Count Luna

by Alexander Lernet-Holenia

  This may explain why, after attending the hearing in Vienna on his collision with the two motorcyclists, he returned once again to Zinkeneck, and also why he did not send the children back to school. Instead, they were given, in addition to Mademoiselle, a private tutor. This man, although he appeared to be rather bored with the solitude of the countryside, for some reason discharged his duty most conscientiously.

  It was the time of year when the summer hangs over into the fall, and this particular year it hung on far longer than usual, as though it saw no reason for coming to an end. One day was very much like another, and they were all very much like summer days. But in a way this Indian summer was not summertime any more. Everywhere insects of a kind not commonly found in these parts kept appearing. They swarmed about, flitted in the fading light of the season, and finally found their way into the house. Even long after the autumn rains had begun and it was almost time for snow, they could be found behind the window shutters and picture frames, in the unoccupied rooms, under the chests in the hall, in the attic, and in other remote corners of the house, from which they would emerge again around All Saints’ Day, or whenever there were a few mild days. Even in spring their fragile corpses could still be found clinging to the deserted, dusty spider webs. There were some years, and these were in the majority, when these strange varieties of gnats, flies, and butterflies did not get a chance to exist; actually they were always ready to come into being. Every August, particularly, they were, so to speak, on the threshold of existence; but then so many bad Septembers came along, they were almost never able to achieve it. For years they would lie in wait for the opportunity to come into being, confident that the year was bound to come that would give them life. At last such a year would come, and they existed. But then, it was as though their existence already belonged to the past, so strangely, so much like ghosts, did they stagger through time.

  Sometimes, when Jessiersky was lying on the lawn by a cluster of hazels and watching one of these swarms of gnats playing in the sun — or when walking along one of the bridle paths around Zinkeneck toward evening, he would stop to gaze at the tiny, transparent butterflies whirling about in the weak sunlight — he could not help feeling that his own life, not unlike the life of these insects, had stretched on into a time in which, even to him, it seemed a life no longer his, a life stained with crimes not his, which should long since have come to an end. He remembered that once, in his boyish vanity, he had wished to be more like his ancestors, and to display the ugliest characteristics, if only they were his forebears’. Now he was very much like them, had probably even surpassed them; not one of them would have had to be ashamed of the horrible traits their descendant exhibited. But he had not at all wanted to do what he had done, and it seemed to him that it was not he who had done these things, but one of them! But had not that very fact made him one of them? Was he really still himself?

  In November the investigation of Eisl’s shooting was closed, although no conclusion had been reached. Since it had been impossible to establish the guilt of Jessiersky’s chief gamekeeper, he was let out of jail. The police had unearthed from the battlefield a few lead bullets of the caliber he used that were practically intact, but these were not, in themselves, final proof of his guilt. It was clear that the person, or persons, who had waged this battle with the Spaniard and the two Koller men must have belonged to the Zinkeneck estate. For if they had been poachers, even if there had been three or four of them, they would never have opened fire, but would simply have retreated. Still the identity of the Zinkeneck men who supposedly had shot Eisl remained undiscovered. As mentioned previously, it had occurred to no one — or, at least, to hardly anyone — that it might have been Jessiersky, after all. While at the outset, it had seemed strange that a few days prior to Eisl’s shooting he had been searching the house for shells containing the kind of lead shot with which Eisl was killed, this damaging evidence was not taken seriously, so little did anyone believe a man like Jessiersky capable of any extraordinary action, whether criminal or otherwise. For in the country, and particularly among the rural bureaucracy, people would believe anything — as became abundantly evident in the course of the investigation — except that a rich man like Jessiersky would be moved to do something that only poor people, such as his gamekeepers, were expected to do. In short, the regard for his person, which in theory was so high and in practice so low, would certainly have annoyed Jessiersky deeply had it not been for the fact that, failing to win the warrior’s laurels in the upland, he had been crowned with the wild roses of rural romance. As for the lead shot he had been looking for in the house, the police assumed that he had wanted to give it to his chief gamekeeper: and this — by local standards at least — he had a perfect right to do.

  Meanwhile, however, the battle high in the mountains, which was supposed to have taken place simultaneously with his pastoral idyll, had become more and more popular throughout the region. Everyone talked not only about the battle, but also about those who had taken part in it, such as, for instance, the Count-Duke Luna, even though he had long since left the country. The word count — Graf — in those parts, is not only a title, but also the family name of a good many peasants. There are Graf peasants in many Austrian valleys, and Duke — Herzog — is a fairly common name, too. Having heard mention of a Count-Duke, the people, from the very outset, thought of him as someone they were familiar with, and, in the end, completely forgot that the man in question was a real count and duke in one person. Little by little the notion became implanted in their minds that he had been a rich peasant from the flat country who, instead of poaching as most peasants do, had been wealthy enough to purchase regular shooting rights; and upon discovering that he had been cheated, he then had actually begun to poach with the two Koller gamekeepers. And as the story spread, people grew quite willing to put the Graf-Herzog in a class with some of the ghostly wild huntsmen of their folklore.

  At the time the chief gamekeeper was released from prison, the legend-building was in full swing. And the reputation that the investigation had earned him of having finished off one of the helpmates of the Great Huntsman clung to him fast. The gamekeeper himself cared little for that fame. He had sat in jail three and a half months and was the only person who knew he had sat there for Jessiersky. The good man had never once opened his mouth to betray his employer, nor did he ever betray him, although, when they met, Jessiersky hurt his feelings very much by remarking that another time he had better think twice before disobeying orders and spying on his employer. To him, Jessiersky began to become almost as sinister a figure as was the Count-Duke Luna to the people of the countryside — but not so sinister as the real Luna seemed to Jessiersky himself.

  Jessiersky had no idea where Luna had been during the time all this had been happening. But he was convinced, although he tried to persuade himself of the absurdity of the notion, that Luna must be staying somewhere nearby — this is evident from the following:

  There was first of all the fact that this winter in Zinkeneck was unusually mild, and in the amount of frost and snow, in the frequency and severity of storms, differed perceptibly from the weather prevailing in Schreinbach or in regions a little further away. The severity of a winter in a given place depends above all on its latitude and upon its height above sea level. In general, the higher a place is in the Northern Hemisphere, the lower it is in the Southern Hemisphere — and the higher it is above the sea — the colder the winter will be. The sea level of a given place does not change, but conditions in a given latitude, which in itself remains constant, are, nevertheless, over long periods of time, subject to variations which are the result of a changing relation to the position of the sun. Ages ago in Zinkeneck, for example, the sun certainly rose higher or less high above the horizon than it does today, and in the future, too, there will be variations. For the angle formed by the earth’s axis, or the equator, with the apparent orbit of the sun, or the actual orbit of the earth, is constantly changing,
and the declination of the earth’s axis is also subject to change, though that change is very slow. Sometimes, in the course of millenniums, it rises; at other times, over an equally long period of time, it dips. As a result, the winters gradually become either more severe with more snow, or milder; and the summers gradually grow warmer and more rainy, or cooler. Thus at present, the obliquity of the sun’s orbit, or ecliptic, is decreasing at the rate of .4758 seconds per year, and after the passage of millenniums, it will have decreased to 21 degrees and then will slowly increase again. The limits within which it varies are from 6 to 7 degrees apart. According to the investigations of these periods made by Lagrange, the obliquity of the ecliptic was greatest in the year 29,400 B.C., that is, 27 degrees and 31 minutes. For fifteen thousand years after that time, it decreased and reached its smallest value, 21 degrees and 20 minutes, in the year 14,400 B.C. Since then, it has been increasing and reached its maximum value, 23 degrees and 53 minutes, around 2000 B.C. The ecliptic has again been decreasing since then, and in the year 6600 A.D. will have again reached its smallest value of 22 degrees and 54 minutes — to grow once more, for another 12,700 years, until, in 19,300 A.D., it will have attained its greatest value of 25 degrees and 21 minutes.

  What had originally brought about this variability of the obliquity of the ecliptic, which in its turn determined the character of winters and summers, and was probably also responsible for the glacial periods, Heaven only knew. Jessiersky certainly did not know and he did not care. But the moon, along with a number of other forces, undoubtedly also influenced the ecliptic and the variability of the seasons — and this fact interested Jessiersky very much indeed. For the magnetic power of the moon, like a kitten playing with the knitting needles stuck in a ball of wool, tugged at the earth’s axis and pulled it out of line.

  Had he simply told himself that if, after a few thousand years, the winters were to become milder than at present, this would be due in part to the moon, such a thought would have been well within the realm of science. But the notion that the mildness of this particular winter, which was felt only, or mainly, in Zinkeneck, and may have been noticeable only to him, was due to a lunar influence, that is, to Luna — this was more than an aberration; it bordered on insanity.

  At least Jessiersky did not as yet think that Luna was the moon itself. Apparently he believed merely that Luna had been endowed with much of the moon’s powers, that he was a relative of the moon, a little moon, as it were. For if there had been sons of the sun, such as the Pharoahs and the Incas, why should there not be a grandson of the moon like this Luna? To be sure, his periods no longer coincided with those of the real moon, but they were of the same or almost the same duration. His attributes were decidedly lunar attributes. And if the real moon, by influencing the obliquity of the ecliptic, was able in the course of millenniums to make winters in the Northern Hemisphere milder, Luna no doubt was able to make this winter milder in Zinkeneck. This unusual mildness was proof positive of Luna’s presence. . . . Jessiersky frequently toyed with these ideas, and when there were sudden thaws, when the south wind spread a filmy veil over the sky, or when warm, blue gray clouds from over the Hochzinken rolled into the valley, it was hard for him to dispel the notion that it was Luna who had evoked these phenomena. . . .

  Jessiersky occasionally talked to the children’s tutor, Herr Achtner, a man of some education and an interesting fellow to converse with. Later, Jessiersky could not remember whether it was he or Achtner who had started those erudite conversations. It then would seem to him that it had been he. But it is more probable that it had been Achtner.

  It was by now the end of April and the young woman Jessiersky had spent several nights with during the summer was about to give birth to the child which even before its birth had been its father’s savior. One afternoon, Achtner went on a hike with his charges, to point out certain early spring flowers and to examine them with the children.

  Jessiersky took advantage of this opportunity to do some examining of his own in Achtner’s room. There he failed to find what he was looking for. But up in the attic, in one of Achtner’s two suitcases, which were locked and which he broke open, he found what he had expected to find, the evidence that Achtner was a detective — his police badge and a service revolver. The latter he took.

  “Inspector,” he said, when Achtner returned, “I’ve always thought that the Austrian police revolver was too heavy to be carried comfortably in one’s pocket. But to put it away in the attic until one needs it — which, as one thinks, won’t be that soon — this is going a bit too far, isn’t it? For then the person you wish to arrest can turn the tables. Be that as it may,” he continued, while patting the right pocket of his trousers, “I thank you very much indeed for having tutored my children; you certainly were far more conscientious in that job than might have been expected from your carelessness in other respects. But now this period, which has been no less enjoyable for me and my family than for you, must come to an end, as must all other efforts you made here in Zinkeneck. And so you are now free to return home, Inspector.”

  Achtner turned pale and tried to talk his way out of the situation. “If you require me to go home now,” he said, “you will spoil everything. It was my plan, before arresting you, to find evidence that it was you who murdered both Eisl and Spinette. Only then would I have arrested you, and if I hadn’t been able to find evidence, I would simply have let you go free. But if you force me to leave before I have completed my assignment, you will disgrace me with my superiors and ruin my career — ”

  “Don’t get sentimental, Inspector,” Jessiersky interrupted. “Next thing you’ll tell me you thought I really was a decent fellow who wouldn’t break into . . .”

  “I had not, in fact, expected you to go in for burglary,” Achtner said.

  “Sure. If you had expected me to go in for it, you would not have left the revolver in the suitcase. You would have carried it with you. You should, in any case, have assumed me to be capable of forcing a suitcase and have kept the pistol constantly with you. For you know God is always on the side of the stronger battalions, don’t you?” And again Jessiersky patted his pocket.

  “God is always with the biggest rascals,” said Achtner, “and if you really insist upon my leaving, I shall have to have you arrested.”

  “That’s a good one!” laughed Jessiersky. “You can see for yourself where you’ve got without the spoils of my burglary! No, Herr Achtner, you will have to leave. What is more, you will leave at once. And to make quite sure that you do get on your way, I myself will take you to the station.”

  And this he did. About six o’clock in the evening, he climbed into the car with Achtner who had no choice but to obey. The children, upset by the sudden departure, bade their tutor a fond farewell, and the two men started off down the road which ran along the Pison.

  But when Jessiersky reached the station, Achtner was not with him. He parked the car and boarded the train. And all through the night, as he rode toward Vienna, he had a distinct feeling that he was being pursued not by the police, but by Luna. The police, it was obvious, were fools. Only Luna could really bring about his downfall.

  He remained in Vienna until the morning of the second of May, and set in order various things in his house and at the office. At noon on the second he left Vienna for Munich. On the fourth he went on to Milan and on the evening of the sixth arrived in Rome.

  Chapter 11

  Of all the hills of Rome, which, according to the ancients, are seven in number (although in more recent times the count has risen to eleven or twelve), the Capitoline is the smallest and most modest, but, historically, the most famous. Scarcely higher than a house, with a dip in the middle, it stands out among its fellows only because of its steep slopes and its position in the very heart of the city. In all probability it is no longer as high as it was originally, not because of the leveling that had to be done in order to provide building sites for the palaces an
d temples which adorn it, but because the ground surrounding it has risen; the dust and rubble of destruction, the wreckage of former grandeur, and the drifting sands of transiency have added to its height. Today, if anyone were to push a condemned criminal from the highest point of the Capitoline, the Tarpeian Rock, the man would get badly bumped and bruised, but it is most unlikely that he would die. Lowered, flattened, and overtaken by time, like Rome itself, even its most sacred peak is overshadowed by the pompous monument of the kings of the House of Savoy, which, in its turn, has been overtaken by time. Disturbed by the vulgar noise of the roaring traffic, eagles and she-wolves, symbols of a greater, higher, calmer power, sit mourning in their cages beneath the overhanging slopes of the hill.

  That it was not the Campus Martius which was settled first, but the hills, the Capitoline and the Palatine — not low places such as the Velabrum and the Forum Boarium, but the elevations of Rome, to name only the Cermalus and the Velia — is less in keeping with the tastes and the way of life of the Latin or Umbrian-Volscian inhabitants than with their heritage of Etruscan caution. But the Roman character, of course, is made up of a mixture of strains, Sabine, Etruscan and Latin, with a preponderance of Etruscan. Even the legend that the entire Roman patriciate is descended from the Trojans is Etruscan. The version according to which the national Latin god, Mars himself, and Rhea Sylvia, the daughter of Numitor of Alba and the granddaughter of Anchises, were the parents of Romulus and Remus is simply a laborious attempt to Italianize the legend.

  The Etruscans, or as they called themselves, the Tyrrhenians, settled in Italy at the beginning of the first millennium before Christ, having migrated from the vicinity of Troy. They showed a marked tendency to make their home not on the sunburnt plains, but on the shady slopes of the valleys that had been carved by the rivers in the tufa tableland. On these steep, precipitous hills, they entrenched themselves behind strong fortifications, and here they passed their comfortable and lascivious lives. They feared death more than most peoples. Yet they, too, had to bow to fate.