The Fourth Circle

by Zoran Zivkovic

  Of Holmes there was no trace, of Moriarty even less. The only person in the drawing room, except for myself, was the constable. He had seized the brocade cover from the couch and was now using it to swipe at the fire, which was still flickering in the center of the room, in an attempt to extinguish it.

  It was only then, watching his panting attempts to put it out and not knowing what to do to assist him, that I became aware that the chaos around me was not, after all, complete. In the very center of the general disorder, as at the eye of a powerful tornado, all was perfectly calm.

  The fire, which had consumed a number of Holmes's papers and pages torn from books, had formed a perfect circle on the floor of the drawing room—a circle that could not possibly have been created by pure accident in all this chaos. The constable's blows with the heavy dark red cloth were slowly but surely putting it out, but on the carpet remained a singed, sooty trace that, miraculously, retained its perfectly round shape. In the middle of this flaming circle lay a single sheet of paper, one which could not be harmed by ordinary fire. The unique creation of the maestro Murratori of Bologna, with the dark initial of Holmes's demonic rival who had been summoned to this place by some secret knowledge from the other side of nothingness, a knowledge on which my medical learning was wisely silent. Summoned—but to what purpose? And where was Moriarty now? Above all, though: where was Holmes? What had been the cause and what the consequence of their fierce duel? To begin with, why had it been necessary to accept this ultimate challenge, to venture on a search that extended to the other side of the rational? The questions began to pile up, but I suspected that I would never obtain answers to them. Who was I, after all, that ultimate mysteries should be revealed to me? A humble London doctor who had neglected his medical practice, private life, and everything else to become the shadow of his remarkable friend, hoping in his vanity to receive a share of his friend's glory.

  Now, with Holmes's disappearance, that vainglorious hope vanished at once, making me even more insubstantial than the shadow I used to be. What course of action was left open to me? The faint hope that Holmes would return? It really was not much—in fact, it was infinitely little, but I could find no firmer base to stand on.

  And so I helped the constable put the fire quite out, and when Mrs. Simpson timidly appeared, out of breath and carrying a pail of water, I had to invest great effort in subduing her compulsive tendency to put all things in order. Everything in the drawing room had to remain as it was, without alteration, particularly this burnt circle on the carpet, in the middle of the room. I had a presentiment, for which I had no rational explanation, that that circle was especially important for Holmes's return.

  All I could do now was to wait. It might turn out to be a long wait, but I felt certain I would not be bored. Mrs. Simpson would be with me, and the Medical Encyclopedia was an inexhaustible source of topics with which to while away the time pleasantly.

  188

  The Fourth Circle

  EPILOGUE

  WHO ARE YOU?

  I am Rama.

  Are you a spirit?

  No.

  Then how is it that I do not see you or hear you, and yet I speak with you?

  I am in your head.

  Why would you be in my head?

  To help you, among other things.

  Do I need help?

  Yes. You are as helpless as a newborn babe.

  But I am an old man....

  You were.

  And what am I now?

  Something new....

  What?

  Be patient. You will find out when the time comes.

  Am I...dead?

  Dead? You're not dead. There's no dying, in The Circle.

  In what Circle?

  In the final one.

  I do not understand you.

  I'm telling you to be patient.

  I want to, but I am afraid. It is so dark and quiet here, like the grave.

  Or the womb.

  Why did you say that?

  Because it's closer to the truth.

  Are you, then...my...mother?

  No; you will be my father.

  Father? How?

  Miraculously. You will give birth to me.

  How could I give birth to you? From your head.

  You will come out of my head?

  Yes. Don't be afraid, it won't hurt.

  But I...cannot....

  You'll be able to, quite easily, when the moment comes.

  What happens after? I mean, I will not...be able to live...alone.

  You won't be alone. The others will be with you.

  Which others?

  Well, the Master, Sri...Everybody. They'll take care of you.

  Oh. Where are they now?

  They're watching us and waiting.

  Waiting for what?

  For you and me to fulfill the purpose.

  What purpose?

  The purpose of the Circle.

  You mean...that I give birth to you?

  Yes.

  And you? What happens to you after that?

  I'll not be here any more.

  Where will you be?

  That I can't explain to you. But I'll be safe.

  Will I see you after you...are born?

  No. I will come into the world in another place, very far from here.

  I would like to know what you will look like.

  What would you like me to look like?

  I do not know...Like Marya...perhaps.

  All right, I'll look like Marya.

  What should I do, in order that you...come out of my head...be born?

  Oh, that's not difficult at all. This darkness is bothering you, isn't it?

  Yes...It frightens me.

  Summon light, then.

  How?

  It's simple. Say it.

  You mean...like....

  Yes.

  But I am not...I cannot....

  You can. Believe me. Please. I believe you, but....

  Say it, Father. Now is the moment.

  Let there be light!

  CIRCLE THE FOURTH

  1. VISITOR

  THE BRASS KNOCKER on the front door sounded thunderously, like the first crash of a summer storm. Mrs. Simpson and I had just sunk into the kind of silence that ensues when all possible topics for conversation have been exhausted.

  We sat in silence, each preoccupied with his or her own thoughts, surrounded by the semidarkness of the early evening. Preferring darkness, the old woman had no intention of lighting the lamps; I did nothing to encourage her to, since the gathering gloom was quite congenial to my somber state of mind.

  It was the fourth day after Holmes's enigmatic and violent disappearance. As soon as I had dispatched my medical obligations—which I endeavored to do as quickly as possible—I hurried to 2.21-A Baker Street, led by a still living, but increasingly idle hope that some miracle might transpire, that I would once again set eyes on the dearest friend I had ever had—that unique man whose vain and irrepressible thirst for forbidden lore had brought upon him a fate far beyond my ability to comprehend (and his also, I suspect).

  Mrs. Simpson, whose previous attitude toward me had been rather reserved, if not cold—obviously for some reason disapproving of my close association with Holmes—now went to the other extreme. She welcomed me not merely eagerly, but with unconcealed joy, undoubtedly finding in my presence a consolation such as relatives can sometimes give to mourners.

  This insight at first angered me because Holmes, as far as we knew, was not dead, though, on the other hand, one could hardly have claimed that he was alive, at least in the usual sense of the word. But my anger soon dissipated when I realized that our feelings were identical and that I also found her company pleasing: in Mrs. Simpson I saw the only living link to my missing friend, a link that began to mean more to me than all the familiar objects in this house, much as these reminded me of him.

  And yet, although we shared the same pain, it was our tacit agreemen
t never to mention Holmes, not even by allusion. It was as if we both feared not only that we would, by mentioning him, commit some kind of desecration, but also that we might awaken the mysterious forces that had once worked in this place to claim their evil due.

  For the same reason, we made no mention of the odd scene in the drawing room above us. On my advice, Mrs. Simpson left everything as we had found it in the room from which Holmes had vanished, although this went deeply against her almost perverse tendency to put the house in order. She did not even demand an explanation as to why the drawing room should be left untouched. She simply accepted my suggestion with relief and gratitude, being loath in any case to meddle in things that she did not comprehend and that frightened her.

  I locked the drawing room and took the key with me, which suited her well, because she could now pretend that the room did not exist. Thus was her stay in the house made easier, particularly at night when she remained alone, but of these periods I knew very little because she, respecting our taboo on any conversation about the extraordinary event and anything associated with it, never mentioned them.

  Only once—on the second day, I think—I noticed, by her visible agitation when I arrived, that she had experienced some strange unpleasantness, but although I gave her an opportunity to tell me more about it, she hesitated and considered and finally avoided saying anything. I did not press her much on the subject, so that the matter remained unexplained; even more so because the old woman soon, in my presence, pulled herself together. Why did I not do so, despite the curiosity that was gnawing at me? Because I was unready to face what she might have said? Because of cowardice? Perhaps. I do not know.

  We did not report Holmes's disappearance to the police. What could we have told them anyway? That behind all this was that madman Moriarty who, purely as a matter of interest, happens to have been dead for several weeks? That the greatest detective genius London had ever known had simply vanished into thin air from a closed room? Of course they would never have believed us, even though, for them, an aura of other-worldliness had always existed around Holmes. This would have been too much, even where Holmes was concerned, so that questioning would have inevitably followed, becoming increasingly awkward for us as we became more entangled in unsuccessful attempts to offer at least a minimally reasonable and acceptable explanation of something that we ourselves did not understand.

  As for the constable who had assisted us in putting out the fire, there were no great difficulties there, either. He readily accepted my explanation that the cause of the fracas was my clumsiness and lack of skill in handling Holmes's laboratory equipment, which had almost caused an explosion and a much larger fire. He rebuked me mildly, saying that I might be scientifically trained, but that I shouldn't interfere in things that were beyond my skill; and when I discreetly let him know that I would appreciate his keeping the whole affair a secret, especially from Holmes, he nodded understandingly and even offered to help me to tidy up the drawing room. I somehow diverted him from that and thanked him profusely, assuring him that I could deal best with the matter myself.

  When I met him the following day on the street, while I was on my way to the house, he asked me quietly, almost conspiratorially, whether Mr. Holmes had noticed anything and when I gave him a negative answer, he gave a brief sigh of relief. Clearly in the meantime he had begun to regret that he had agreed to hush the matter up, fearing that if the damage were extensive, he might have to share responsibility with me. The trouble with London constables is that occasionally they find themselves in a dilemma between excessive zeal and certain gentlemanly considerations—especially if they happen to have a treacherous lump on their forehead, a lump similar to one that adorns that of the first on the list of suspects....

  Mrs. Simpson had prepared lunch for me, glad that she finally had someone who adhered to house rules and ate at the proper time. Holmes almost never did that; he ate only when hunger began to gnaw at him in a really serious way, which could happen at any time of day—or, not infrequently, of night. This ir-regular behavior created a great many problems for his housekeeper, and she complained increasingly about the matter, but Holmes acted as though he didn't notice.

  My problem with Mrs. Simpson's cooking consisted only in the ampleness of the meals she prepared for me. Although, unlike Holmes, I am one of those people who enjoy their food—which could be plainly seen from my wais-tline—the luncheons that awaited me in the home of my vanished friend were well in excess of my usual measure.

  I refrained from telling my new hostess this, however, since it was bound to hurt her feelings; it was clear, from the way she regarded me while I ate, that she was enjoying herself almost as much I was (or at least, as she presumed I was): finally she could prepare meals for someone who appreciated her culinary abilities and did not just mechanically ingest food as if it were some unpleasant, though ineluctable, chore.

  The immediate consequence of the overabundant meals I was receiving from Mrs. Simpson was an inevitable drowsiness after lunch, which she was not slow to take advantage of. She would begin long monologues, which consisted mostly of the histories of the illnesses of her various relatives and friends; what was expected from me was not so much to give medical advice as to pronounce my general agreement with her views regarding the diagnosis and the treatment.

  Although my attention would begin to flag because of the rush of blood to my overloaded stomach, I recall extensive monologues concerning the discomfort of internal hemorrhoids, the woes of people who had suffered from ulcers for many years, the pitfalls awaiting women of advanced years in first child-birth—"Especially in Wales, where the air is so full of coal dust..."—and inflam-mation of the sinuses in children, which could be best cured by inhaling the vapor from tea brewed from Scottish highland elder; then there were the horrendous and often lethal diseases brought by the colored people "who are pouring into England like rats from the overseas colonies...."

  Once or twice I dozed off, but Mrs. Simpson ignored this, never halting the flow. This was not primarily out of considerateness. The torrent of words pouring from her compensated for the lack of opportunity for female conversation, which she obviously missed greatly, so that my attention, in fact, was not essential. My mere presence sufficed, even if I was asleep; the main listener was herself. That could be discerned by the specific sort of dialogue that she, not rarely, had with herself, asking questions and then answering them.

  It was only when I would, thoughtlessly, begin to snore, that she would give a discreet cough, but she would then continue her story immediately, saving me the embarrassment of apologizing for this awkward lapse. The flood of words would begin to abate only at teatime; by then, my stomach would have won the battle with the over-copious food, and my concentration would have fully returned, accompanied by a certain alertness characteristic of the period following an afternoon nap.

  Our communication could have become a real dialogue, and yet it did not. Put simply, it became clear that we had no interests in common. The most obvious potential topic was Holmes and what had befallen him, but since we avoided that area, little else remained. Mrs. Simpson would have liked to begin again with the medical anamneses, but she lacked fresh material, having used so much in the earlier monologue. (Though by the next day she would have armed herself with a plentiful supply of new cases.)

  On these occasions, I would try to interest her in unusual cases from forensics, or tell her some anecdotes from my younger days on the cricket field, but the former was too distasteful for her, even disgusting (for which I do not blame her), while the latter left her totally indifferent (which peeved me considerably).

  And so, after we had taken tea, we would sink into silence. My thoughts would return to Holmes, and hers too, I assume—since the hour of my leaving was slowly approaching, and with it, her utter solitude. At first I had toyed with the idea of suggesting to Mrs. Simpson that I move into the house for a while, but I realized that my doing so would have evoked the suspicions o
f the neighbors who were accustomed to Holmes's sudden absences but to whom my unexpected residency in Holmes's house would give rise to much unpleasant conjecture and gossip.

  On the fourth day after Holmes's disappearance, we were once again sitting at the dining-room table, in the silence that settled on us after the tea had been drunk. The muffled noises of passing hansoms and the infrequent voices of passers-by reached us from the street. Children could be heard as they ran squealing towards the nearby park. The thin cries of evening birds came from the bare tops of the horse-chestnut trees. All of a sudden I remembered, who knows why, the strange paper of Signore Murratori, with which this whole sad story had begun. The paper still lay in the locked drawing room, in the center of the enigmatic circle perfectly drawn by fire on the carpet. If I were to go upstairs, perhaps, and take it....

  But I was not destined to do this. The hammering of the door-knocker sounded so sharply and unexpectedly that both Mrs. Simpson and I started from our seats. She quickly put a hand to her mouth to choke back an involuntary scream. We remained motionless for a few moments, looking wordlessly at each other, with expressions more eloquent than any words spoken at that moment could have been, while the thunderous sound of the brass knocker echoed through the dark house, seeming to come from all directions at once. Somebody was clearly in a great hurry to be admitted. Could it be, perhaps...This belated thought, which glimmered simultaneously in Mrs. Simpson's eyes, sent a cold shiver through me, but also jerked me from my immobility, and I strode quickly, almost at a run, to the front door, in the process clumsily knocking over the dining-room chair on which I had been sitting.