Someone walked by, almost brushed Egert’s shoulder and stopped, looking back; no longer having the strength to be afraid, Egert turned his head.
The Wanderer stood on the footpath directly in front of him. Egert saw his face down to the tiniest detail: the vertical wrinkles that cut his cheeks in two; his prominent, too clear eyes, cold and inquisitive; his leathery eyelids, devoid of lashes; his narrow mouth with the corners drawn down. Standing thus for a fraction of a second, the Wanderer slowly turned and walked away.
Egert gasped for air. He wanted to scream, but he had no voice. Darting forward, he rushed in pursuit but, as in a dream, his wobbly legs buckled and would not move. The Wanderer walked away without hurrying, but somehow very quickly. Egert stumbled after him, and then a viselike grip seized him by the collar.
Egert tried to wriggle free. The Wanderer was getting farther away, but the hand that was restraining Egert would not come loose. He heard laughter next to his ear.
Only then did Egert turn round. Three men had beset him, but he did not immediately recognize the man who was grasping his collar.
“Hello, Egert!” he exclaimed merrily. “And just where do you think you’re going?”
The voice was Karver’s. His fresh uniform sparkled with cords and buttons, and it seemed like the braid of his lieutenancy occupied half his chest. His companions were also guards: one was Bonifor, but the other was unknown to Egert, a young man with a tiny mustache.
Egert gazed after the Wanderer. He turned around a corner. “Let go,” he said quickly. “I need to…”
“You need to? A little or a lot?” Karver asked sympathetically.
“Let me go!” Egert tried to jerk away, but feebly, because Karver, sneering, had raised his heavy, gloved fist to Egert’s face.
“There’s no need to rush off. We’ve been looking for you for a long time in this festering hellhole of a city. We’re not going to let you go just when we’ve found you.”
All three were regarding Egert with overt curiosity, as if he were a monkey at a village fair. Bonifor drawled wonderingly, “Look at you.… You look just like a student! You don’t even have a sword!”
“Oh, Egert, where is your blade?” inquired Karver with deliberate sorrow.
Bonifor drew his sword from its sheath. Egert grew faint. His fear crippled him; it paralyzed him down to his last nerve. Bonifor grinned and ran his finger along the edge of his sword, and then Karver clapped Egert on the shoulder.
“Don’t be afraid. As you, my little friend, were deprived of both military rank and nobility, deprived publicly before the regiment no less, no one will use his sword against you. We might slap you in the face, or even beat you: that’s still allowed. It’s unpleasant, of course, but generally very educational, don’t you think?”
“What do you want?” asked Egert, scarcely able to move his parched tongue.
Karver smiled. “I wish you well. You are, after all, my friend. So much has passed between us.” He smirked, and Egert was more afraid of that smirk than of the naked sword.
Karver continued leisurely, “We’re going home. You have here the Day of Jubilation, but you will have no occasion to rejoice.… You are a deserter, Egert Soll: you shamefully ran away from your duty; you brought disgrace to the uniform. We’ve been ordered to find you, catch you, and present you before the regiment, and then who knows what will happen.”
He released Egert’s collar, and his two assistants firmly gripped Egert by his elbows, though in truth there was no need for this because fear had bound Egert more tightly than steel chains.
The Wanderer had long ago disappeared. He had dissolved into the busy streets, and with every second, the likelihood of meeting him again diminished, dissolved like sugar candy in water.
“Listen, Karver,” said Egert, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “Let’s come to an agreement, huh? You tell me where I need to go later, and I will go there, upon my honor.… But right now I really need to…” Egert was disgusted at how plaintive and beseeching these words sounded.
Karver bloomed like a bouquet under the window of a man’s intended. “Well, if you really need to … Perhaps we’ll let you go, eh?”
The young man with the tiny mustache gaped; Bonifor had to wink at him twice before he understood that Karver’s words were no more than a lark.
“I need to find someone,” Egert repeated fecklessly.
“Beg,” Karver suggested gravely. “Beg well. Get on your knees. Do you know how?”
Egert looked at Karver’s boots. They retained traces of recent polishing and less recent grime from puddles; several pieces of rotten straw were stuck to the sole of the right boot.
“What are you thinking about?” wondered Karver. “A rendezvous is serious business. Is she beautiful, Egert? Or simply a slut?”
“What did I do to you?” Egert had to wrench the words out.
The evening street came alive, filling up with laughing, dancing, kissing groups of revelers.
Karver brought his face close to Egert’s eyes. He delighted in the tears that were welling up out of them and shook his head. “You are a coward, Egert. You are such a coward.…” Then he added, smiling sweetly, “Gentlemen, you don’t need to hold him. He won’t run away.”
Bonifor and the other guard reluctantly released Egert’s elbows.
Karver’s smile widened. “Don’t cry. You get on your knees and we’ll let you go to your tryst, that’s all. Well?”
Half an old rusty horseshoe lay on the pavement near their feet. Perhaps this is the final degradation, thought Egert. It couldn’t really get worse, could it?
“He won’t do it,” said the young guard. “The pavement is filthy; it’ll soil his trousers.”
“He’ll do it.” Bonifor guffawed. “And he’s already soiled his trousers: he’s no stranger to that.”
This is the last time, Egert told himself. The very last time … The Wanderer could not have managed to go far.… One last indignity …
“Well?” Karver sounded impatient. “You want to wait longer?”
The doors of a nearby tavern burst open, and a dashing, drunken, irrepressible group poured out onto the street like champagne from an uncorked bottle. Someone seized Egert by the ears, intending to kiss him passionately. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that a young girl was hanging on to both Karver and Bonifor at the same time, and then a frantic circle dance erupted, wrenching Egert aside, sweeping him away. The disappointed face of the young guard flashed by him in the crowd, but Egert was already running, as if on air, weaving in and out of drunken revelers with impossible agility, obsessed by a single thought, The Wanderer! Maybe he is still here.…
It was late in the night when Egert returned to the annex. Fox became fearful when he saw his friend’s face, disfigured by despair. The encounter had not happened, and Egert now had only one day left: the Day of Jubilation.
The scaffold in front of the courthouse was ready at the very last minute. The carpenters were finishing the final touches, and the block had been lovingly sheathed in black cloth, which was draped with countless garlands of fresh flowers. It was a holiday, after all; when the cloth was swept back, the wooden block was revealed to be varnished and painted to look like a drum.
Egert had roamed the streets since early morning, and the unrelenting, strained searching of faces had caused his senses to dull, so he did not immediately recognize where the festive crowd was bringing him. Not wanting to go into the square, he managed to swerve down a side street, where he was once again swept up in a human flood, excited, smelling of sweat, wine, and leather, a flood that was straining to reach the courthouse, the scaffold.
He had never swum against a strong current in a tumultuous river, or else he would certainly have recognized the terror and hopelessness of a swimmer being mercilessly carried toward a waterfall. The crowd carried him away like a flood carries away trees, and the movement only slackened when the people, anticipating a spectacle, streamed out into the wide sq
uare with the monstrous structure in its center. People glanced at Egert enviously: such a beanpole would not need to stand on tiptoes!
He looked around helplessly: heads, heads, heads, an entire sea of advancing heads; they reminded him of chickens, stuffed into a coop. All faces were turned toward the scaffold; all conversations revolved around the forthcoming execution: the gossip was that the convicts numbered just two, both forest highwaymen and both guilty in equal measure, but one, as tradition demanded, would be pardoned. Fate would decide which man would be that fortunate soul; fate would decide: it would decide right now in view of all, ah, look, look, they’re already coming!
Drums started pounding. A procession headed by the city magistrate climbed up to the platform. Not yet old, but thin and sickly, he was obviously being slowly eviscerated by some illness, and his lackluster eyes were almost lost amidst the folds of numerous wrinkles, but his gait and bearing remained majestic and full of pride.
The magistrate was accompanied by a scribe and the executioner, who looked like twins, only the scribe was wearing a plain, colorless robe, while the executioner delighted the eye with his cape, as crimson as a summer sunset. The former was armed with a scroll covered in seals, and the latter held an ax in his lowered hand; he held it humbly, innocently, and rustically, just as peasants who have gathered together in the morning to chop firewood hold their tools.
Surrounded by guards, the convicts ascended the scaffold, and there really were just two. Egert looked at them, and could barely keep to his feet. The uncanny ability, which had appeared twice before this, returned to him suddenly and mercilessly.
The convicted men were holding on with their last strength: in the soul of each hope fought with despair; each wished life for himself and death for the other. The crowd was a congealed mass of indecipherable feelings, among which were rapture and pity, but curiosity predominated, the avid curiosity of a child who wishes to see what is inside a bug.
Egert tried to elbow his way out of the crowd, but his efforts were similar to those of a fly trapped in honey. The sentence echoed across the square.
“On behalf of the city … For revolting … impudent … robberies … assaults … murders … retribution and punishment … through decapitation and commitment to oblivion…”
These highwaymen were just like those scoundrels who had stopped the coach in the forest. Rapists and murderers, insisted Egert to himself, but he felt even worse.
Unwillingly, he again glanced at the scaffold: the magistrate held two wooden balls, exactly the same size, in his hands. The white ball signified life, while the black ball would bring certain death by decapitation to one of the two. The scribe spread open an ordinary linen pouch, the balls were tossed into it one after the other, and the scribe carefully shook this instrument of the lottery for a long moment. Inside the linen sack, death knocked against life with dull, wooden rattles. The hopes of both convicts reached their peak, their horror of death achieved maximum intensity, and the crowd hushed, tormented by curiosity; at a sign from the magistrate, both the condemned men simultaneously thrust their hands into the pouch.
A silent battle ensued. The faces of the contestants were sweating, and their hands compulsively ferreted about in the linen darkness, each trying to possess the ball that was already gripped by his rival. The strain of their hope and despair snatched a groan from Egert; those standing next to him in the crowd began looking askance at him.
Finally, both the condemned selected their fate and, breathing heavily, exchanged long glances.
“Withdraw!” ordered the magistrate. The crowd froze in anticipation.
They delayed for a second longer then simultaneously jerked their hands from the pouch. Each eyed the ball that was gripped in the hand of the other.
The public in the square exploded into a roar: in front of the numerous spectators, the possessor of the white ball collapsed onto his knees, stretching his hand toward the sky and soundlessly opening and closing his wide, round mouth; the man who squeezed the black ball stood motionless and, as if he could not believe his eyes, shifted his gaze from the empty pouch to his own doom, clutched in his fist.
The magistrate gave a sign: the one who was dazed with happiness was led away from the scaffold, while at the same time his comrade’s hands were jerked behind his back. The black ball crashed to the boards, and a piercing scream rattled around Egert’s head: No!
The unfortunate wretch had not made a sound, but his entire essence shrieked shrilly at the mistake, the injustice, the dreadful misunderstanding: How! Why? Why him of all people! Is this really conceivable; is this really possible?
The soundless scream that arose from the block forced Egert to double over in pain. The crowd oppressed him with two incongruous emotions, powerful as organ chords: passionate joy for the pardoned and intemperate desire to witness the execution of the other, the one who was now doomed.
Cast upon the block, the entire man exuded supplication, terror, and despair. Egert pressed his hands to his ears and squeezed his eyes shut, but the keen No! penetrated his awareness without the assistance of sight or hearing. The ax soared up into the sky—Egert felt goose bumps thrilling over the skin of hundreds of onlookers at that moment—and on a high, sobbing note the soundless plea broke off; it broke off in a convulsion and died, but was immediately followed by a whirling, troubled wave of loathsome excitement, of satisfaction at the rare spectacle, of pleasure at thrilled nerves.…
Egert howled.
Unable to restrain the horror and pain, he screamed, tearing at his throat. People in the crowd cringed away from him, but no longer seeing or hearing anything, he raved and yowled as he rushed through the gelatinous human wall, until the moment finally came when his consciousness mercifully left him in peace.
* * *
The rumble of the crowd outside hardly reached into the room filled with incense. Two men sat at a table made of polished wood, listening to a distant drum roar.
“We cannot wait anymore,” said an old man with a mane of silver hair.
“I will obtain it sooner or later.”
“Later does not suit us!” burst out the old man. “Later will not satisfy Lash! We will do it the way I wanted in the first place. And Lash will help us.”
Fagirra lowered his head. His hood covered half his face, and the Magister did not notice the contempt in his cold squinted eyes.
* * *
Toria could feel herself fretting over the appearance of the Wanderer in the city.
“Does Soll have a chance?” she inquired breezily that first day, following Egert with her eyes as he set out into the city to search.
The dean, to whom this question was addressed, merely shrugged his shoulders.
Pre-holiday concerns distracted her attention, but on the next day she was still interested. “He hasn’t found him yet?”
The dean shook his head. “Who knows? The Wanderer could be a needle in a haystack, or he could be a burning coal in a pocket. Who knows?”
On the morning of the third day Toria did not ask about the search, but the dean morosely said to her in a low voice, “I doubt there is a way out for him. The Wanderer is not one to reconsider a judgment. You might not believe me, but I feel pity for Soll, simple, human pity.”
Toria raised her eyebrows but did not reply.
Least of all did she desire to witness the execution that was in preparation in the square. Even though she fastened her window tightly, she could still hear both the roar of the agitated crowd and the booming of the drums, as if through cotton padding. She greatly desired to know where Egert Soll was at this moment and tried hard to suppress the urge to visit the annex.
Several minutes passed. Toria, tormented by a presentiment, paced around her room; then, biting her lip, she flung the windows open.
The square was covered with people, like a living, moving carpet, and Toria no longer doubted that Soll had disappeared somewhere in that swarm. Cringing, she looked at the scaffold at the very moment
when the glinting blade crashed down.
The crowd gasped with one voice, and then drew breath in its vast chest, about to break out into a cheer, but the crowd was anticipated by a single, solitary human voice, a heartrending voice full of pain. This voice was distorted beyond recognition, but Toria recognized it. She recognized it and flinched.
How long has this been going on?
I have no control over it.
* * *
The steps of the spiral staircase were already streaking past her eyes. Not knowing why, she ran to the exit, and the weary words repeated over and over again in her ears: I have no control over it … no control … no control …
Fireworks shot up over the square. The official celebration of the Day of Jubilation had begun.
Daylight was fading, but the streets were lit as if it were day. Torches burned in every hand, and clusters of lanterns and lamps transformed the city into one large, rejoicing tavern. Fireworks raged over the square, and under their short bursts traveling jugglers and acrobats performed tirelessly: the largest and most prosperous troop had laid claim to the empty scaffold, and their competitors could only sigh enviously as the fool’s cap that continuously circled the crowd grew ever plumper and clanked more resonantly with each pass.
Barrels of wine stood at each crossroads, and drunken dogs, who lapped at the rose-colored streams that trickled along the pavement, crept, lurching, into courtyard entrances. Dissonant, shrill, yet lively music flooded over the city: people in the crowd played on whatever came to hand; herds of reed pipes, wine bottles, wooden rasps, and children’s rattles squawked and clamored shrilly, and the haunting sound of a stray violin from time to time rose up over this tuneless noise. Strings of people, joined by the hands, skipping and laughing, weaved in chains from alley to alley, and there were times when the heads of these impossibly long human chains swerved into a street from which the tail was just disappearing.
Toria understood the folly of her plan right away: to search for a single man in this dancing city, however distinctive he might be, was a pointless exercise worthy of an imbecile. Soll had either been trampled right there in the square or he had long been drinking and dancing together with the rest. But if something bad had really happened to him and he needed help, why did she not immediately turn to her father? What was the good of flinging herself headlong into this drunken, festive cauldron?
The Scar Page 26
