yet to come. On the second sheet of paper that I took from the table, there was only one large circle, similar in size to that in Moriarty's letter. It was divided into twelve equal segments, and in each segment there was one calligraphically ornamented sign, more a figure than a letter. At once I thought of the signs of the Zodiac and decided to return the paper back to the pile, when something lying buried at the back of my mind announced its presence like a tinkling bell,

  I kept the paper in my hand to stimulate my memory—which in the next moment flashed with the lightning of recollection. For this I probably owed thanks to the fact that this business was taking place in the morning, when I am at my freshest. A man of my years cannot expect to maintain equal clarity of mind at all times of day and certainly not in the evening when exhaustion from the day's efforts gets the better of him.

  These were not astrological signs but arcane magical inscriptions, the symbols of the Cabal, the marks of Devil-worshippers. I knew that Holmes had for a time been interested in the ceremonies of these perverted and mostly gruesome cults, from their invocations of evil spirits to their Black Sabbath celebrations. He had even attended some of them, not allowing me to escort him at such times. I had had the impression, though, that he still rejected, even despised, all that tomfoolery and mumbo-jumbo, but judging by these symbols, my impression had perhaps been mistaken.

  I took another sheet of paper, now quite ready for any surprise. On it was written a vertical column of numbers composed of four figures each. Each number ended in zero, so that it seemed in fact that they each had three figures followed by a miniature circle. These circlets were what united them into a chain, a whole. This misled me for a while, so that it was only a few moments later that I realized that the numbers were years ranging from A.D. 1120 to our own, current year, which was also a "round" year, divisible by ten.

  Next to each of the years was a written explanation, abbreviated more often than not, so that I established only a few dates with certainty. The first year in the column was the one in which the Crusaders founded the famous Order of the Knights of the Temple in Jerusalem—The Templars. Next to the year 1430 were the words "Est. Ord. Rosicrucians," the year 1570 saw the founding of the obscure Brotherhood of the Rose, while in 1720 the first lodges of the Freemasons came into being. (I wonder why it had got Holmes's hackles up so when I had innocently mentioned them in our conversation yesterday?) My extremely modest knowledge of secret societies, brotherhoods, orders, and the like prevented me from determining the significance of the remaining

  "round" years on the list (some thirty in all). Guessing quite freely, I assumed that the marking "Par" next to 1420 may have referred to my colleague Paracelsus, the grand master of alchemy, but I was not sure, not being able to remember in which century he had lived. (The freshness of the morning was apparently slipping swiftly away....)

  "C. of S. G." next to 1690 could have been Count of Saint Germaine, I surmised, feeling proud of my insight, although, in truth, I knew almost nothing about him except that he was some sort of adventurer and eccentric around whom a host of legends had been woven, including one that he had lived for centuries, so that even this conclusion remained unsure.

  When my gaze drifted to the bottom of the vertical column, I felt a constriction in my throat. Next to our current year there were the initials "S. H." encircled in thick red ink; then, in brackets, the letter "M," followed by something that was crossed out, so that it was now utterly illegible, and a question mark. Filled with a dark foreboding, I turned to Holmes, intending to ask for an explanation, but he preempted me. It appeared that he had just then become aware that I was holding one of the papers from the table. As if scalded by boiling water, he sprang up from the couch on which he had been tirelessly leafing through the books just brought to him and swooped on me.

  He roughly snatched the paper from my hand. "Don't touch that!"

  The haggard appearance of his face made him look even more terrible than he normally did when anger took him like this, so that I flinched and shrank back, raising my hands a little to show that I had no wish to touch anything more on the table. I think that was the first time I had ever been genuinely afraid of Holmes.

  He must have realized that he had frightened me, for a moment later he approached, put his hand on my shoulder, and spoke in a voice that was very mild, almost pleading. "Forgive me, Watson. I am terribly tired. I am not fully in control of myself. I need help. That letter...."

  He seized his head and seemed to sway a little. I took him by the hand and helped him to the couch. I collected the books, which were still scattered over it, and the fallen-out pages too, and while I was stacking them on top of the carved chest of drawers, he stretched out on the couch without taking off his dressing gown or slippers. He stared dully at the ceiling with the look of a desperate man, his chest rising and falling quickly.

  I had to help him. Mere advice to rest and relax would not be sufficient in this state. He had already gone beyond that boundary of exhaustion when he would be able to simply fall asleep. He needed to be induced to sleep, and I knew full well how I could do that most effectively, although everything in me cried out against a new injection of morphine.

  Holmes was already on the edge of addiction. Nobody except me, of course, knew about this problem of his; if it ever became public knowledge (God forbid), I, as an accomplice who facilitated his vice, would lose my license to practice and would be struck from the registry of the Royal Medical Society, while his reputation as the most famous English amateur detective would be in shreds. I could be accused of vanity, but I think the possibility of the latter consequence weighed more heavily on me. After all, a small portion of Holmes's glory belonged to me.

  Hadn't Sir Arthur suggested that he saw me as Holmes's right hand?

  Medical reasoning finally prevailed, and I injected him with a mild dose of the narcotic. On this occasion I did not have to wrestle with my conscience; this was a matter of helping a patient to overcome a state of severe exhaustion and not of satisfying the deadly demand of an addict.

  The morphine acted with celerity. As soon as I removed the needle from his vein, the spasm of desperation passed from his face and was replaced by an expression first of relaxation, then of bliss. I knew those phases well, and every time I observed them, I had the impression that I myself was also beginning to feel better. A few moments later, he closed his eyes.

  There was nothing further for me to do. Holmes would sleep for several hours now, perhaps until evening. I took the slippers off his feet and covered him with a blanket, which I had taken from the largest drawer of the chest. In the meantime, he had turned on his side and drawn his knees up to his chin, assuming the fetal position. He looked somehow fragile, childlike, not at all like a grown person. I would not have been surprised had he put his thumb in his mouth.

  Before leaving, I looked around the drawing room, guided by some dark sense of foreboding; though it appeared that all had been taken care of, an inner voice was telling me that nothing had been settled, that everything was in disorder, just
like this room in which I was leaving Holmes. In what condition would I find him when next I saw him? And would morphine then be sufficient to soothe him?

  I shook my head to rid myself of these disturbing and gloomy thoughts and opened the door to leave the drawing room. I was startled to encounter Mrs.

  Simpson; in fact I almost ran into her. She had obviously been standing there for some time, eavesdropping. Probably she had been attracted by Holmes's brief shout; most likely she had been disturbed earlier by his noisy night's work.

  She murmured something to the effect that she wished to inquire when to serve breakfast to Mr. Holmes. I told her that Mr. Holmes was asleep and that he would not wake up until late afternoon, when he would be fairly hungry, so that she should prepare a large meal for then. Her curiosity unsatiated, the old woman tried to continue the conversation, hoping to draw from me something more about this unusual disturbance of the daily routine, but I suggested that I had urgent obligations to attend to, said goodbye, and left hurriedly.

  1O. GAMBLER AND RAKE

  WE HAVE A slight overcrowding problem.

  With two new arrivals, there are seven of us in the temple, and this is beginning to make accommodation somewhat difficult. Five people at most can live here in any comfort. Acting the host for once, Sri unhesitatingly took his ham-mock out to sleep under the roof of the porch, ostensibly to make as much room as possible for the guests, but I know well he was putting himself first. With the hot season now upon us, it's actually more pleasant out of doors at night than inside, where the stale, muggy air is inclined to linger. And in fact, Buddha soon chose to join him.

  It's no wonder. Both of them are people of this climate, they know how to deal with it, and they know they can rely on my efficient protection from insects, whereas the rest of the company has been gathered from entirely other parts of the world with very different climates, so they spend most of their time huffing and puffing, unable to adjust.

  Understandably, the old Sicilian puts up with this close weather best of all because of his Mediterranean origin. He is now quite used to wearing a light T-shirt and bermudas, does not overdo the cold drinks, and is in any case one of those people who don't perspire much. Since the appearance of the second guest, he's actually given me the least trouble. He suddenly lost all interest in his dogged drawing of circles in the sand and even saw to it personally that all the dirt he had brought into the temple was thrown out. Maybe this was more my job as hostess, and Sri did pass a couple of remarks on the subject, but the old gent certainly acted gallantly and considerately.

  The most difficult housekeeping chores for me are created by that obstinate Fleming. Granted, he's finally taken off the heavy garb in which he arrived—the smell of it all was simply dreadful—but he still dresses very inappropriately. Of all the items from Sri's wardrobe offered to him, he chose a thick, lined tracksuit, perhaps because of the polo-neck, which was the only thing that reminded him a little of his collar; in consequence, he's at a constant low simmer, poor thing. I'd be quite happy to wash his clothes every evening, but he's kept his bad habit of not undressing before he goes to bed—still on the floor in the corner: having gotten used to it, I suppose—so that several days go by before I manage to persuade him to exchange his set of clothes for an identical one. It takes four washes to get all the encrusted dirt and perspiration out of them. By the way, I added several pockets to both tracksuit tops so that he could transfer all his stuff from his waistcoat, items that he obviously sets great store by, among them the tiny bottle with the sharp-smelling fluid, which he constantly sniffs. However, I think that he's still deeply unhappy because of the simplicity of his new clothes, so plain and modest in comparison with his own frilly outfit.

  The one object he would have died rather than part with was the wig. Since he's been here, it's gotten all mangy and tatty, losing all its curl, but he obstinately insists on wearing it, paying no attention to the occasional ironic glances of the other guests. The man has obviously grown so attached to it that parting with it would be like amputation.

  The taller of our two new guests also has trouble with his dress. No, he didn't arrive disguised in some antediluvian costume like our man from Flanders, not at all. If not quite up-to-date, his sort of suit can still be seen among older folk, especially those born in the last century. It's of classic cut, double-breasted, with a discreet stripe. In the twentieth century, it used to be the dress uniform of the middle classes.

  However, middle-class fashions are not the most appropriate for life in the jungle. Stuffy, with stiff collars and all buttoned up, they demand air-conditioning units, but we never had any because Sri didn't like them, though it would have been nice for me. But who asks me anything....

  When I looked through Sri's wardrobe for a suitable replacement for that old-fashioned three-piece suit, an unexpected difficulty came up. The new guest is taller by a head than Sri, so that everything's too short. The trouser legs of the tracksuit reach only to the middle of his calves, and the T-shirts stop somewhere above his navel.

  Sri's clothes make him look really funny, but he doesn't seem to mind in the least. I think that my special liking for him began to develop the moment I understood his goodhearted but superior attitude. Or perhaps I like him simply because of the weakness all women have for tall, distinguished men.

  He's about Sri's age, very slim, even lean, his bearing dignified and reserved.

  We conversed mostly in German, which he speaks well, though something in his accent tells me it isn't his mother tongue. I was too embarrassed to inquire any further, so that his origin remains unknown. As if it mattered.

  Of all the inhabitants of the temple, only he has no reservations or prejudices where I'm concerned. Though computers probably did not yet exist in the part of the twentieth century from which he comes, he accepts my existence as something quite natural. What's more, I am, for him, a genuine character, a person worthy of due respect and consideration—in a word, a lady. Once he even brought me a bunch of flowers of many colors, after a walk in the vicinity of the temple, and left it in a small pot of water near the keyboard. Sri would never have thought of that....

  And, of course, as might have been expected, I fell in love. Oh, I didn't realize this straight away, and even when it became obvious, for a while I didn't want to admit it to myself. One day I was deliberately rude to him for no reason, like a capricious teenager, which probably puzzled him, but he behaved like a gentleman. He withdrew without asking superfluous questions or behaving like Sri, who would have responded to my attitude by sulking all the more.

  I had only a brief attack of conscience on Sri's account, before realizing with some relief that I have nothing to blame myself for: it's all his own fault. If he hadn't neglected me so much, been so rude to me, reduced me to mere cook and washerwoman, if he hadn't blackmailed me with the baby, if he had known how to treat me as might be expected from the man who made me.... But he doesn't. Sri just doesn't know how to deal with women, and that's the crux of the matter.

  They say a woman in love easily overlooks the vices of her heart's choice. I very soon experienced the truth of this myself when it turned out that my favorite guest has a hidden passion: he is a gambler. In another situation, I might have been horrified by the knowledge, but now it struck me as romantic. It brought back to me all those love stories in which handsome poker players clean up not just the chips but also unsophisticated female hearts. That's the reading on which I was raised, and there's no getting away from it. Oh, Dostoyevsky did cross my mind, but in his books everything ends so tragically, and what I yearned for most of all at that moment was a happy ending....

  The man I've chosen is no poker player; he plays roulette. He's brought with him, from his own time, a miniature version of the game made from finely polished mahogany, a green baize table cover with decorative stitching round the edges and large ivory balls, all obviously handmade. He did not at first reveal any of this but kept his set in a capacious leather bag wi
th corners of hammered brass, which he stowed under his bed so as not to attract attention. I thought it was for keeping his private affairs in.

  Only after a few days in the temple did he get it out. At first, this looked like a shrewd gambling tactic: he cased the joint, sized up his possible rivals, adjusted himself to the circumstances, and only then decided to make his move. I didn't connect his delay to another event that occurred just before the first session of roulette.

  The Flemish chap's obsession with the screen, where a procession of numbers marched in slow file after the figure three and a decimal point, building up to the endless number , came to a sudden end after a full seven days. The automatic counter, which I had turned on, now indicated that this happened after the 3,418,801st decimal, though I couldn't make out why the interruption occurred just there. In any case, his guttural exclamation brought everybody crowding round the monitor for a short while; they looked at it carefully, then some of them patted the Fleming on the shoulder. He was bathed in perspiration, but I wasn't sure whether it was due to his polo-neck, which he kept turned up in the middle of a hot day, or over-excitement.

  The matter didn't end there. Sri unhesitatingly took the diskette with a very compact recording of the computed decimals of and walked over to our satellite transceiver through which we maintained our connection with the world. I noticed that something unusual was going on as soon as he switched on the transmit mode and chose an elevation and an azimuth on which, quite certainly, there was no satellite. This could mean only that the message was for outer space.