Kiss of the Butterfly

by James Lyon

  ‘I see you have enjoyed your time in Belgrade,’ Stojadinovic commented wryly. ‘Our women are beautiful, aren’t they?’

  * * *

  The university dormitory assaulted Steven’s senses. Moldy carpet, dirty diapers, tobacco smoke and damp concrete hung pungent in the air. As he searched for his room he passed entire families crammed into quarters meant for two or three students: parents, babies, grandparents, children, teenagers, the newly dispossessed Serb refugees from Croatia. He ducked under laundry drying on lines stretched across the corridor and passed old people sitting on stools outside their rooms, talking to each other, smoking nervously. Loud turbo-folk music blasted from boom-boxes and radios as children raced up and down the corridors, yelling loudly. Some held sticks for rifles, playing Partizans and Ustase, their version of Cowboys and Indians.

  Passing by one room Steven noticed a muscular shaven-headed youth wearing black jeans, a black t-shirt with gold chains, sunglasses on his bald pate. A black aviator’s jacket hung on the back of the chair and he was drinking a yellowish liquid from a water glass, kept company by a bottle of Johnny Walker scotch and a heroin-thin blonde-from-a-bottle wearing tight jeans, high heels and a lacey tank top that was mostly cleavage. The youth jumped up, raced to the door and grabbed Steven with one muscular tattooed arm.

  ‘You’re new here.’ He didn’t ask: he stated.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. If you need anything, just let me know.’ He spoke almost too fast to follow. ‘Marijuana, heroin, hashish, changing money, cigarettes, girls, petrol, cars...you name it, no problem!’ The blonde smiled at Steven like a cat about to swallow a canary. ‘I’m your man. My name is Neso.’ He extended a hand in greeting, offering Steven a closer look at the tattoo, a picture of a triumphant Serb in national costume standing astride a dead Albanian in whose chest he had planted a Serbian flag. The caption read Kosovo or Death.

  Not knowing what else to do, Steven shook Neso’s hand and muttered ‘thanks.’

  ‘You’re not from here, are you?’ Neso stated.

  ‘No, I’m from America.’

  ‘Really? Is your family from here?’

  ‘No, my entire family is from America.’

  ‘I’m not from here either. I’m a Serb, but I’m from Bosnia,’ Neso said proudly. ‘America is good. Look, Ceca, he’s a real American,’ he said turning to the blonde. ‘Do you have a girlfriend? Even if you do it doesn’t matter: Ceca likes making new friends.’ She smiled suggestively and bent over slightly, displaying her plunging décolleté to good effect.

  ‘Thank you. But no.’ Yet Steven found himself staring at Ceca’s vulgar display of flesh and thinking about Vesna’s kiss.

  ‘You’ll change your mind. You Americans have too many Muslims and blacks,’ Neso proclaimed loudly, ‘they dilute your racial strength. You also have too many Jews and Mexicans. I’ve got a cousin in Chicago and he’s told me everything about America. Do you know him? His name is Radovan Stojilkovic.’

  ‘No, I’m from Utah. It’s a long way away.’

  ‘Oh well, no big deal. I like America. I want to move there someday. Americans and Serbs have always been good friends. Anything you need, just let me know,’ he shook Steven’s hand once more and then let him continue searching for his room.

  Steven’s dilapidated room housed one other person, an agriculture graduate student from China who spoke no English and poor Serbo-Croatian. His name sounded like Geronimo, but Steven wasn’t sure.

  Loud voices and music continued to echo down the corridor. Steven sought respite from the noise in the cafeteria, which was depressingly drab and socialist. Cleanliness was a low priority, as was the quality of the food, which consisted of cabbage and bean pasulj, submerged in grease and cooking oil. The cafeteria stunk of greasy baked fish, so Steven returned to his room.

  The noise from the refugees kept Steven up until after midnight, and then he was awoken twice, by a husband and wife screaming hysterically about who had cheated on whom, and by someone pounding loudly on a door, yelling for Neso.

  * * *

  Early Monday Steven fled the chaos of the dormitory for the stillness of the Matica Srpska library, its founders’ busts lined protectively in front to keep out noise. He perused the archive’s catalogues and took note of collections by famous ethnographers, and then came across the name Stefan Novakovic. It seemed familiar, yet he couldn’t quite place it, so he reviewed his notes. Then he found it: Novakovic was the scholar who had found the original Flückinger documents about the Austrian Army vampire-hunting missions in Serbia. Excited, he immediately ordered the first two cartons of Novakovic’s papers and then went to the reading room to await their delivery.

  After fifteen minutes the cartons arrived, and Steven found Novakovic’s notes. The handwriting was nearly indecipherable and resembled chicken tracks more than any particular alphabet. ‘It’s like cuneiform,’ Steven muttered to himself as he struggled through it. But references to the Austrian Army were nowhere to be found, so he returned the cartons and ordered the next two. And the next two. And the next two. It was late afternoon before he found the documents he wanted.

  Judging from the notes, while working in the Vienna Kriegsarchiv, Novakovic had stumbled upon records from the Kalemegdan fortress. The notes were cryptic, but the more Steven read the more excited he became:

  - 3 March 1731, news to Bgd from Medvedja near Jagodina, vampire reported,

  - 7 March 1731, Flückinger sent to investigate with IV KaiGrKo. Commanded by Captain von Zlatinow,

  - 6 April 1731, Flückinger and von Zlatinow return to Bgd,

  - 15 April 1731, Flückinger, von Zlatinow and IV KaiGrKo depart,

  - 11 June 1731, Flückinger and von Zlatinow return with 3 heavy sealed wagons, refuses inspection of wagons, says burned vampire in Medvedja, ashes thrown in Morava,

  - 18 June 1731, von Zlatinow and IV KaiGrKo. to Peterwardein w/wagons, Kalemegdan commander General Albrecht Graf von und zu Meyerling writes complaint directly to Hofburg,

  - 24 July 1731, IV KaiGrKo. and Flückinger return to Bgd via boat from Peterwardein, Meyerling formal protest to Hofburg, von Zlatinow jails Meyerling 3 days, released after promising to cooperate,

  - 28 July 1731, von Zlatinow requisitions provisions from fortress stores, flour, salt, wine, beer, meat, salt, shot, powder, steel bars, twelve heavy wagons, teams of oxen and horses,

  The other entries were similar: news of a vampire; von Zlatinow and Flückinger and KaiGrKo. depart and return at a later date, often with sealed wagons, and then a letter of complaint from Meyerling. The logbook for the next year showed a similar pattern, and Steven realized Peterwardein was the German variant of Petrovaradin.

  ‘What does IV KaiGrKo. mean?’ Steven asked himself. And then it dawned on him: ‘of course, what an idiot I am,’ he muttered aloud, slapping himself on the forehead, drawing stares from other readers. ‘KaiGrKo…it’s an abbreviation of Kaiserlich Grenadier Kompanie, an Imperial Grenadier Company.’ But what authority did a lowly Captain, a company commander, have to imprison a General with impunity, and a Count at that? At that time the Austrians were busily expanding Kalemegdan with the intent of making it their main border outpost against the Turks, perhaps even larger than Petrovaradin.

  Steven exhausted the Novakovic files shortly before closing time and walked to the high-rise main post office in the center of town to call Vesna, but she wasn’t home, so he left a message with her grandmother. He then walked to the university, where he found Stojadinovic still in his office.

  ‘How was your first day in the Matica Srpska?’ he asked.

  When Steven related his discovery, Stojadinovic’s eyes glowed with excitement. ‘You may be on to something quite noteworthy. How do you wish to follow up on this information?’

  ‘Well, the fourth Imperial Grenadier Company kept going to Petrovaradin, so perhaps I can get the fortress commander’s records from there. But the records for the Kalemegdan were in Vienna, so that means I’ll h
ave to go to Vienna to the Kriegsarchiv.’

  ‘Slow down,’ Stojadinovic smiled gently. ‘The records haven’t gone anywhere. There’s an important difference between Kalemegdan and Petrovaradin: the Austrians took all the Kalemegdan records back to Vienna, whereas Petrovaradin’s records were left behind. So I’m sorry Steven, you’ll have to cancel your plans to eat Wienerschnitzel and Sachertorte.’

  ‘They’re here? Really? Where?’ Steven’s excitement grew.

  Stojadinovic gave him a broad grin. ‘Tomorrow I shall take you to the City Historical Archive in the old barracks on top of the fortress. There you’ll find all the records you wish. If you don’t mind, I would like to look into this with you, as it is very intriguing.’

  ‘It would be an honor.’

  ‘Oh, and tell your friends I have received permission from the new director of the APP to take you through the Great Labyrinth. If they’re interested, perhaps we could visit it a week from this Saturday.’

  ‘That would be wonderful,’ Steven answered. ‘How many people can come?’

  ‘I thought just the four of you. No one has been there since 1983, and it may still be dangerous, so I don’t wish to take too large a group.’

  ‘Great. Now for a stupid question,’ Steven said, ‘How do I get to Sremski Karlovci?’

  ‘By bus, of course,’ Stojadinovic answered. ‘It’s a beautiful town. Is there a particular reason you wish to go there?’

  Steven told him about the book and Niedermeier.

  ‘Ah yes, Danko is a good man,’ Stojadinovic smiled. ‘I have known him for many years and everyone at the university uses him to find old books. When he puts his mind to something, he always succeeds. If he has promised you the book, then you will get it.’

  Steven then walked back to the main post office and called Vesna again.

  ‘I missed you,’ she said.

  * * *

  A warm spring evening was gradually descending over Novi Sad as Steven walked along the tree-lined riverfront towards the Varadin Bridge, the Danube crawling beside him like the body of a dark, undulating serpent without beginning or end. As he started across the bridge he watched the street lights gradually twinkle to life. The scent of pipe tobacco entered his nostrils, the smoke trailing from a lone fisherman in the stern of a slender wooden skiff that drifted on the current under the bridge, until the stench of decaying fish gradually overpowered the receding tobacco.

  Across the river, batteries of floodlights bathed Petrovaradin’s ramparts in their ethereal glow, inoculating the massive fortress against the darkening gloom until it gradually levitated above the river and hovered over the firmament, irradiant, beckoning and untouchable, straining against the invisible chains that bound it to terrestrial captivity. Beneath it Wasserstadt huddled safely behind the fortress’ massive lower walls, its Baroque buildings neglected by time, kibbitz-fensters jutting self-importantly from the upper stories of crumbling facades.

  Steven descended the bridge, veered into Strossmajer Street and began checking the Baroque buildings, their street numbers standing emboldened in relief above the doorways, an echo of not-so-distant Habsburg glory. The air and pavement quivered in the dusk as though the spirits of the fortress were racing forth from the tunnel under the clock tower, down the long stairs to restore the town to glory. He walked up the empty street, past a couple of battered Yugos rising forlorn from the uneven cobblestone, bathed in the light of upper windows.

  In the gloom he found the number he wanted, a two-story row house tucked against the foot of the hill with the massive Ludwig bastion surging out from above like the prow of a Grecian Trireme. Over the entry he could make out the crumbling letters R L, and anno 1745: underneath St. George stood in an alcove, busily slaying a dragon.

  Steven looked at the presents he carried: a bar of chocolate, some flowers and a small package, sensed they were inadequate, but went ahead and pressed the buzzer that read Lazarevic. He waited. And waited. And nothing happened. He pressed the buzzer again, hearing only silence. He stepped back and looked at the darkened house.

  ‘Who are you looking for?’

  Steven jumped, startled by a stooped woman in black who seemed to have sprung from the cobblestones. Her eyes peered sternly from leathery wrinkles, framed by scraggly white hair that protruded from a black head scarf. Gnarled hands planted firmly on broad hips gave her the authority of someone who had been born in that street and lived there all her life.

  ‘What do you want? Are you one of those drug fiends?’

  ‘Good evening; I’m looking for the Lazarevic family. I’m a student from America…their daughter Katarina asked me to give something to her mother.’

  ‘From America? You have seen our Katarina? How is our angel? Is she healthy? Is she eating well? Does she have a boyfriend?’ Gone was the scowl, replaced with a ragged smile which still held a few teeth. Her years disappeared as if by magic.

  ‘Are you Mrs. Lazarevic’ he asked hopefully.

  The old woman giggled. ‘No, I’m her neighbor. You won’t get her by buzzing. The interphone is dead,’ she volunteered, picked up a pebble and threw it against a window on the upper floor while yelling loudly: ‘Mariana, you have a guest, a young man from America who knows Katarina from the university.’ After a few moments a head appeared briefly in the kibbitz-fenster and then disappeared. ‘Here she comes.’

  All up and down the street curious heads filled the kibbitz-fensters, attracted by the old lady’s voice.

  The sound of bolts turning signaled that someone had come. The door opened rapidly and a tall woman of ageless beauty opened the door, her face half in shadow.

  ‘He will make a good husband for your Katarina. See how handsome and healthy he looks,’ the old lady clucked, pinching his cheek.

  Mrs. Lazarevic held out her hand in greeting. ‘Welcome Steven, I have been expecting you. Please come in.’ As she held the door open for him she said rapidly to the old woman ‘Tetka Nada, when I want a matchmaker I will call you. But Katarina is still too young. Give her time.’

  ‘When I was her age I already had two children. She will get old before you know it and you will never see your grandchildren.’ Nada stood watching them, hands back to their resting place on her hips.

  Steven offered Mrs. Lazarevic the flowers, chocolate and the package he had brought from Katarina. She hugged him, kissed him warmly on one cheek and said: ‘Welcome most sincerely to our home. Katarina has told me so much about you. I see she did not exaggerate in her praise.’ He blushed.

  Without waiting for an answer she shut and locked the door with multiple bolts and led him down a darkened photograph-filled corridor, up a flight of stairs and into a well-lit sitting room with a large, ornate ceramic stove rising all the way up to the high ceiling. A massive china cabinet covered nearly an entire wall, while old portraits and black and white photos covered the others. Next to the cabinet hung what appeared to be an old Habsburg officer’s sword and a Turkish Yatağan sword.

  Mrs. Lazarevic sat him at an oval table laden with food. In the light Steven could see she was probably between 40 and 50, had light hair, blue eyes and noble features.

  ‘It is so good to finally meet you. How is my Katarina? Does she like America? Where is she staying? Is she eating well?’

  The evening progressed with his answering questions between mouthfuls of the food she kept offering him. Questions, answers and more questions still, interspersed with a cucumber-tomato-pepper and cheese salad, stuffed peppers, homemade cornbread with young cheese baked inside, bread, ajvar, baked “wedding” potatoes, Wienerschnitzel, and finally some homemade Esterhazy cake. ‘For a thin person you eat a lot,’ she commented with a smile. ‘My Katarina will never forgive me if I don’t put some weight on you.’

  As he finished his second slice of cake he noticed a portrait that appeared to be from the 18th century of a large man wearing an officer’s sword. Next to it hung a portrait of a man attired in the field-grey uniform of a Habsburg officer a
t the beginning of World War I, a confident look on his face. Both men had green eyes, strong features and large, elongated moustaches.

  She noticed his gaze: ‘Katarina’s father came from an old military family here at Petrovaradin that served the emperor for centuries in the border lands. This house has been in the family since 1745. Katarina inherited the Lazarevic eyes.’

  She pointed to a framed black and white photograph of a large man, who looked strikingly similar to the men in the two portraits, holding an infant, standing next to what appeared to be a much younger version of herself. ‘That is my late husband Rade, taken right after Katarina was born. He was very handsome and strong and kind.’

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss. Please accept my condolences.’

  She looked at him strangely. ‘It was inevitable. No one is immortal. We all die and must one day suffer for our sins. Even the best man must do so. No one can live forever…’ her sentence faded off. She then changed the topic abruptly. ‘So, what are you doing here? How long will you stay? These are difficult times, you know.’

  ‘Professor Slatina got me a fellowship to study folklore and has given me a research assignment.’

  She perked up at the mention of the professor’s name. ‘Ah, yes, you are working for Marko?’

  ‘Yes, researching folklore about monsters…in fact, mostly about vampires.’

  She stiffened visibly. ‘What does he have you doing?’

  ‘Mostly looking through archival records. Nothing exciting.’ Steven stuffed another forkful of cake into his mouth.

  She relaxed. ‘And what have you found thus far? Vampires, really now…’ she huffed. ‘Surely you don’t believe any of that nonsense.’

  ‘Not really, at least, that is, I didn’t before I came. But I think it’s possible that there may be something behind the whole phenomenon. I’ve found lots of information about vampires. In fact, I’m getting concerned because I feel my research is drawing negative attention.’ He then told her about the disappearing librarian.