“So you think the Soviets are worried the Group of 77 may churn up the Central Asian republics?”
“Perhaps,” said Wolfgang. “There’s a person who could tell us a great deal more, if he chose to do so. He knows these people well. He was to join us at lunch, and I hope he’s waiting there now. The timing was extremely difficult: he’s old and obstinate, and he refused to speak about the matter with anyone but you. That’s why I was upset to think you’d missed that flight from Idaho. A good deal of effort has gone into the coordination of this trip on everyone’s part, you know.”
“It’s starting to look that way,” I agreed. I hadn’t a clue what was going on. As we went through the streets, the fog around us had thickened. Though Wolfgang was speaking, his voice seemed distant, and I only caught the last words.
“… from Paris last night, just when you and I ourselves were traveling here. He thought it was essential to see you in person.”
“Who came from Paris last night?” I asked.
“We’re going to meet your grandfather,” Wolfgang said.
“That’s impossible. Hieronymus Behn has been dead for thirty years,” I said.
“I don’t mean the man you think is your grandfather,” he said. “I mean the man who flew from Paris last night to meet you, the man who sired your father Augustus upon your grandmother Pandora—perhaps the only man she ever deeply loved.”
Maybe it was the fog, maybe my lack of sleep and food, but I suddenly felt dizzy, as if I’d just stepped off a carousel and things were still whirling. Wolfgang put his hand beneath my arm as if to steady me, but his voice went on.
“I wasn’t sure how much to say earlier, but this was the real reason I came to Idaho to find you,” he told me. “As I explained that first day on the mountain, the documents you are heir to must not fall into the wrong hands. The man we’re about to meet knows much of the mystery behind them. But first, I thought I must prepare you, for you might be—well, there’s something about him that’s hard to describe, but I’ll try. He seems like an ancient figure possessed of magical powers, like a magus of sorts. But perhaps you already suspect who it is, this grandfather of yours. His name is Dacian Bassarides.”
THE MAGUS
Magus is derived from Maja, the mirror wherein Brahm, according to Indian mythology, from all eternity beholds himself and all his power and wonders. Hence also our terms magia, magic, image, imagination, all implying the fixing in a form … of the potencies of the primeval, structureless, living matter. The Magus, therefore, is one that makes the operations of the Eternal Life his study.
—Charles William Heckethorn, The Secret Societies
He it is who may owe his bond to the world of images and appearances—be sensually, voluptuously, sinfully bound to them, yet be aware at the same time that he belongs no less to the world of the idea and the spirit, as the magician who makes the appearance transparent that the idea and spirit may shine through.
—Thomas Mann
Man is superior to the stars if be lives in the power of superior wisdom. Such a person, being master over heaven and earth by means of will, is a magus. And magic is not sorcery, but supreme wisdom.
—Paracelsus
In his own magic circle wanders the wonderful man, and draws us with him to wonder and take part in it.
—Johann Wolfgang Goethe
Wolfgang wanted to “prepare me” to meet Dacian Bassarides. But how could anything have prepared me for the events of my past two weeks? And now this—the revelation that my insufferable, arrogant father might actually be the spawn of my grandmother’s illicit lover rather than the legitimate son of Hieronymus Behn.
As we headed through the maze of cobbled streets to the Café Central, Wolfgang seemed to understand I needed a little peace and quiet. I was fed up with all these surprises about my awful family. And it hardly helped that every new fact raised a new question. For instance, if Dacian Bassarides really was my grandfather and Hieronymus Behn knew it, why would Hieronymus have raised my father Augustus as the apple of his eye, preferring him not only to his stepson, Laf, but to his own legitimate children, Zoe and Earnest, too?
In the larger picture, Dacian Bassarides had played a pivotal role in each and every scene. For instance, if Pandora’s estate was parceled out—as Sam and I surmised—among members of the Behn family without anyone knowing who got what, then as executor of that estate, Dacian might well be the only person alive who could say how these manuscripts were connected, and to whom.
I recalled that when Uncle Laf gave me his version of the family saga, he’d described Dacian as his own early violin teacher, Pandora’s handsome young cousin who’d let them ride the carousel at the Prater and who’d later accompanied Pandora, with her friend “Lucky” and the children, to the Hofburg to view the spear of Charlemagne and the sword of Attila the Hun.
That was the basic story without filling in any blanks. One blank, however, might be a connection Laf had failed to make. Based on his eyewitness account, during that Prater merry-go-round ride Dacian seemed on as intimate terms with Lucky as Pandora herself was. Then later at the museum, it was his unobtrusive but well-timed question about “these other objects you seek” that elicited what Hitler thought the sacred items were—platters and tools and such—and revealed how and where he’d conducted his search for them.
But if Pandora’s cousin really was at the center of the plot, as Sam had hinted and as I myself was starting to believe, just how had this starring role fallen to Dacian Bassarides?
The Café Central had recently been redone. Some construction at the back was still under way, as a bit of dust and intermittent sawing attested. But since my last visit the old dark paneling, flocked wallpaper, and dingy wall sconces had been banished, and the place was now a bright open space.
As we crossed the room, the fog outside lifted; pale light poured through the big windows and glistened on the glass-and-brass display case filled with rich Viennese pastries. At small marble tables scattered across the floor, people sat on the stiff chairs reading papers attached to polished wooden sticks, as crisp as if they’d been freshly laundered and pressed. The painted plaster figure of a middle-aged Viennese sat alone at his usual table near the door, a plaster cup of coffee on the table before him.
Wolfgang and I crossed to the raised dining area in back, where tables in open booths were each graced with a crisp white cloth, sparkling silver, and a pitcher filled with freshly cut flowers. The maître d’ led us to ours, removed the Reserved sign, and took our orders for wine and bottled water. When the drinks had arrived, Wolfgang said, “I hoped he’d be here already.”
The wine made me feel more relaxed, but Wolfgang’s mind was elsewhere. He glanced around the open space of the room, then sat back, folding and refolding his napkin with some impatience.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Since we’ve come late, it’s possible that he is here already. Let me try to find out. Meanwhile why don’t you order some appetizer or fish for us to begin with? I’ll send the waiter to you.” Standing, he looked around once more, then left me alone at the table.
I sipped some more wine while I studied the menu. I’m not sure how much time passed, but just as I was wondering whether I ought to go on my own to find the waiter, a shadow fell across the table. Glancing up, I saw a tall figure bundled in a green loden greatcoat. His broad-brimmed hat shadowed his face against the light pouring from the windows behind, so I couldn’t make out his features. His leather satchel, much like my own, was slung casually across one shoulder. He set the bag down in the far side of the booth that Wolfgang had recently vacated.
“May I join you?” he asked in a soft voice. Without waiting for a nod from me he’d unbuttoned the coat and was hanging it on a nearby hook. I glanced around nervously to see what was keeping Wolfgang. The soft voice added: “I saw our friend Herr Hauser back in the kitchen just now. I’ve taken the liberty of asking him to leave us.”
I turned to object, but he’d slid i
nto the booth opposite and removed his hat. For the first time I got a clear look at him. I was absolutely riveted.
His face was like nothing I’d ever seen. Though weathered like ancient stone, it seemed a timeless mask of sculpted beauty and enormous power. His long hair, nearly black but mixed with strands of silver, was pulled back to reveal his strong jawline and high cheekbones, then tumbled in ropes of braid about his shoulders.
He wore a quilted leather vest and a shirt with loose white sleeves, open at the throat to reveal a string of intricately carved beads in various colored stones. The vest was embroidered with bird and animal motifs in rich and vibrant colors: saffron, carmine, plum, cerulean, scarlet, pumpkin, viridian, colors from a primal forest.
His ancient eyes, beneath brooding brows, were of a depth and hue that might be equaled only in the rarest of gemstones, pools of mingled color, midnight purple and emerald green and ebony, with a dark flame burning in their depths. Of all the descriptions I’d heard of him, I thought Wolfgang’s seemed the best.
“The way you’re looking at me makes me quite self-conscious, my dear,” he said.
Before I could reply, he’d reached over and casually plucked the menu from my hands, commandeering my wineglass too. “I’ve taken another liberty,” he told me in that soft, exotically accented voice. “I’ve brought some Côtes du Rhône from my vineyards at Avignon. I put them in the kitchen earlier to—how you would say?—help them breathe. Before our friend Wolfgang agreed to leave, he insisted you hadn’t eaten all day and must have some food to go with it. You’re fond of Tafelspitz, I hope?”
The waiter unobtrusively set the new bottle on the table with fresh wineglasses, poured, and quickly vanished as Dacian went on.
“Since you’re my only heir, my vineyard and its wines will one day belong to you, so I’m pleased for you to make their acquaintance—as I’m delighted to make yours. Shall I introduce myself formally? I am your grandsire, Dacian Bassarides. And I regard so lovely a granddaughter as a better gift than all the wines in the Vaucluse.”
Holy shit, I thought as we clinked glasses—that’s all I need, to be heir to one more bequest. If all my inheritances turned out like the last one, I wouldn’t be around long enough to collect on anything!
“I’m delighted to meet you, too,” I told Dacian Bassarides—and I meant it. “But I want to explain that I learned of our relationship only moments ago, so I hope you can appreciate that I’m still in shock. My grandmother Pandora died before I was born. She was rarely discussed by my family, so I know as little of her as I do of you. But if you’re truly my grandfather as you say, I have to wonder why it’s been hidden from me all these years. Do others know it?”
“Of course, it must be a shock for you,” Dacian said with a sweep of his long, graceful fingers, the fingers of a violinist, I recalled. “I’ll explain everything—perhaps even a few things you’d rather not learn—though I myself always prefer even the rawest of facts to the prettiest of fiction. But you must tell me what you’ve already heard, before I can provide the rest.”
“I’m afraid I know very little,” I told him. “All I’ve heard about that side of the family is that you and Pandora were cousins; that she was a music student in Vienna who worked as a companion or tutor in the Behn household; and that you taught my uncle Lafcadio to play the violin. He says you were young, but a great master.”
“Quite a compliment—but, here, our meal arrives,” he said. “As we eat, I can explain everything. It’s not so much a mystery as one might suppose.”
I watched as the waiter set down an array of covered platters. When he lifted the lid of my Tafelspitz—that traditional Austrian dish of hot boiled beef accompanied on its divided plate by cold applesauce and horseradish, hot vinegary potatoes, creamed spinach, fresh green salad with white beans—it looked and smelled fabulous. But Dacian’s lunch was unfamiliar. I asked him what it was.
“It’s the best way to find out about people: to learn how they eat,” he told me. “For example, in this tureen we find a Hungarian cold soup of sour cherries. Then the dish you asked me about is ćevapčići, a kind of kebab made from ground beef, lamb, garlic, onion, and paprikesh; it’s smoked over charcoals of smoldering grapevine so it has a taste of the vineyard. In Dalmatia they claim the Serbs invented it, but it’s older than that. This dish was really invented by the Dacians—my namesakes—an ancient tribe that once inhabited Macedonia, now part of Yugoslavia. They were known even as far east as the Caspian, where they called themselves Daoi: the wolves. We wolves, it’s how you recognize us—we very much like to eat meat.” And he stabbed one of the patties with his fork and closed down on it with those magnificent white teeth.
When the first bite of Tafelspitz melted in my mouth, I realized how truly hungry I was. Dacian plucked choice items from various dishes and passed them across to me. I wanted to wolf down everything I saw, but I forced myself back to the topic.
“So you come from the Balkans, not Austria?” I asked.
“Well, I’m named for the Dacians, but my people are really of Romani descent. And who can say where the Rom originally come from?” he said with a shrug.
“The Romani?” I said. “Are they named for Rome? Or did you mean Rumania?”
“Romani is the name of our language, rooted in Sanskrit, and also what we sometimes call ourselves—although we’ve been called many names by others over the years: Bohémes, Cingari, Tsiganes, Gitanos, Flamencos, Tartares, Zigeuner.…”
When I still looked perplexed, he explained, “Most would call us by the common name Gypsies, because it was once believed our origins were in Egypt, though there are plenty of other opinions: India, Persia, Central Asia, Outer Mongolia, the South Pole—even places of magical belief that have never existed at all. There are those who think we came from outer space. And those who think we should be shot back there as soon as possible!”
“Then you and Pandora are Gypsies?”
I admit I was confused. One hour ago I had an Irish mother and a father I’d thought part Austrian, part Dutch. Now all at once I was illegitimately descended from a pair of Gypsy cousins who’d abandoned my father at birth. But befuddled as I might be about my ancestry, I had little reason to doubt Dacian Bassarides’s description of his own: he looked every bit as wild as everyone described.
“The details of our family are never to be shared with the Gadje—the others, the outsiders,” Dacian cautioned me seriously. “This is why I have sent our friend Hauser away. But to your question: yes, we were Rom. Though Pandora grew up and lived partly among the Gadje, in her heart and blood she always was one of us. I knew her from childhood. She sang so wonderfully that she already had the marks of a great diva. Perhaps you know that in Sanskrit this term describes an angel, while in Persian it means a devil? Pandora was a little of each.
“As for the origin of the Rom, our sagas say we came to earth aeons ago from an aboriginal home which can still be found in the night sky: the constellation Orion, the mighty hunter. Or more precisely, the three stars forming a belt at its center—the omphalos, the navel or umbilical cord of Orion—called the Three Kings because they shine like the star the Magi followed to Bethlehem. In Egypt, Orion was equated with the god Osiris, in India with Varuna, in Greece with Ouranos, and in Norse countries with the Spindle of Time. In all cultures he is known as the messenger, the chief guide for each transition into a new age.”
I wasn’t about to get sidetracked just when the plot was thickening. And there was more than stardust clouding Dacian’s story. How could he and Pandora have been Gypsies when, by all the accounts I’d heard, the Nazis considered Gypsies lower on the evolutionary totem pole than Catholics, Communists, homosexuals, or Jews?
“If you and Pandora were Gypsies,” I said, “how could she have lived as she did, and where she did, running around with the kinds of people she did, both before and during the Second World War?”
Dacian was regarding me with an odd half smile. “And how did she live? I tho
ught you knew almost nothing about her.”
“No,” I agreed. “But what I meant was, how could Pandora and Laf have stayed in that luxurious apartment in Vienna all during the war—I’ve been there myself, so I know what it’s like—and lived such a lavish lifestyle? How could she have mingled with Nazis and such? I don’t mean just being able to pass herself off as an upper-class Viennese rather than a Gypsy. I mean, how could she have permitted herself to stay here in Vienna when her own people were being”—I dropped to sotto voce—“I mean, how could she have stayed on here as Hitler’s favorite opera star?”
Dacian was looking at our wineglasses as if he’d just noticed they were empty; he replenished them himself. Knowing the punctiliousness of Viennese waiters in such matters, I could only assume he’d instructed them all to stay away.
“Is that what you’ve been told?” he asked, as if to himself. “How interesting. I should like to know where you heard it, for it appears this tale must have been the collaboration of a number of creative minds.” He looked at me and added: “Very creative. Completely appropriate for a descendant, such as yourself, of a family line originating in the constellation Orion.”
“Are you saying none of it is true?”
“I am saying that every half truth is also a half lie,” he said carefully. “Never confuse people’s beliefs with reality. The only truth worth exploring is one that leads us closer to the center.”
“The center of what?” I asked.
“Of the circle of truth itself,” Dacian replied.
“So are you going to help rid me of those half truths and beliefs I’ve collected, and shed a little light on my own reality?”
“Yes—though it’s hard to answer questions properly unless they are put properly.”
Unexpectedly, he reached out and put his hands over mine, which rested at either side of my plate. I felt electricity moving into my flesh, my bones, suffusing me with warmth. But before I could speak, he motioned for the waiter, rattling off something in German I couldn’t make out.
The Magic Circle Page 31
