Kiss of the Butterfly

by James Lyon

  ‘American,’ Neso looked up with a smile and jumped to his feet, ‘come in, come in.’ Turning back to the Metallica sweatshirt he yelled: ‘Get lost and don’t let me see you again without the 500 Marks or I’ll strangle you with my bare hands.’ Neso picked him up by the belt and threw him roughly onto the hall floor. Turning back to Steven, he said calmly: ‘How do you like Novi Sad? Are you having fun? Sit down and have a drink…Ceca, get us some juice!’ She and her friend jumped up and disappeared from the room, returning moments later with four cups and a carton of juice.

  ‘What can I do for you,’ Neso asked boisterously. ‘Do you need to change money?’

  ‘No, I just…’

  ‘This is Ceca’s friend, Dragana. If you want she doesn’t have a boyfriend…and they like to play together,’ Dragana leered at Steven while caressing Ceca’s arm.

  ‘No.’

  ‘If you don’t like girls I can get you a boy,’ Neso said matter-of-factly.

  ‘Chill out.’ Steven said. ‘I need to go to Budapest next week, probably Monday. Is there some way besides the train?’ Both girls immediately lost interest and returned to their nails.

  ‘No problem. Just tell me the time you want to leave and I’ll have a minivan pick you up and drive you directly to Budapest. It costs 75 Marks, but because you’re an American and I like you, I’ll only charge you 60. If you’re going to Budapest then you won’t need Ceca or Dragana,’ he laughed. ‘You’ll find everything you want there. When you go to Hungary perhaps you can bring me back some cigarettes and coffee. I’ll give you money for it. You’re a foreigner so they’ll let you bring in more than usual.’

  Steven drained his glass and fled quickly to his own room, where he found Geronimo snoring loudly. No sooner had he sat down on his bed then Neso knocked on the door.

  ‘Listen, I have a great deal for you. If you’ll carry a package out for me and bring one back I can get you on the minivan to Budapest for free. You’re an American and the customs officers won’t search your bag as carefully. In fact, you can even earn a bit of money on a regular basis if you like.’

  Steven gulped. ‘What would you like me to carry?’

  ‘Oh, nothing really, just some packages. Usually they weigh about a kilo or two.’

  ‘Thanks for thinking of me Neso, but I think not.’

  ‘No problem, no problem,’ Neso answered as if Steven had offended him. ‘I just thought I could help you a little…you know…do you a favor.’

  ‘Okay. Thanks. I need to sleep.’ He closed the door.

  You need to get out of here, Steven told himself. Just make it to Monday and then you’ll have a week’s rest in Budapest. And then back to Belgrade and away from this madhouse. He decided that if he had to stay in Novi Sad any longer, he would find different accommodations.

  * * *

  The next day Steven told Stojadinovic of his plans to visit Professor Slatina in Budapest. ‘Tell him hello from me,’ said Stojadinovic.

  The DB visit to Niedermeier continued to bother him. He was only doing legitimate research, yet he felt he was to blame for the bookseller getting beaten up. Why was the Djordjevic book attracting so much attention? As the day progressed he became more paranoid. By the evening he was agitated enough to visit Mrs. Lazarevic.

  This time he threw a small pebble at the upper window, to avoid broadcasting his presence to the entire neighborhood. When he told Mrs. Lazarevic he had spoken with Katarina she smiled and invited him in. In the sitting room she once again brought out copious amounts of food while she interrogated him about his phone call.

  When she had wrung the last possible drop of information from him, she smiled. ‘Peter, a surfer. Surely she’s not serious about a surfer.’ Mrs. Lazarevic looked directly in his eyes. ‘What do you think of my Katarina? She is pretty, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’ Could she see through him that clearly? What about Vesna?

  ‘Yes, my Katarina is quite beautiful. And intelligent too. She won prizes in mathematics in Gymnasium.’ She noted his silence with approval. ‘She was also a gymnast until she grew too tall.’

  ‘A gymnast? Really?’ An image of Katarina as a gymnast brought back teenage fantasies that he struggled weakly to suppress. He shoved a piece of warm apple strudel into his mouth, savoring the rich scents and flavors of apples, cinnamon and powdered sugar as they melted together on his tongue. He hoped that by chewing Mrs. Lazarevic wouldn’t notice the color in his cheeks.

  ‘I probably should not tell you this, but she thinks very highly of you.’

  He started, sat up straight, jerked his arm involuntarily and knocked over a glass of milk, while gagging on the strudel. As he fought for air he noticed that Mrs. Lazarevic was busily wiping up the spill with a contented smile.

  ‘I think highly of her too,’ Steven spluttered.

  ‘But I have bothered you with my intrusive questions. I must apologize. You are a fine young man. It is too bad there are not more such fine young men in the world today.’ Once again, she smiled at him. ‘But you came here for another reason. I see you are nervous. What is wrong?’

  The chance to unburden his mind calmed him slightly. He told her of the fortress commander’s log books and the IV Imperial Grenadier Company. ‘Is Lieutenant Lazarewitsch an ancestor?’

  ‘Yes,’ she nodded approvingly and pointed. ‘That is his portrait.’ Steven examined the painting, a large man wearing a white coat lined with scarlet, gold sash around his middle, white trousers, riding boots, cocked hat, holding an officer’s cane. The other Lazarevic men in the family portraits on the walls seemed to lean closer in interest.

  He noticed the officer’s cane had an ornately engraved golden pommel in the shape of a dragon with its tail in its mouth and a cross cut down its back.

  ‘That portrait…when was it painted?’

  ‘I believe sometime in the 1730s when he became captain. Why do you ask?’

  ‘He’s holding a cane with the symbol of the Order of the Dragon engraved on it!’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘Yes, do you know what it was?’

  ‘No. Such things do not interest me,’ she said abruptly. ‘What else did you discover today?’

  ‘The Order used to hunt vampires,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, those are just stupid old wives’ tales. There’re no such things as vampires.’

  ‘So you’ve heard of it?’ he pressed.

  ‘Steven, if you live in this part of the world long enough you’ll hear lots of crazy things. Vampires and vampire hunters? Do I bother you with questions about Roswell, New Mexico or Big Foot…or the Loch Ness monster?’ she laughed.

  Giving up, Steven told her about Niedermeier.

  ‘This is not good. In fact, it is too much. What did Marko tell you about this?’

  ‘I don’t understand?’

  ‘What did he tell you about your research? Specifically?’ Mrs. Lazarevic became very serious.

  ‘Well, nothing really. He simply asked me to come and research folklore, but everything I touch leads back to vampires.’

  ‘And Katarina? Did she tell you nothing?’

  He looked puzzled. ‘I don’t understand what you’re asking…’

  She gazed intently into his eyes. ‘You really don’t know, do you?’ Her voice smiled with sympathy where her face did not.

  ‘Know what?’ he asked.

  ‘Enough,’ she said with a sense of finality. ‘Are you wearing protection?’

  The question startled him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘My Katarina said she gave you a cross of Hawthorne wood. Do you wear it?’

  He reached under his shirt and pulled it out by the string around his neck.

  ‘Good. Do not remove it. Not even to shower. It has helped protect you up until now. You have read about vampires, yes? You know all about them now, don’t you?’

  Steven sat dumbfounded.

  She walked to the china cabinet once again and pulled out something wrapped in an old dark velvet clot
h, which she removed to reveal a thick long stake of highly polished wood, easily half a meter long, sharpened at one end: at the other end a handle had been carved, like a sword. The wood was black at the point, as though stained with much blood. She placed it on the table in front of Steven.

  ‘Please, take this for your own protection. It is from the Glog, the Hawthorne tree and has served the men of the Lazarevic family well for centuries. I have no son, so you must wield it for me. Please take it.’

  He looked at her, shock and surprise imprinted on his face. ‘I don’t understand. I mean, certainly it is nice of you, but, I mean, thanks, but…what is it and what do I do with it?’

  ‘You will know what to do with it,’ she said taking the object from the table. ‘It is very simple to use.’ She swiftly thrust with the stake as though with a fencing rapier. ‘Straight to the heart.’

  Steven picked it up gingerly.

  ‘Take it with you to Budapest,’ she insisted. ‘Show it to Marko, and tell him that I told him to stop fooling around. Then he will tell you what to do with the stake.’

  * * *

  Interlude VII: The Exit: Monday, 15 January 1983

  Moonlight drifted through the open gate, its pale glow illuminating the eleven gaunt figures that stood over the night watchman’s mangled corpse, flesh protruding from shredded clothing up and down the left side of his body.

  ‘Finally, human blood,’ said Lazar, the oldest, looking slightly less deflated than before as he wiped his blood-stained lips with the tips of his fingers.

  ‘A mere appetizer…I’m still famished,’ griped Ivan, the youngest.

  ‘We all are,’ said Mihailo, the bishop. ‘Stop complaining, there’ll be more.’

  Lazar examined the corpse, while the others watched. ‘His clothing is quite unusual…his dress is neither that of a peasant nor a noble…from his scent he has bathed recently, I would say within the last day or so…perhaps he’s a foreigner… He has most of his teeth, and they are sound.’ He pulled at the victim’s clothing. ‘Look at his coat…it’s fastened with brass teeth of intricate workmanship.’ He pulled open the front of the winter coat. ‘His boots are also strange…the soles are very thick and made from some material that’s not leather or wood…it’s softer…there are grooves in the soles…definitely foreign workmanship.’

  Lazar rifled the body, emptied its pockets, opened the man’s wallet and removed the identity card. ‘He’s a Serb,’ he announced. ‘Not an Austrian or a Turk. And look at the miniature portrait on this card: he must have been a man of importance to carry this with him. It says here Republic of Serbia, Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia.’ He stared at the others in disbelief. ‘Is it possible the Serbs have won their independence from the Turks?’ He passed the ID card around for them to see. ‘And why did Austria let them form a republic? I thought Venice and Ragusa were the only republics. Isn’t a monarchy more efficient? And what does this word socialist mean?’ No one knew the answers to his questions. The oldest pondered for several moments. ‘It must be the work of that idiot priest Krizanic. He was always trying to get the Serbs and Croats to join together in one state. I’ll bet somebody was actually stupid enough to read his book and do it.’

  Lazar examined the victim’s public transit pass: ‘this also has a miniature portrait. Look at how lifelike it is! The man must be quite wealthy to afford such luxuries. And it says here City Public Transit Company…what could that mean?’ The oldest looked at the others, who shrugged their shoulders. ‘Perhaps,’ he continued, ‘he owns a carriage and freight company.’ He passed it to the others. ‘And here’s something called a Driver’s License…with another portrait. Three portraits…and he’s licensed to drive carriages…when did they start requiring that?’

  He removed cash from the wallet: ‘Look at these: bank notes, issued by the National Bank of Yugoslavia. He’s carrying millions of Dinars with him. Fortune has smiled on us: we found a rich man.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ grumbled Igor, the accordion player. ‘The rich taste the same as the poor.’

  ‘I wonder how much the exchange rate is between the Thaler and the Dinar?’ mused Stanko, the spy.

  ‘We shall soon find out,’ answered Lazar. ‘And look at this! He’s carrying a weapon.’ He loosened the man’s belt and pulled off the holster, opened it and withdrew an old revolver. ‘It’s strange craftsmanship…nothing I have ever seen before,’ the oldest continued as he pulled back the hammer, opened the cylinder and spun it around. ‘It’s engraved with the word Zastava and the year 1956. We have been locked away more than two hundred years!!’ They all gasped.

  He accidentally ejected the bullets onto the ground. ‘Multiple cartridges…and they have attached the ball to a brass casing…and it loads through the breech. This means no more muzzle-loading, no more measuring out powder for every shot, no more ramming the charge home down the barrel, no more forgetting to remove the ram-rod before firing, no more problems keeping your powder dry. They can probably fire several shots a minute with this. An army with this weapon could rule the world!’ he exclaimed gleefully. ‘We have truly met with good fortune: our meal is wealthy beyond belief, is carrying large quantities of bank notes on his person, and is possessed of a superior weapon.’

  ‘But where’s the flint?’ asked Lynx, the baby-faced sweet-shop owner.

  ‘I don’t know. We must find out how to use this.’ Lazar scooped up the bullets and inserted them back into the cylinder, one by one and passed the pistol around for the others to examine.

  They wandered slowly outside onto the darkened brick and earthen ramparts of the fortress overlooking the river. ‘The sky is aglow,’ commented Ivan, rushing anxiously ahead. He stopped, stunned at the sight that greeted him: and then the others caught up. Upriver to their left, ghostly pale floodlights illuminated a broad white bridge suspended on white steel threads from tall slender towers, while to their right a city blazed with light. Strange carriages with blinding lamps scurried on the road below them and across the bridge, all without horses. A lone barge, its lights glowing merrily, moved slowly upstream against the current. From across the river strange machine-like noises wafted across the water. Could it be music?

  ‘Look at all the carriages…how swiftly they move…surely horses cannot run that fast,’ exclaimed Branko the general. ‘And the light…there is so much light…almost as if it were day. How many candles and lamps there must be! And the boat is moving without sails or oars against the current...this cannot be real. Are we dreaming?’

  ‘No, we are not dreaming. It looks as though things have changed quite a bit,’ Lazar muttered. ‘This may be a problem.’

  ‘We must feed again,’ said Mihailo.

  ‘Patience!’ Lazar admonished. ‘We must first consider our situation. Before we move into society we must discover what has happened and who rules this land. Things have changed greatly. In the meantime, we don’t wish anyone to know that we’ve escaped. Therefore, we mustn’t attack humans right away. We must restrict ourselves to cattle and other animals until we can discover the best way to feed. I know it’s distasteful, but that’s the only way for us to build up our strength before we decide on our next move.’

  ‘Who are you to order us about?’ Ivan spat back at him. ‘We’re free now and can do as we wish. I’ve spent enough time with the lot of you in that stinking chamber. I hope never to see any of you again.’

  ‘Do not be so anxious,’ Lazar cautioned. ‘I’m certain the Venetian is somewhere, waiting, watching, biding his time. When he discovers we have escaped he’ll alert the Order…and this time they will kill us. We must exercise extreme caution. You should do well to remember how he caught you.’

  ‘It wasn’t my fault. It was Good Friday, and I had to return to my grave.’

  ‘Then you would do well to move your grave,’ Lazar said. ‘Are we agreed that we must remain together for now to avoid discovery?’

  All the others muttered, grunted and nodded their agreemen
t, except for Ivan. ‘What is it to be?’ Lazar asked. ‘Do you truly wish to endanger us all? Or will you remain with us?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Of course. What other choice is there?’

  ‘There is no other,’ Lazar smiled grimly. ‘We shall move away from the fortress and the city. Perhaps we can find some cattle. My hunger grows and the power beckons. And we must find the Vlach so we can reform our quorum.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE ADVERSARY AWAKENS

  Novi Sad, Sremski Karlovci, Budapest: 8-10 May 1992

  Steven lay in bed, trying to fall asleep in the darkened dormitory, the refugee children having long since settled in for the night. All was silent, except for garbled profanity emanating from down the hall as Neso argued with Ceca. Steven glanced at his wristwatch every few seconds, unable to sleep, keeping track of the duration of the argument: ten minutes, fifteen, half an hour, forty-five minutes, Ceca launching accusatory diatribes, Neso hurling back angry retorts. It seemed another woman was in question. The argument continued nearly an hour until the sound of a loud slap signaled Neso had ended the argument on his terms. Now the only sounds were Neso’s angry monologue, punctuated by several more loud blows and Ceca sobbing.

  As Steven listened to the drama, the second and minute hands on his wristwatch slowed to a crawl and then seemed to freeze in place. Every little once in a while one would move ever so slightly forward in its circular procession, first the one, then sometimes the other, with no rhyme or pattern. Sometimes one hand would inch slowly forward, stop, and then wait for the other to overtake it, only to be overtaken in turn. The two hands played this game of temporal leapfrog as the round dial glowed dimly in the gloom, a platter of luminescent tranquility detached from the turmoil inside his head. No amount of willpower could compel the hands forward. Holding the watch to his ear he could hear its faint ticking, a muted metronome disconnected from Steven’s reality. Seconds… minutes… hours… the clock softly ticked, but the hands didn’t respond.