“Please,” the officer says, gesturing to an empty holding cell. He’s so ridiculously polite, I’m left wondering if there’s going to be some kind of follow-up survey. How was your visit to the Berlin International Airport? As though anyone actually ‘visits’ an airport. Were you treated with respect during the cavity search? Was the officer gentle with his fingers?
There’s a toilet in the corner of the cell, but it’s little more than a stainless steel pan without a seat cover. The water is a dark, murky brown, and smells. The cell door is locked behind me without another word. My suitcase is placed on a table outside, over by the main door, easily fifteen feet away, well out of reach—not that there’s anything in there that could help me—just a toothbrush, some aftershave, a comb, and plenty of winter clothing. The officers leave, chatting among themselves in German without offering me any explanation, although I do catch a few English words in their banter—watch list, terror.
“Great,” I mutter. “Come to Europe, she said. It’ll be fun, she said.” Actually, Jane never said anything about fun, just about needing help from an old friend.
I relieve myself, flush, and sit on the wooden bench. Five minutes turns into several hours, and the bench becomes a torture rack. It’s impossible to get comfortable, so I pace the cell, counting out the steps.
“Hello?” I ask. “Is there anybody out there?”
There’s no answer, but the blinking red light on the camera in the far corner of the office assures me I haven’t been forgotten. I’m so tired I’m in danger of becoming delirious. I’ve never been the calmest person. My mind races at the best of times, and I find myself walking a pattern on the tiled floor, slowly building a routine, and amusing myself with the repetition.
The phone in my pocket beeps with an incoming message. My phone! Those idiots! The custom agents messed up. They should have searched me. I could be live-tweeting this, telling the world of my plight. Well, maybe not the world—I have fewer than fifteen followers.
I look at the screen.
Play along—Jane.
I’m about to fire off a reply when I hear a key in a door lock. I slip my phone back into my pocket, flicking the switch on the side into silent mode.
“Dr. Manning,” a German police officer says, walking in with several other customs and police officers.
“Yes,” I reply, walking over to the bars of the cell and resting my hands on the railing.
“You have been detained on suspicion of association with a known terrorist—the American fugitive, Dr. Jane Langford.”
Ah, the elephant in the room.
“Several years ago, you were involved in an incident in Romania—in the Carpathian mountains.”
“In Transylvania,” I reply. “It’s okay. You can call it that.”
“You were accompanying your friend, Dr. Alan Langford?”
“Yes. We were searching for Alan’s wife—Jane—but I’ve already been through this with the police. I provided a statement to Interpol at the time.”
There are four police officers. One of them is taking notes. The other two are rifling through my suitcase, but I keep my focus on the officer talking to me. I need to appear calm and relaxed. I’ve got nothing to hide.
“Forensics showed your friend was trapped—boarded up inside a house that was deliberately set on fire. Villagers reported seeing several people nailing planks of wood over the doors and windows. Does it trouble you that your friend was deliberately trapped in a burning building? That he was murdered?”
“It wasn’t Jane,” I say with far more confidence than I ought.
“He died a horrible, painful death—like a warlock being burned alive at the stake.”
I hang my head, resting against the bars and looking down at my sneakers.
“Jane was there,” the officer says.
I nod.
“Now you’re here to meet with her.”
“No,” I say, aware I’m perspiring. The phone in my pocket vibrates, indicating another incoming message. Brilliant. How the hell am I going to explain multiple text messages arriving from Jane? Panic sets in. I’m trapped, but I focus on keeping my outward appearance calm. If they search my pockets though, life is going to get awkward real quick. I don’t want to blow my opportunity to catch up with her.
“I—I wasn’t there,” I lie. “I was in the neighboring village of Messind, but it couldn’t have been Jane. She loved Alan.”
“And yet she left him to travel alone through Eastern Europe?”
“It was the old man,” I say, ignoring his point. “That’s what the police report concluded—van Helsing. I’d met his daughter earlier that day. She and I—we were delivering vaccines to Messind. We were due to return that night, but a storm made the roads impassible.”
“I’ve read the report,” the officer says. Everyone’s read about the murder of Dr. Alan Langford, but I have no doubt this guy has access to the official report. American Murdered in Transylvania—That’s headline news anywhere in the world. There are dozens of competing conspiracy theories about what actually happened that night, but none of them come close to the truth. Some of them suggest a love triangle gone wrong. Jane and I were supposedly having an affair for years—if the media are to be believed. Scandals have a way of ruining people’s reputations regardless of the facts. All three of us have had our integrity questioned and condemned in the court of public opinion.
“We know she’s here in Germany,” the officer says. “We know you’re going to meet with her.”
I’m tempted to point out how utterly counterproductive it is for the German police to detain me like this. If they know I’m going to meet her, why tip me off? Why not tail me in secret? It’s then I recognize one of the officers rifling through my suitcase. Michael—one of van Helsing’s sons. He nailed boards over the doors as Alan screamed in agony, begging for mercy. Alan? No, not Alan, but no one here would believe otherwise. He smiles at me. His eyes are dark—menacing. He closes the suitcase, and as if on cue, the officer says, “Make yourself comfortable, Dr. Manning. It is going to be a long night.”
The officers leave as I yell, “What about a lawyer? Don’t I get a lawyer? I want to speak to someone from the U.S. Embassy.”
They were looking for something, but I’m exhausted from jet lag and desperate for sleep. The bright overhead lights offer no respite. The clock on the wall reads 1:20 AM. I take my jacket off and wrap it around my head, using the sleeves as a blindfold, and scrunching up the body to use as a pillow. Lying down, I try to ignore the discomfort, and adjust the jacket sleeves to block out the piercing light. After fitful starts, I finally fall asleep.
An alarm sounds, and I wake with a shock, jumping up, disoriented. I peel back the sleeves of my jacket and see a police officer rattling a wooden baton between the bars of my cell with the rhythm of an alarm clock.
“All right, all right,” I say, squinting and gesturing with my hand for him to stop. My head is pounding. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I have a hangover. Unfortunately, there was no booze on my flight—something about a food services strike in Chicago. Apparently, we were lucky to get any food at all.
“On your feet, doctor. You’re out of here.”
The clock on the wall reads 9:48 AM.
“That’s it?” I ask as the cell door slides open. “I’m free to go, just like that?”
“Yes,” the officer says, pulling my suitcase off the table and dropping it on the floor. He pulls out the handle and rolls it over to me.
“I guess an apology is out of the question,” I say, feeling indignant.
“You can apologize if you like,” the officer replies, laughing. I take the suitcase and he gestures to a side door. The warning is in German and English: Emergency exit only—the door is alarmed. I pause, gesturing to the sign.
“Go,” he says in a thick German accent. “Get.”
I push on the crossbar, wondering if alarms are about to sound. Is this a setup? Am I about to be shot in the back
, killed while trying to escape? The door opens, and the officer laughs again, even more heartily. Funny—really funny.
The sun is blinding. I walk out into an alley bordered by a chain link fence, topped with razor wire. Snow covers the ground, but in places it’s melting with the heat of the day. Jet engines whine on the tarmac. I make my way to a busy road, half expecting to be collared by more overzealous security staff. In front of the terminal, the line for a taxi snakes back and forth, and I join the numb, mindless masses staring at their cell phones as they shuffle slowly to the front. Am I being followed? Surely they’re tailing me. Should I look at my phone? It takes a mere fraction of a second for my caution to evaporate.
See you tonight—Jane.
Tonight?
My German is rusty, but after a thirty minute taxi ride I arrive at my hotel. Yet another line delays my best efforts to find a comfortable mattress and sleep. Finally, a pretty young receptionist swipes my credit card and hands me a key card for room 1402, saying, “We were expecting you last night, Dr. Manning,” which I think is code for, We’re still going to charge you, but I’m beyond caring.
“There was a... delay,” I say, not wanting to enter into a discussion with anyone other than a soft pillow.
“Well, enjoy your stay.”
“I will. Thanks.”
1402 is a classic nondescript hotel room. I could be anywhere on Earth—New York, Melbourne, Singapore, London. The bathroom is located by the door and smells musty. The carpet in the hall is worn. The wallpaper has faded. Two double beds face an aging television set above the minibar. The heavy outer curtains are open, but a pair of white lace curtains obscures the view. I don’t care. The door slams behind me. I leave my suitcase in the narrow hallway, kick off my shoes, collapse on the bed, and bury my head in a pillow.
Chapter 3:02 — Opera
The clock reads 4:02PM when I wake. Sleeping through the day isn’t the smartest way to shake jet lag, and I feel like shit. I go to the bathroom to relieve myself. It’s a bit crass, but as I’m alone I leave the sliding door open and sit on the porcelain throne, wondering what the hell I’m doing here. Something slides beneath the main door, skating across the carpet and past the bathroom—someone just slid a brochure into my room. I flush, wash my hands, and examine a ticket for the Berlin Opera.
“Well, this is a pleasant surprise.” Already I’m feeling better. After having a shower, shaving, and changing into my suit, I sit on the edge of the bed, snacking on nuts from the minibar, watching television, and waiting until 8pm for the opera. A glance through the curtain reveals a busy intersection, and the opera house not more than a block away.
I stroll down there half an hour early and grab a drink at the bar in the foyer. Although I’m wearing a suit and tie, I’m grossly underdressed. Formal wear is in order, and women walk by in stunning evening gowns, the men dressed in tuxedos. The bustle of noise is invigorating. Although I don’t know anyone, I thoroughly enjoy sipping on a glass of white wine, and watching as the crowd swells in numbers.
L'assassinio di un uomo innocente—Alessandro Scarlatti.
I purchase a program, and the young man at the stall convinces me to rent a device showing English subtitles. It looks like an old Kindle with a scratched screen. Rather than being backlit like my phone, it’s a black-on-grey LCD device that can be read in low light. The foyer of the opera hall is stunning, divided into three vast sections. Plush red carpet lines the floor. The ceiling reaches up over thirty feet in height, with ornate cornices. Stately paintings adorn the walls, honoring various patrons of the arts, each rendered in the style of Rembrandt, with deep black backgrounds and heavy shadows.
My ticket is for row 3, seat 28. Historic buildings like this were decimated during the Second World War, but the inside of the theater looks as though it was built in the 1700s, and it’s not difficult to imagine immaculately dressed Nazi generals courting elegant young women in the opera boxes raised high on the sides of the theater.
Lush burgundy curtains hang down from an ornate golden cornice wrapping around the stage. The orchestra pit is surprisingly narrow, containing only the strings and the woodwind sections. The brass and percussion have been relegated to the sides of the stage to keep the audience close.
As I make my way down my row, a musclebound thug in a tuxedo gets to his feet, signaling for me to stop where I am, but I don’t need to pass him as my seat is beside his.
“I’m just here,” I say, pointing at the empty seat. He eyes me with suspicion. I hold out my ticket as though he’s an usher. He glances at it, but I doubt he looks long enough to make sense of it as there are a bewildering array of details, barcodes, and numbers, along with the date—all printed in the tiniest possible font. He grumbles in a language I don’t recognize, but I sit next to him anyway. The seat on the other side of him is empty. maybe he thought I was making for that.
An elderly man and a beautiful young woman, easily thirty years his junior, sit in the center of the row, with another thug just beyond them. I get the impression they’re important. Or at least, they think they’re important, and they want everyone else to think so too. Ego. Between the Neanderthal sitting next to me and the chumps that grabbed me at the airport, Germany is failing to make a positive impression. Beautiful architecture. Astonishing ambiance. Mindless muscle.
The lights dim, the audience settles, and the curtains rise, revealing a scene from ancient Rome. Ruins litter the stage. Fallen columns, crumbling walls, anemic trees. Roman soldiers mill around in small bands, warming themselves beside campfires that look surprisingly real. A stone altar dominates the rear of the stage, towering above the wooden floor. Although I know it must be made of something lightweight, the effect is convincing. Roman soldiers stand to either side of the altar with pikes reaching up fifteen feet, each with a flag at the tip of a polished spearhead. Somewhere off stage, a wind machine blows. Their flags flutter in an artificial breeze.
The orchestra plays a solemn piece. Low strings slowly build, swelling with passion as the tempo rises. A kettle drum rolls like thunder, and it’s then I see her—Jane. She’s dressed in a long, flowing toga.
“Nel buio della notte, viene a me—”
Her voice is beautiful, angelic. The notes she’s singing are captivating, while the English translation supplies, “In the dark of night, he comes to me—”
“Il mio amore brucia come un fuoco, infuria nel mio cuore—”
“My love for him burns like a fire, raging within my heart.”
A deep baritone voice replies from the altar, resonating through the air, crying, “Ma non è necessario,” but I’m so engrossed, I don’t notice the subtitles, and miss the meaning entirely. Jane is stunning. Her face is pale, washed out. It’s as though she hasn’t seen the sun in months. Her hair has been bleached blonde, and pulled back so that not a strand is out of place. Her complexion is flawless, more like that of a porcelain doll than a woman. Blood red lipstick appears to mark her out as a vampire, and I find myself swept up in the moment and drawn to her. This is not a criminal psychiatrist from Boise, Idaho.
“Ma ho bisogno di, devo,” she sings, calling out in response to the man on the altar, responding to him like a lost lover.
“Ma non è necessario,” he repeats, and I need no translation to understand what’s going on. The beauty and simplicity of the words, the ebb of the music, the tone of each voice, and the passion in their bodies tells me all I need to know: Life, love, tragedy.
Jane faces the audience, walking out on the apron of the stage. She’s not more than ten feet from me. Blinding lights catch the subtle expressions on her face, and the sweet tenderness of her lips as she sings, “Devo uccidere per vivere, di distruggere per salvare, omicidio per salvare un'anima perduta.”
A storm is coming. Cymbals crash, and drums rumble while bows slash at the strings of violins, violas, and cellos. Her voice rises to a crescendo. Her arms stretch out toward the balcony hidden in the shadows.
There’s mo
vement behind her. The stage lights fade, plunging the auditorium into darkness but for a single spotlight on her face. Dozens of people sway in the background, choreographed in their motion, weaving like demons in the dark. The clash of swords breaks the moment. Strobe lights burst like lightning, capturing the chaos in a series of staggered, stuttering freeze frames. Spears thrust into the spotlight. Jane drops to her knees as two pikes collide where moments before her head had held me spellbound.
A fight erupts behind her, but this is no drunken brawl. Each swing, every blow—the thrust and parry of dozens of swords—has been carefully coordinated. The stage lighting rises in blood red. Still the baritone sings. Lightning seems to strike the altar, and Jane turns. The mysterious lover bellows over the combatants, “Oh morte, dov'è la tua vittoria. Oh tomba, dov'è la tua vittoria?” I recognize these words without the need for any translation—death, victory, tomb.
Suddenly, Jane races to the rear of the stage, wrestling one of the pikes from a soldier and holding it high in triumph. I’m not sure what’s happening, other than that the fighting has stopped and the stage has fallen still, but I can’t bring myself to look at the subtitles on the device resting in my lap. I need to see what happens next. Dozens of soldiers fall to their knees as though they’re worshiping her while the music fades, becoming barely audible.
“Che il mio colpo sia reale, il mio obiettivo è vero.”
I catch the tail end of the translation. “Let my aim be true.” With that, Jane rushes forward, running toward the front of the stage, holding the pike back as though it were a javelin. I’m not sure anyone knows what to expect. I’m waiting for some dramatic conclusion to the opening scene when Jane launches herself off the stage, leaping and flying through the air, soaring above the audience. She thrusts the pike down, sending it hurtling into the third row not more than five feet from me, and I watch in horror as it impales the old man flanked by his bodyguards.
The spearhead passes clean through the man, punching through the leather seat and out the other side. The man’s body convulses, arching back as blood sprays across the row of seats in front of me. His hands grab at the wooden shaft of the spear in a futile effort to dislodge the pike rising out of his ribcage. The volume of blood gushing out of him is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Rich, dark, crimson blood. For a moment, I’m mesmerized by the sight of a life being lost with such devastating, ruthless efficiency. The allure is overwhelming. Hypnotic.
Van Helsing's Diaries: Nosferatu Page 14
