On the Hill of Roses

by Stefan Grabinski

  That this was just an impression, I did not doubt at all. The piece of fish that I had in my mouth, as far as its taste was concerned, did not differentiate itself in any way from what I had eaten previously with the greatest relish.

  Perhaps auto-suggestion was at play. But at the time I was not thinking about poison. Therefore, the only other possibility left was that Richard had influenced this thought within me. Here I was reminded of my instinctual feeling when his eyes were upon me. Perhaps at that moment he had been thinking about poison? Who knows, perhaps there was a connection between that and the lampreys? Perhaps he had been a witness to something similar in his life which had made a deep impression on him?

  Wearied, I raised my perplexed head and met the velvet black eyes of the boy.

  He looked very much like his mother, whom I knew only from the portrait that was hanging in the salon. Particularly fascinating must have been the effect of her large dark eyes, full of inexpressible sweetness and deep soulfulness. Apparently, before she became married, she awoke admiration everywhere in the country, as well as jealously; she was the object of desire of many men and the cause of several tempestuous scandals. It was even said that the mysterious woman whose charms were so splendidly stated in Stanislaw Prandota’s sonnets was none other than Roza of the Wrockis. Adam had those same passionate burning eyes and the same white like

  alabaster complexion, which increased the effect of the eyes considerably.

  For his age, he was a boy unusually mature, sensitive and high-strung. At times he liked to ask strange questions and talk about sad things that were at odds with the typical carefree nature of a boy his age. At the moment he had an expression on his face as if he wanted to confide something important to me. I encouraged him, drawing him gently to me.

  He sat on my knee and with a secretive look took out from his side pocket a small, glittering object. Wishing, it seems, to rouse my curiosity, he kept it in his closed hand and glanced at me in a questioning manner.

  ‘Well, show me! What do you have there?’

  He held back:

  ‘I will show you what I have if you will promise me that you will not tell my father.’

  I assured him solemnly. Then he opened up his hand, and I saw a small, golden medallion. I lifted the enamel lid and saw a finely rendered miniature of Lady Roza.

  ‘You received this from your mother?’

  The boy shook his head no.

  ‘So, from whom?’

  ‘Try to guess.’

  I can t.

  ‘From Stas.’

  I pressed the spring; the miniature went back. Beneath it, on a gold background, was engraved: ‘To Roza’s son - Stas.’

  I was seized by a strange feeling. Adam’s secret jolted me, eliciting flashes of unexpected thoughts.

  Prandota had loved Norski’s wife. Perhaps Adam was...

  I stopped the course of my crazy thoughts and turned to the boy:

  ‘When did Stas give you this?’

  ‘The day before he left. He kissed me on the forehead and told me to wear this always around my neck. He was sad, very sad. He was going to leave the next day. I wasn’t able to say goodbye to him.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘The following day, before he came to say goodbye to us, the governor took me with him to the country for the whole day. When we returned, Stas was already gone. Poor Stas...’

  ‘Why do you say that? Surely you will see him one day.’

  I pretended that I knew' nothing about Prandota’s death, knowing with certainty that neither his father, nor any of the domestics, had mentioned it to the boy. But the child shook his head:

  ‘Stas will never come back.’

  ‘Who told you this?’

  ‘And my mother will never come back.’

  This particular accounting made me convinced that by a strange instinct which certain sensitive children possess, Adam had guessed the death of a person beloved to him. So I kept quiet. But apparently he had one more thing for me to see, for taking my hand, he pulled me to the garden.

  ‘I want to show you something else.’

  He led me to the distant comer, which I rarely looked into because of Richard, who avoided that area.

  It was exactly in this direction that the boy took me, impatiently tugging me by the hand. We crossed the thuja hedges and stood before the arbour.

  I thought that the secretive boy would have me go inside, but I was mistaken. Not letting go of my hand even for a moment, he pulled me beyond the arbour.

  What I saw at that moment became etched in my mind forever.

  In a narrow' recess between the back wall of the arbour and the garden wall I saw a grave freshly dug by an inept hand, with a small cross made from twigs sticking up in the middle.

  Stunned, I glanced with sorrow at Adam, a silent question in my eyes.

  ‘Did I dig it well?’

  ‘So this is your work? When did you do this? And why?’

  ‘Yesterday and the day before yesterday, when my father left the house. I had already brought the earth here by a wheel-barrow. This is for Stas. My mother already has a grave in the cemetery.’

  An ominous chill coursed through me from head to foot.

  'Why did you put this exactly here?’

  ‘My father told me to.’

  ‘Your father?!’

  ‘Yes, at night, in my dream, many days ago. I had a dream that he came to me at night, took me by the hand and led me here. Then he sat down on a bench, gave me a shovel and had me dig a grave for Stas. I was crying, I tried to get away, but my father shouted at me, and I had to listen. He sat here on the bench the entire time and looked at what I was doing while I dug the earth. When I finished, I woke up. It was morning, I was in bed. Since then I have had to come here, I don’t know why. I just had to finish what my father ordered me to do in my dream.’

  ‘Does your father know about this? Have you shown him this grave?'

  ‘No. I’m too scared.’

  At that moment we heard a light rustling behind us. I turned involuntarily and gave out a cry.

  Behind us, leaning heavily against the comer of the cooler, stood Norski, white as a sheet and with a wild smile on his face. He had seen and heard everything.

  We looked at each other strangely, in silence. Then he turned around and tottered back to the villa. For a long time I stood in place without a word, hanging tightly onto Adam’s hand. Finally, the dominating torpid cry of a seagull woke me up. I roused myself, and looking stupefied at the boy glancing at me, I said:

  ‘Let’s go!’

  We returned to the house.

  That evening there was no communal supper. Adam went to bed earlier than usual. Richard withdrew to the right wing of the house. I remained alone in the bedroom allotted to me.

  The shocks of the last few days, and in particular the shock I received a couple of hours ago, made sleep impossible. Turning out the lamp, I sat in a corner of the dark room, smoking a cigarette.

  Greenish streams of moonlight filtered in through the open window, reaching out to me with their elongated fingers. From the garden flowed in the scents of flowers, waves of fragrances subtle yet intoxicating. Every once in a while, the salty sigh of the sea was heard. Illusive fireflies flickered among the bushes, evening nightingales voiced their melancholy...

  A crazy, horrible idea entered my mind: to creep up to that place behind the arbour, remove the earth that had been ineptly dug by Adam and go deeper, into the gloomy region of the dead. I shuddered and in disgust discarded the thought...

  A tall shadow flitted by in the moonlight and disappeared among the trees. I leaned out of the window: I saw no one. Silence was all about, broken now and then by a stronger splash of water against the rocks by the sea.

  I finished my cigarette and flicked the butt onto the footpath outside. At that moment a shot rang out. I jumped over the window' sill and dashed instinctively toward the arbour.

  It was brightly lit up by moon’s
rays and awash in glimmering silver. I advanced toward the rear.

  By the wall, atop the grave of Stanislaw Prandota, lay Norski with a bullet hole in his temple.

  Projections

  May 1880. My name is Tadeusz Sniezko. I am an architect by profession. I am forty-two years of age and a bachelor. I have never attempted a literary career, and if today I put pen to paper to write down my experiences, then it’s certainly not for literary reasons. I myself do not know what motivates me to write this diary, which most probably will never be published, as it is my intention to destroy it before I die. Perhaps I am writing this to enlighten myself about what I have been living through for some time or to explain it at a later date. I have the impression that what is happening now is occurring so rapidly, so inexplicably, that recording it in a diary will one day help me to arrive at some understanding. Perhaps even in this manner I will offset my current idleness, as I have stopped working for a couple of months. Exhausted by recent architectural projects, I came to this locale precisely for rest and relaxation.

  For the first few weeks of my stay in this town I amused myself rather well, having found pleasant company well suited to me. Only recently has everything changed. Social diversions have become distasteful to me, and I am now avoiding people. It appears that this sudden change in mood came about ten days ago, after my return from my first trip to the ruins of an old Trappistine nun monastery.

  I remember well that evening, warm from the heat of a sunny day. Under the dome of a sky spread out as if with a turquoise canopy, the contours of the medieval edifice were outlined in shadowy mystery; the weathered turrets of the monastery blazed in a scarlet sunset...

  On my way back, I went along the length of the monastery wall, which was notched and cracked in a thousand slits and gouges. Fungal lichens carpeted flaked-off plaster; bricks exposed their red wounds. From a gable above, covered here and there with a severely rotted roof, hung long festoons of wild grape vines and a flowing blue cascade of morning glories. In one place the wall had collapsed into a deep niche, enclosing within its protective embrace the statuette of some female saint. I was unable to distinguish the facial features of this saint, for the eroded stone had fallen apart into pieces, leaving the head disfigured. Only a trailing monastery robe, tied in the middle by a rope, testified that this saint had been an inhabitant of the monastery during her lifetime.

  Elsewhere, at the turn, a shrine peered out, surrounded by hawthorns, blackthorns and wild roses. Some pious hand had poured oil into the ampoules and lit them; they flickered with a sad funereal gloom inside the small dark-cherry glass lanterns. Evidently this place was frequently visited for around the neck of the Saviour, his head tided in pain to his chest, a fresh wreath of roses and jasmine shook in the evening breeze. The blood-red glitter of the lanterns slithered quietly about votive hearts, withered flowers, black rosaries, prayer beads, and licked the yellowed, tortured feet of the Christ...

  I returned sad and pensive. At night I dreamt of the ruins, and the forlorn hollow emptiness and quiet monastic sadness I had found. I awoke in the morning weary, with a heavy head and a throbbing headache, remembering the smell of old, dried herbs and the weeping of dying candles.

  In the afternoon I visited the monastery again and returned to town in the evening with a feeling of mild sadness and melancholy.

  Thus, slowly, I became familiar with the ruins, experiencing in that environment strange impressions hitherto unknown to me, impressions full of hidden charm and mystery. It pleased me to wander for hours along lengthy, cool corridors, where my footsteps awoke echoes that had fallen into oblivion long ago, and to plunge into winding tower galleries and, in the evening, walk through deserted refectories. It felt good spending sunny afternoons within quiet monastery walls, opening empty and cold cells, entering half-buried chapels overgrown with weeds. Some dark force drew me to these ruins, and I visited them daily, always with the same interest and with the same feeling of fascination and vague fear.

  And the old monastery had its secrets, hidden deeply before the eyes of the curious, in thickets and underground passages, which, spanning an intersecting network of dungeons and cellars, extended far, far away throughout its foundations. Each day brought a new surprise, each trip a new discovery.

  I did not need a guide or a burgrave. Well acquainted with medieval architecture, I quickly orientated myself, figuring out, frequently by instinct, the complexities of the place. I also became acquainted with the history of the monastery, finding in an antiquary a slim book from the 18th century.

  The monastery had been destroyed during the wars of the 17th century by artillery fire, though apparently it had already been unoccupied half a century earlier for an unknown reason. This vague point in its history was darkened even more by the story told to me by my neighbour, a sacristan, who claimed that a curse from one of the popes had fallen upon the monastery. The reason for this anathema he did not want to, or could not, say. In any case, the monastery had been empty fifty years before the aforementioned bombardment, forever deserted by its nuns.

  Rumors also circulated that during the evenings and at night-time white figures in nuns’ robes floated about the cells and corridors, and that funereal songs and the sound of organs could be heard. In the spring, particularly in May, echoes of hellish laughter and the drawn-out, piercing giggling of women could apparently be made out coming from the ruins.

  Of course, the gossip of this good old soul had no effect on the ardour with which I visited the monastery. I considered the entire history a romantic flavouring, a type of ornamentation that merely united the picture of the ruins into a single, stylistic whole. Every ruin has its secrets, in each must languish damned souls.

  One evening I returned from my walk later than usual. All afternoon I had climbing several times up a tower staircase that was corroded here and there and in danger of collapsing at every step. This is why I felt somewhat weary.

  Putting on the light, I sat in pensive silence at my desk and hid my face in my palms. When, after some time, I removed my hands and glanced out the window, it was already night outside. I lowered the blind, and sitting back down in my previous place, I began to casually wander my eyes about the room. Suddenly, on the opposite wall, I perceived the distinct shadow of a key. I went over to this shadow, certain that I was under the influence of an illusion, to discover, nevertheless, that my eyes were not deceiving me. On the wall was the precise contour of a key. It was a sizeable key, with two large segments in the shape of a Greek sigma and a wide, palm-size handle.

  ‘Hmm,’ I thought in wonder, ‘how did this get here? What’s creating this shadow?’

  I looked around attentively. But nothing in the room explained the projection. The objects of the room stood where they always had; besides, none of them could have thrown off the image of the key. The electric light at the ceiling was shinning in such a position that none of the objects in the room could have been in front of this light source.

  ‘Interesting,’ I muttered, examining keenly my surroundings. ‘Perhaps a key is hanging from the ceiling?,

  Not believing my own eyes, which showed that my sup-position was obviously incorrect, I placed a chair on the desk, and getting on this artificial scaffolding, I began to pass my hand about the area under the ceiling - no trace of a key; my fingers met empty air.

  ‘To hell with this!’ I muttered, getting down. ‘A playful appearance! The shadow of an invisible object! Just as if in a fairytale!’

  I did not lose my presence of mind, though I must admit that I felt somewhat uneasy. I turned my back to the wall and plunged into reading Flaubert. But the knowledge that a mysterious object wras revealing its dark contours behind my back gave me no rest, and after a few minutes, I glanced again in that direction. The key had not disappeared! On the contrary: the shadowy drawing seemed to have filled out and strengthened in intensity. To hide this mysterious image, I moved over to the wall a silk screen that had been standing near the stove; the sha
dow of the screen absorbed the shadow of the key within its rectangular frame, concealing it from me.

  Calmed down, I returned to my reading, which lasted until midnight; after which, turning off the light, I fell into a nervous, restless sleep. I dreamt of the monastery ruins. They were bathed in a fantastical Bengal light and full of apparitions wandering through the passageways...

  June 2. After staying away for a week, I am going back to the monastery. I was ill and that is why I neglected this diary. Besides, nothing of importance has happened during this time. The shadow of the key appeared for a few days in succession, and so far I haven’t been able to find out its source. Moreover, another picture has appeared on the wall this evening, one equally puzzling and deprived of a physical basis for its projection. It is a subtle, exceedingly weak picture of some four-sided object a few inches away from the key. This shadow, or rather half-shadow, gives the impression of an indecisive sketch: something is looming within those few lines - but what it is I cannot yet state - everything is too unclear and as if blurred. Perhaps the future will tell.

  June 3. It seems to me that I’ve found the physical equivalent of the key. Wandering this afternoon along one of the galleries of the monastery, I jostled against some iron object, which clattered under my foot. I bent down and picked up a large rusty key that was exactly similar to the one which had been appearing for a week on the wall of my room. I put it away in my pocket and have it now before me on the table. But a strange thing! That same evening, after turning on the light, I did not see the shadow of the key - it disappeared permanently from the wall. Most unfortunate! I wanted to compare it to the key I had found in the ruins. I am certain that the shape and size compliment one another precisely. I am even - a peculiar thing - deeply convinced that this shadow is of the same key! I am not able to explain this rather strange certainty to myself, but, nonetheless, I would swear to it.

  What puzzles me is that the shadow disappeared once the key was actually found. This shadow seemed to really be a projection - only in a different sense. Nevertheless, I do not understand the aim here, I do not know why everything is happening and toward where all this is heading; it could be an indicator, it could be an omen - I am lost in suppositions...