The Year's Best SF 22 # 2004

by Gardner Dozois (ed)

  “Tell me, is she still collecting trash for the Devil?”

  “What Devil is that?” said Golescu, leaning back and trying to look amused.

  “Her master. I saw him, once.” The old man reached up absently and swatted a fly that had landed on his cheek. “Soldiers had looted a mosque, they stole a big golden lamp. She paid them cash for it. It wasn’t so heavy, but it was, you know, awkward. And when we drove up to the Teufelberg to unload all the goods, she made me help her bring out the lamp, so as not to break off the fancy work. I saw him there, the Devil. Waiting beside his long wagons. He looked like a prosperous Saxon.”

  “Sorry, my friend, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Golescu. He drew a deep breath and plunged on: “Though I have heard of a lord of thieves who is, perhaps, known in certain circles as the Devil. Am I correct? Just the sort of powerful fellow who has but to pull a string and corrupt officials rush to do his bidding? And he accumulates riches without lifting a finger?”

  The old man creaked again.

  “You think you’ve figured it out,” he said. “And you think he has a place for a fast-talking fellow in his gang, don’t you?”

  Taken aback, Golescu just stared at him. He raised his drink again.

  “Mind reader, are you?”

  “I was a fool, too,” said the old man, smacking the table for emphasis, though his hand made no more sound than an empty glove. “Thought I’d make a fortune. Use her to work my way up the ladder. I hadn’t the slightest idea what she really was.”

  “What is she, grandfather?” said Golescu, winking broadly at the publican. The publican shuddered and looked away. The old man, ignoring or not noticing, leaned forward and said in a lowered voice:

  “There are stregoi who walk this world. You don’t believe it, you laugh, but it’s true. They aren’t interested in your soul. They crave beautiful things. Whenever there is a war, they hover around its edges like flies, stealing what they can when the armies loot. If a house is going to catch fire and burn to the ground, they know; you can see them lurking in the street beforehand, and how their eyes gleam! They’re only waiting for night, when they can slip in and take away paintings, carvings, books, whatever is choice and rare, before the flames come. Sometimes they take children, too.

  “She’s one of them. But she’s tired, she’s lazy. She buys from thieves, instead of doing the work herself. The Devil doesn’t care. He just takes what she brings him. Back she goes on her rounds, then, from fair to fair, and even the murderers cross themselves when her shadow falls on them, but still they bring her pretty things. Isn’t it so?”

  “What do you want, grandfather?” said Golescu.

  “I want her secret,” said the old man. “I’ll tell you about it, and then you can steal it and bring it back here, and we’ll share. How would you like eternal youth, eh?”

  “I’d love it,” said Golescu patiently. “But there’s no such thing.”

  “Then you don’t know Mother Aegypt very well!” said the old man, grinning like a skull. “I used to watch through the door when she’d mix her Black Cup. Does she still have the little mummy case, with the powders inside?”

  “Yes,” said Golescu, startled into truthfulness.

  “That’s how she does it!” said the old man. “She’d put in a little of this—little of that — she’d grind the powders together, and though I watched for years I could never see all that went in the cup, or what the right amounts were. Spirits of wine, yes, and some strange things—arsenic, and paint! And she’d drink it down, and weep, and scream as though she was dying. But instead, she’d live. My time slipped away, peering through that door, watching her live. I could have run away from her many times, but I stayed, I wasted my life, because I thought I could learn her secrets.

  “And one night she caught me watching her, and she cursed me. I ran away. I hid for years. She’s forgotten me, now. But when I saw her at Arges, and you with her, I thought—he can help me.

  “So! You find out what’s in that Black Cup of hers, and bring it back to me. I’ll share it with you. We’ll live forever and become rich as kings.”

  “Will I betray the woman I love?” said Golescu. “And I should believe such a story, because—?”

  The old man, who had worked himself into a dry trembling passion, took a moment to register what Golescu had said. He looked at him with contempt.

  “Love? Mother Aegypt? I see I have been wasting my breath on an idiot.”

  The old man rose to his feet. Golescu put out a conciliatory hand. “Now, now, grandfather, I didn’t say I didn’t believe you, but you’ll have to admit that’s quite a story. Where’s your proof?”

  “Up your ass,” said the old man, sidling away from the table.

  “How long were you with her?” said Golescu, half rising to follow him.

  “She bought me from the orphan asylum in Timisoara,” said the old man, turning with a baleful smile. “I was ten years old.”

  Golescu sat down abruptly, staring as the old man scuttled out into the night.

  After a moment’s rapid thought, he gulped the rest of his schnapps and rose to follow. When he got out into the street, he stared in both directions. A round moon had just lifted above the housetops, and by its light the streets were as visible as by day, though the shadows were black and fathomless. Somewhere, far off, a dog howled. At least, it sounded like a dog. There was no sign of the old man, as far as Golescu could see.

  Golescu shivered, and went in search of a cheap hotel.

  Cheapness notwithstanding, it gave Golescu a pleasant sense of status to sleep once again in a bed. Lingering over coffee and sweet rolls the next morning, he pretended he was a millionaire on holiday. It had long been his habit not to dwell on life’s mysteries, even fairly big and ugly ones, and in broad daylight he found it easy to dismiss the old man as a raving lunatic. Amaunet clearly had a bad reputation amongst the people of the road, but why should he care?

  He went forth from the hotel jingling coins in his pocket, and walked the streets of Kronstadt as though he owned it.

  In the Council Square his attention was drawn by a platform that had been set up, crowded with racks, boxes and bins of the most unlikely looking objects. Some twenty citizens were pawing through them in a leisurely way. Several armed policemen stood guard over the lot, and over two miserable wretches in manacles.

  Catching the not unpleasant scent of somebody else’s disaster, Golescu hurried to investigate.

  “Am I correct in assuming this is a debtors’ sale, sir?” he asked a police sergeant.

  “That’s right,” said the sergeant. “A traveling opera company. These two bankrupts are the former managers. Isn’t that so?” He prodded one of them with his stick.

  “Unfortunately so,” agreed the other gloomily. “Please go in, sir, and see if anything catches your fancy. Reduce our debt and be warned by our example. Remember, the Devil has a stake in hell especially reserved for defaulting treasurers of touring companies.”

  “I weep for you,” said Golescu, and stepped up on the platform with an eager expression.

  The first thing he saw was a rack of costumes, bright with tinsel and marabou. He spent several minutes searching for anything elegant that might fit him, but the only ensemble in his size was a doublet and pair of trunk hose made of red velvet. Scowling, he pulled them out, and noticed the pointy-toed shoes of red leather, tied to the hanger by their laces. Here was a tag, on which was scrawled FAUST 1-2.

  “The Devil, eh?” said Golescu. His eyes brightened as an idea began to come to him. He draped the red suit over his arm and looked further. This production of Faust had apparently employed a cast of lesser demons; there were three or four child-sized ensembles in black, leotards, tights and eared hoods. Golescu helped himself to the one least motheaten.

  In a bin he located the red tights and skullcap that went with the Mephistopheles costume. Groping through less savory articles and papier-mâché masks, he found a l
yre strung with yarn. He added it to his pile. Finally, he spotted a stage coffin, propped on its side between two flats of scenery. Giggling to himself, he pulled it out, loaded his purchases into it, and shoved the whole thing across the platform to the cashier.

  “I’ll take these, dear sir,” he said.

  By the time Golescu had carried the coffin back to his hotel room, whistling a cheery tune as he went, the Act had begun to glow in his mind. He laid out his several purchases and studied them. He tried on the Mephistopheles costume (it fit admirably, except for the pointy shoes, which were a little tight) and preened before the room’s one shaving mirror, though he had to back all the way to the far wall to be able to see his full length in it.

  “She can’t object to this,” he said aloud. “Such splendor! Such classical erudition! Why, it would play in Vienna! And even if she does object … you can persuade her, Golescu, you handsome fellow.”

  Pleased with himself, he ordered extravagantly when he went down to dinner. Over cucumber salad, flekken and wine he composed speeches of such elegance that he was misty eyed by the bottom of the second bottle. He rose at last, somewhat unsteady, and floated up the stairs from the dining room just as a party of men came in through the street door.

  “In here! Sit down, poor fellow, you need a glass of brandy. Has the bleeding stopped?”

  “Almost. Careful of my leg!”

  “Did you kill them both?”

  “We got one for certain. Three silver bullets, it took! The head’s in the back of the wagon. You should have seen …”

  Golescu heard no more, rounding the first turn of the stair at that point, and too intent on visions of the Act to pay attention in any case.

  So confident was Golescu in his dream that he visited a printer’s next day, and commissioned a stack of handbills. The results, cranked out while he loafed in a tavern across the street in the company of a bottle of slivovitz, were not as impressive as he’d hoped; but they were decorated with a great many exclamation points, and that cheered him.

  The Act was all complete in his head by the time he left Kronstadt, just before dawn on the third day. Yawning mightily, he set down the coffin and his bag and pulled out his purse to settle with the tavern keeper.

  “And a gratuity for your staff, kind sir,” said Golescu, tossing down a handful of mixed brass and copper in small denominations. “The service was superb.”

  “May all the holy saints pray for you,” said the tavern keeper, without enthusiasm. “Any forwarding address in case of messages?”

  “Why, yes; if my friend the Archduke stops in, let him know that I’ve gone on to Paris,” said Golescu. “I’m in show business, you know.”

  “In that case, may I hire a carriage for you?” inquired the tavern keeper. “One with golden wheels, perhaps?”

  “I think not,” Golescu replied. “I’m just walking on to Predeal. Meeting a friend with a private carriage, you know.”

  “Walking, are you?” The tavern keeper’s sneer was replaced with a look of genuine interest. “You want to be careful, you know. They say there’s a new monster roaming the countryside!”

  “A monster? Really, my friend,” Golescu waggled a reproving finger at him. “Would I ever have got where I am in life if I’d believed such stories?”

  He shouldered the coffin once more, picked up his bag and walked out.

  Though the morning was cool, he was sweating by the time he reached the outskirts of Kronstadt, and by the time he stepped off to the campsite track Golescu’s airy mood had descended a little. Nonetheless, he grinned to see the wagons still there, the horses cropping placidly where they were tethered. He bellowed heartily as he pounded on Amaunet’s door:

  “Uncle Barbu’s home, darlings!”

  Not a sound.

  “Hello?”

  Perhaps a high thin whining noise?

  “It’s meeee,” he said, trying the door. It wasn’t locked. Setting down the coffin, he opened the door cautiously.

  A strong, strong smell: spice and sweetness, and blood perhaps. Golescu pulled out a handkerchief and clapped it over his nose. He leaned forward, peering into the gloom within the wagon.

  Amaunet lay stretched out on her bed, fully dressed. Her arms were crossed on her bosom, like a corpse’s. Her skin was the color of ashes and her eyes were closed. She looked so radiantly happy that Golescu was unsure, at first, who lay there. He edged in sideways, bent to peer down at her.

  “Madame?” He reached down to take her hand. It was ice-cold. “Oh!”

  She just lay there, transfigured by her condition, beautiful at last.

  Golescu staggered backward, and something fell from the bed. A cup rolled at his feet, a chalice cut of black stone. It appeared at first to be empty; but as it rolled, a slow black drop oozed forth to the lip.

  “The Black Cup,” stated Golescu, feeling the impact of a metaphorical cream pie. He blinked rapidly, overwhelmed by conflicting emotions. It was a moment before he was able to realize that the whining noise was coming from the cabinet under Amaunet’s bed. Sighing, he bent and hauled Emil forth.

  “Come out, poor little maggot,” he said.

  “I’m hungry,” said Emil.

  “Is that all you have to say?” Golescu demanded. “The Queen of Sorrow is dead, and you’re concerned for a lousy potato?”

  Emil said nothing in reply.

  “Did she kill herself?”

  “The cup killed her,” Emil said.

  “Poison in the cup, yes, I can see that, you ninny! I meant—why?”

  “She wanted to die,” said Emil. “She was too old, but she couldn’t die. She said, ‘Make me a poison to take my life away’. I mixed the cup every month, but it never worked. Then she said, ‘What if you tried Theobromine?’. I tried it. It worked. She laughed.”

  Golescu stood there staring down at him a long moment, and finally collapsed backward onto a stool.

  “Holy God, Holy mother of God,” he murmured, with tears in his eyes. “It was true. She was an immortal thing.”

  “I’m hungry,” Emil repeated.

  “But how could anyone get tired of being alive? So many good things! Fresh bread with butter. Sleep. Making people believe you. Interesting possibilities,” said Golescu. “She had good luck handed to her, how could she want to throw it away?”

  “They don’t have luck,” said Emil.

  “And what are you, exactly?” said Golescu, staring at him. “You, with all your magic potions? Hey, can you make the one that gives eternal life, too?”

  “No,” said Emil.

  “You can’t? You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “But then, what do you know?” Golescu rubbed his chin. “You’re an idiot. But then again …” He looked at Amaunet, whose fixed smile seemed more unsettling every time he saw it. “Maybe she did cut a deal with the Devil after all. Maybe eternal life isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, if she wanted so badly to be rid of it. What’s that in her hand?”

  Leaning forward, he opened her closed fist. Something black protruded there: the snout of a tiny figure, crudely sculpted in clay. A crocodile.

  “I want a potato,” said Emil.

  Golescu shuddered.

  “We have to dig a grave first,” he said.

  In the end he dug it himself, because Emil, when goggled and swathed against daylight, was incapable of using a shovel.

  “Rest in peace, my fair unknown,” grunted Golescu, crouching to lower Amaunet’s shrouded body into the grave. “I’d have given you the coffin, but I have other uses for it, and the winding sheet’s very flattering, really. Not that I suppose you care.”

  He stood up and removed his hat. Raising his eyes to heaven, he added: “Holy angels, if this poor creature really sold her soul to the Devvil, then please pay no attention to my humble interruption. But if there were by chance any loopholes she might take advantage of to avoid damnation, I hope you guide her soul through them to eternal rest. And, by the way, I’m
going to live a much more virtuous life from now on. Amen.”

  He replaced his hat, picked up the shovel once more and filled in the grave.

  That night Golescu wept a little for Amaunet, or at least for lost opportunity, and he dreamed of her when he slept. By the time the sun rose pale through the smoke of Kronstadt’s chimneys, though, he had begun to smile.

  “I possess four fine horses and two wagons now,” he told Emil, as he poked up the fire under the potato kettle. “Nothing to turn up one’s nose at, eh? And I have you, you poor child of misfortune. Too long has your light been hidden from the world.”

  Emil just sat there, staring through his goggles at the kettle. Golescu smeared plum jam on a slab of bread and took an enormous bite.

  “Bucharest,” he said explosively, through a full mouth. “Constantinople, Vienna, Prague, Berlin. We will walk down streets of gold in all the great cities of the world! All the potatoes your tiny heart could wish for, served up on nice restaurant china. And for me …” Golescu swallowed. “The life I was meant to live. Fame and universal respect. Beautiful women. Financial embarrassment only a memory!

  “We’ll give the teeming masses what they desire, my friend. What scourges people through life, after all? Fear of old age. Fear of inadequacy. Loneliness and sterility, what terrible things! How well will people pay to be cured of them, eh? Ah, Emil, what a lot of work you have to do.”

  Emil turned his blank face.

  “Work,” he said.

  “Yes,” said Golescu, grinning at him. “With your pots and pans and chemicals, you genius. Chickens be damned! We will accomplish great things, you and I. Future generations will regard us as heroes. Like, er, the fellow who stole fire from heaven. Procrustes, that was his name.

  “But I have every consideration for your modest and retiring nature. I will mercifully shield you from the limelight, and take the full force of public acclaim myself. For I shall now become …” Golescu dropped his voice an octave, “Professor Hades!”