by Joe Bandel
He wasn’t stingy with his promises, painted in glowing colors all the tempting splendors that awaited her, was always finding new and more alluring reasons that she should go.
Finally he stopped, asked his question, “Now child, what do you say to that? Wouldn’t you like to live like that?”
She sat on the table with her slender legs dangling.
“Oh yes,” she nodded. “Very much so–only–only–”
“Only?”–he asked quickly. “If you wish something else–say it! I will fulfill it for you.”
She laughed at him, “Well then, fulfill this for me! I would very much like to travel–only not with you!”
The Privy Councilor took a step back, almost fell, grabbed onto the back of a chair. He searched for words and found none.
She spoke, “With you it would be boring for me–you are tiresome to me–I want to go without you!”
He laughed, attempting to persuade himself that she was joking.
“But I am the one that must be leaving right away,” he said. “I must leave–tonight yet!”
“Then leave,” she said quietly. “I’m staying.”
He began all over again, imploring and lamenting. He told her that he needed her, like the air that he breathed. She should have compassion on him–soon he would be eighty and wouldn’t be a burden to her very much longer.
Then he threatened her again, screamed that he would disinherit her, throw her out into the street without a penny.
“Just try it,” she threw back at him.
He spoke yet again, painting the wonderful splendors that he wanted to give her. She should be free, like no other girl, to do and have as she desired. There was no wish, no thought that he couldn’t turn into reality for her. She only had to come with–not leave him alone.
She shook her head. “I like it here. I haven’t done anything–I’m staying.”
She spoke quietly and calmly, never interrupted him, let him talk and make promises, start all over again. But she shook her head whenever he asked the question.
Finally she sprang down from the table and went with soft steps toward the door, passing him.
“It is late,” she said. “I am tired. I’m going to bed–good night daddy, happy travels.”
He stepped into her way, made one last attempt, sobbed out that he was her father, that children had a duty to their parents, spoke like a pastor.
She laughed at that, “So I can go to heaven!”
She stood near the sofa, set down astride the arm.
“How do you like my leg?” she cried suddenly and stretched her slender leg out toward him, moving it back and forth in the air.
He stared at her leg, forgot what he wanted, thought no more about flight or danger, saw nothing else, felt nothing–other than her slender strawberry red boy’s leg that swung back and forth before his eyes.
“I am a good child,” she tittered. “A very dear child that makes her stupid daddy very happy–kiss my leg, daddy–caress my beautiful leg daddy!”
He fell heavily onto his knees, grabbed at her red leg, moved his straying fingers over her thigh and her tight calf, pressed his moist lips on the red fabric, licked slowly along it with his trembling tongue.
Then she sprang up, lightly and nimbly, tugged on his ear, and patted him softly on the cheek.
“Now daddy,” her voice tinkled, “have I fulfilled my duty well enough? Good night then! Happy travels–and don’t get caught–it would be very unpleasant in prison. Send me some pretty picture postcards, you hear?”
She was at the door before he could get up, made a bow, short and stiff like a boy and put her right hand to her cap.
He forgot what he wanted, thought no more about flight or danger
“It has been an honor, your Excellency,” she cried. “And don’t make too much noise down here while you are packing–it might disturb my sleep.”
He swayed towards her, saw how quickly she ran up the stairs. He heard the door open upstairs, heard the latch click and the key turn in it twice. He wanted to go after her, laid his hand on the banister. But he felt that she would not open, despite all his pleading. That door would remain closed to him even if he stood there for hours through the entire night until dawn, until–until–until the constable came to take him away.
He stood there unmoving, listening to her light steps above him, back and forth through her room. Then no more. Then it was silent.
He slipped out of the house, went bare headed through the heavy rain across the courtyard, stepped into the library, searched for matches, lit a couple of candles on his desk. Then he let himself fall heavily into his easy chair.
Who is she,” he whispered. “What is she? What a creature!” he muttered.
He unlocked the old mahogany desk, pulled a drawer open, took out the leather bound volume and laid it in front of him.
He stared at the cover, “A.T. B.”, he read, half out loud. “Alraune ten Brinken.”
The game was over, totally over, he sensed that completely. And he had lost – he held no more cards in his hand. It had been his game; he alone had shuffled the cards. He had held all the trumps–and now he had lost anyway.
He smiled grimly, now he had to pay the price.
Pay the price? Oh yes, but in what coin?
He looked at the clock–it was past twelve. The people would come with the warrant around seven o’clock at the latest–he still had over six hours. They would be very considerate, very polite–they would even bring him into custody in his own car. Then–then the battle would begin. That would not be too bad–he would defend himself through several months, dispute every move his opponents made.
But finally–in the main case–he would lose anyway. Manasse had that right. Then it would be–prison–or flee–but alone. Entirely alone? Without her? In that moment he felt how he hated her, but he also knew as well that he could think of nothing else any more, only her. He could run around the world aimlessly, without purpose, not seeing, not hearing anything but her bright twittering voice, her slender swinging red leg.
Oh, he would starve, out there or in prison–either way. Her leg–her sweet slender boy’s leg! Oh how could he live without that red leg?
The game was lost–he must pay the bill, better to pay it quickly, this very night–with the only thing of value he had left–with his life. And since it wasn’t worth anything any more, perhaps he could bring someone else down with him.
That did him good, now he brooded about whom to take down with him. Someone that would give him a little satisfaction to give one final last kick.
He took his last will and testament out of the desk, which named Alraune as his heir, read through it, then carefully tore it into small pieces.
“I must make a new one,” he whispered. “Only for whom?–for whom?”
There was his sister–was her son, Frank Braun, his nephew–
He hesitated, him–him? Wasn’t it him that had brought this poisonous gift into his house, this strange creature that had now ruined him?
He–just like the others! Oh, he should pay, even more than Alraune.
“You will tempt God,” the fellow had said. “You will put a question to him, so audacious that He must answer.”
Oh yes, now he had his answer! But if he inexorably had to go down, the youth should share his fate. He, Frank Braun, who had engendered this thought, given him the idea.
Now he had a bright shiny weapon, her, his little daughter, Alraune ten Brinken. She would bring him as well to the point where he was today. He considered, rocked his head and grinned in satisfaction at this certain final victory.
Then he wrote his will without pausing, in swift, ugly strokes. Alraune remained his heir, her alone. But he secured a legacy for his sister and another for his nephew, whom he appointed as executor and guardian of the girl until she came of age. That way he needed to come here, be near her, breathe the sultry air from her lips, and it would happen, like it had happened with all the others!
Like it had with the Count and with Dr. Mohnen, like it had with Wolf Gontram, like with the chauffeur–and finally, like it had happened with he, himself, as well.
He laughed out loud, made still another entry, that the university would inherit if Alraune died without an heir. That way his nephew would be shut out in any case. Then he signed the document and dated it.
He took the leather bound volume, read further, wrote the early history and conscientiously brought everything up to date. He ended it with a little note to his nephew, dripping with derision.
“Try your luck,” he wrote. “To bad that I won’t be there when your turn comes. I would have been very glad to see it!”
He carefully blotted the wet ink, closed the book and laid it back in the drawer with the other momentos, the necklace of the Princess, the alraune of the Gontrams, the dice cup, the white card with a hole shot through it that he had taken out of the count’s vest pocket. “Mascot” was written on it. Near it lay a four leaf clover–several black drops of clotted blood still clung to it–
He stepped up to the curtain and untied the silk cord. With a long scissors he cut the end off and threw it into the drawer with the others. “Mascot’, he laughed. “Luck for the house!”
He searched around the walls, climbed onto a chair and with great difficulty took down a mighty iron cross from a heavy hook, laid it carefully on the divan.
“Excuse me,” he grinned, “for moving you out of your place–it will only be for a short time–only for a few hours–you will have a worthy replacement!”
He knotted the cord, threw it high over the hook, pulled on it, considered it, that it would hold–and he climbed for a second time onto the chair–
The police found him early the next morning. The chair was pushed over; nevertheless the dead man stood on it with the tip of one toe. It appeared as if he had regretted the deed and at the last moment tried to save himself. His right eye stood wide open, squinting out toward the door and his thick blue tongue protruded out–he looked very ugly.
Intermezzo
Perhaps your quiet days, my blonde little sister, will also drop like silver bells that ring softly with slumbering sins.
Laburnums now throw their poisonous yellow where the pale snow of the acacias once lay. Ardent clematis show their deep blue where the devout clusters of wisteria once peacefully resounded.
Sweet is the gentle game of lustful desire; yet sweeter to me are all the cruel raging passions of the nighttime. Yet sweeter than any of these to me now is sweet sleeping sin on a hot summer afternoon.
–She slumbers lightly, my gentle companion, and I dare not awaken her. She is never more beautiful than when she is sleeping like this. In the mirror my darling sin rests, near enough, resting in her thin silken shift on white linen.
Your hand, little sister, falls over the edge of the bed. Your slender finger that carries my gold band is gently curling. Your transparent rosy nails glow like the first light of morning. Fanny, your black maid, manicured them. It was she that created these little marvels.
And I kiss your marvelous transparent rosy nails in the mirror.
Only in the mirror–in the mirror only. Only with loving glances and the light touch of my lips.
They will grow, if sin awakes, they will grow, become the sharp claws of a tiger, tearing my flesh–
Your head rises out of the pillow, surrounded by golden locks. They fall around it lightly like flickering golden flames that awaken at the first breezes of early morning. Your little teeth smile out from your thin lips, like the milky opals in the glowing bracelet of the moon Goddess.
And I kiss your golden hair, sister, and your gleaming teeth–in the mirror–only in the mirror. With the soft touch of my lips and with loving glances.
For I know that if ardent sin awakes the milky opals become mighty fangs and the golden locks become fiery vipers. Then the claws of the tigress tear at my flesh, the sharp teeth bite dreadful, bloody wounds. Then the flaming vipers hiss around my head, crawl into my ears, spray their venom into my brain, whisper and entice with a fairy tale of savage lust–
Your silken shift has fallen down from your shoulder, your childish breasts smile there, resting, like two white newborn kittens, lifting their sweet rosy noses into the air.
I look up at your gentle eyes, jeweled blue eyes that catch the light, that glow like the sapphire on the forehead of my golden Buddha figurine.
Do you see, sister, how I kiss them–in the mirror? No fairy has a lighter touch.
–For I know well, when she wakes up, my eternal sin, blue lightening will flash out of her eyes. It will strike my poor heart, making my blood boil and seethe, melting in ardent desire the strong chains that restrain me, till all becomes madness and then surges the entire–
Then hunts, free of her chains, the raging beast. She overpowers you, sister, in furious frenzy. Your sweet childish breasts become the giant breasts of a murderous fury–now that sin has awakened–she rends in joy, bites in fury, exults in pain and bathes in pools of blood.
But my glances are still silent, like the tread of nuns at the grave of a saint. Softer yet is the light touch of my lips, like the kiss of the Holy Ghost at communion that turns the bread into the body of our Lord.
She should not awaken, should remain peacefully sleeping–my beautiful sin.
Nothing, my love, is sweeter to me, than pure sin as you lightly sleep.
Chapter Twelve
Gives an account of how Frank Braun stepped into Alraune’s world.
FRANK Braun had come back to his mother’s house, somewhere from one of his aimless journeys, from Cashmir in Asia or from Bolivian Chaco. Or perhaps is was from the West Indies where he had played revolutionary in some mad republic, or from the South Seas, where he had dreamed fairytales with the slender daughters of a dying race. He came back from somewhere.
Slowly he walked through his mother’s house, up the white staircase upon whose walls was pressed frame upon frame, old engravings and modern etchings, through his mother’s wide rooms in which the spring sun fell through yellow curtains. There his ancestors hung, many Brinkens with sharp and clever faces, people that knew where they stood in the world.
There was his great-grandfather and great-grandmother–good portraits from the time of the Emperor, then one of his beautiful grandmother–sixteen years old, in the earlier dress of Queen Victoria. His father and mother hung there and his own portraits as well. There was one of him as a child with a large ball in his hands and long blonde child locks that fell over his shoulders. The other was of him as a youth, in the black velvet dress of a page, reading in a thick, ancient tome.
In the next room were the copies. They came from everywhere, from the Dresden Gallery, the Cassel and Braunshweig galleries, from the Palazzo Pitti, the Prado and from the Reich Museum. There were many Dutch masters, Rembrandt, Frans Hals, Ostade, Murillo, Titian, Velasquez and Veronese. All were a little darkened with age, but they glowed reddish gold in the sunlight that broke through the curtains.
He went further, through the room where the modernists hung. There were several good paintings and some not as good. But not one of them was bad and there were no sweet ones.
All around stood old furniture, most of mahogany–Empire, Directoire or Biedermeir. There were none of oak but several simpler, modern pieces were scattered in between. There was no defined style, simply one after another as the years had brought them. Yet there was a quiet, pervasive harmony that transformed everything that stood there and made it belong.
He climbed up to the floor that his mother had given him. Everything was exactly as he had left it the last time he had departed–two years ago. No paperweight had been moved, no chair was out of place. Yes, his mother always watched to see that the maids were careful and respectful–despite all the cleaning and dusting.
Here, much more than anywhere else in the house, ruled a chaotic throng of innumerable, abstruse things. They were on the floors and on the walls. F
ive continents contributed strange and bizarre things to this room that were unique to them only.
There were large masks, savage wooden devil deities from the Bismarck Archipelago, Chinese and Annamite flags and many weapons from all regions of the world. Then there were hunting trophies, stuffed animals, Jaguar and tiger skins, huge turtle shells, snakes and crocodiles. There were colorful drums from Luzon, long necked stringed instruments from Raj Putana and crude castings from Albania.
On one wall hung a mighty, reddish brown fisherman’s net. It hung down from the ceiling and contained giant star fish, sea urchins, swords from swordfish, silver shimmering tarpon scales, mighty ocean spiders, strange deep-sea fish, mussels and snails.
The furniture was covered with old brocade and over it was thrown delicate silk garments from India, colorful Spanish jackets and mandarin cloaks with large golden dragons.
There were many gods as well, silver and gold Buddhas of all sizes, Indian bas-reliefs of Shiva, Krishna and Genesha along with the absurd, obscene stone idols of the Tchan tribes.
In between, where ever there was a free space on the wall, hung framed glass enclosed images, an impudent Rops, a savage Goya, small drawings by Jean Callots, Crűikshank, Hogarth and assorted colorful cruelties drawn on sheets of paper out of Cambodia and Mysore. Many moderns hung nearby bearing the artist’s name and a dedication.
There was furniture of all styles from all cultures, thickly populated with bronzes, porcelains and unending bric-a-brac.
All these things were Frank Braun. His bullet killed the polar bear on whose white pelt he now stood. He, himself, caught the mighty blue shark whose powerful jaws hung there in the net with its three rows of teeth. He took these poisoned arrows and this spear from the savage Buca tribe. A Manchu priest gave him this foolish idol and this tall silver priest’s clothes hanger.
Single handedly he stole this black thunderstone out of the forest temple of the Houdon–Badagri, drank with his own lips out of this Bombita in a Mate blood-brother ritual with the chief of the Toba Indians on the swampy banks of the Pilcomayo. For this curved sword he gave his best hunting rifle to a Malay sultan in North Borneo and for this other long executioner’s sword he gave his little pocket chess game to the Vice Regent of Shantung.
