Authors: Ira Levin
S
HE THOUGHT
of unwrapping the book there in the cab, but it was a cab that had been fitted out by its driver with extra ashtrays and mirrors and hand-lettered pleas for cleanliness and consideration, and the string and the paper would have been too much of a nuisance. So she went home first and got out of her shoes, dress, and girdle, and into slippers and a new gigantic peppermint-striped smock.
The doorbell rang and she went to answer it holding the still-unopened package; it was Minnie with the drink and the little white cake. “I heard you come in,” she said. “It certainly wasn’t very long.”
“It was nice,” Rosemary said, taking the glass. “His son-in-law and another man talked a little about what he was like and why he’ll be missed, and that was it.” She drank some of the thin pale-green.
“That sounds like a sensible way of doing it,” Minnie said. “You got mail already?”
“No, someone gave it to me,” Rosemary said, and drank again, deciding not to go into
who
and
why
and the whole story of Hutch’s return to consciousness.
“Here, I’ll hold it,” Minnie said, and took the package—“Oh, thanks,” Rosemary said—so that Rosemary could take the white cake.
Rosemary ate and drank.
“A book?” Minnie asked, weighing the package.
“Mm-hmm. She was going to mail it and then she realized she’d be seeing me.”
Minnie read the return address. “Oh, I know that house,” she said. “The Gilmores used to live there before they moved over to where they are now.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve been there lots of times. ‘Grace.’ That’s one of my favorite names. One of your girl friends?”
“Yes,” Rosemary said; it was easier than explaining and it made no difference really.
She finished the cake and the drink, and took the package from Minnie and gave her the glass. “Thanks,” she said, smiling.
“Say listen,” Minnie said, “Roman’s going down to the cleaner in a while; do you have anything to go or pick up?”
“No, nothing, thanks. Will we see you later?”
“Sure. Take a nap, why don’t you?”
“I’m going to. ’By.”
She closed the door and went into the kitchen. With a paring knife she cut the string of the package and undid its brown paper. The book within was
All Of Them Witches
by J. R. Hanslet. It was a black book, not new, its gold lettering all but worn away. On the flyleaf was Hutch’s signature, with the inscription
Torquay, 1934
beneath it. At the bottom of the inside cover was a small blue sticker imprinted
J. Waghorn & Son, Booksellers
.
Rosemary took the book into the living room, riffling its pages as she went. There were occasional photographs of respectable-looking Victorians, and, in the text, several of Hutch’s underlinings and marginal checkmarks that she recognized from books he had lent her in the Higgins-Eliza period of their friendship. One underlined phrase was “the fungus they call ‘Devil’s Pepper.’”
She sat in one of the window bays and looked at the table of contents. The name Adrian Marcato jumped to her eye; it was the title of the fourth chapter. Other chapters dealt with other people—all of them, it was to be presumed from the book’s title, witches: Gilles de Rais, Jane Wenham, Aleister Crowley, Thomas Weir. The final chapters were
Witch Practices
and
Witchcraft and Satanism
.
Turning to the fourth chapter, Rosemary glanced over its twenty-odd pages; Marcato was born in Glasgow in 1846, he was brought soon after to New York (underlined), and he died on the island of Corfu in 1922. There were accounts of the 1896 tumult when he claimed to have called forth Satan and was attacked by a mob outside the Bramford (not in the lobby as Hutch had said), and of similar happenings in Stockholm in 1898 and Paris in 1899. He was a hypnotic-eyed black-bearded man who, in a standing portrait, looked fleetingly familiar to Rosemary. Overleaf there was a less formal photograph of him sitting at a Paris café table with his wife Hessia and his son Steven (underlined).
Was this why Hutch had wanted her to have the book; so that she could read in detail about Adrian Marcato? But why? Hadn’t he issued his warnings long ago, and acknowledged later on that they were unjustified? She flipped through the rest of the book, pausing near the end to read other underlinings. “The stubborn fact remains,” one read, “that whether or not
we
believe,
they
most assuredly do.” And a few pages later: “the universally held belief in the power of fresh blood.” And “surrounded by candles, which needless to say are also black.”
The black candles Minnie had brought over on the night of the power failure. Hutch had been struck by them and had begun asking questions about Minnie and Roman. Was this the book’s meaning; that they were
witches?
Minnie with her herbs and tannis-charms, Roman with his piercing eyes? But there
were
no witches, were there? Not
really
.
She remembered then the other part of Hutch’s message, that the name of the book was an anagram.
All Of Them Witches
. She tried to juggle the letters in her head, to transpose them into something meaningful, revealing. She couldn’t; there were too many of them to keep track of. She needed a pencil and paper. Or better yet, the Scrabble set.
She got it from the bedroom and, sitting in the bay again, put the unopened board on her knees and picked out from the box beside her the letters to spell
All Of Them Witches
. The baby, which had been still all morning, began moving inside her.
You’re going to be a born Scrabble-player
, she thought, smiling. It kicked. “Hey, easy,” she said.
With
All Of Them Witches
laid out on the board, she jumbled the letters and mixed them around, then looked to see what else could be made of them. She found
comes with the fall
and, after a few minutes of rearranging the flat wood tiles,
how is hell fact met
. Neither of which seemed to mean anything. Nor was there revelation in
who shall meet it, we that chose ill
, and
if he shall come
, all of which weren’t real anagrams anyway, since they used less than the full complement of letters. It was foolishness. How could the title of a book have a hidden anagram message for her and her alone? Hutch had been delirious; hadn’t Grace Cardiff said so? Time-wasting.
Elf shot lame witch. Tell me which fatso
.
But maybe it was the name of the author, not the book, that was the anagram. Maybe J. R. Hanslet was a pen name; it didn’t sound like a real one, when you stopped to think about it.
She took new letters.
The baby kicked.
J. R. Hanslet was
Jan Shrelt
. Or
J. H. Snartle
.
Now that
really
made sense.
Poor Hutch.
She took up the board and tilted it, spilling the letters back into the box.
The book, which lay open on the window seat beyond the box, had turned its pages to the picture of Adrian Marcato and his wife and son. Perhaps Hutch had pressed hard there, holding it open while he underlined “Steven.”
The baby lay quiet in her, not moving.
She put the board on her knees again and took from the box the letters of
Steven Marcato
. When the name lay spelled before her, she looked at it for a moment and then began transposing the letters. With no false moves and no wasted motion she made them into
Roman Castevet
.
And then again into
Steven Marcato
.
And then again into
Roman Castevet
.
The baby stirred ever so slightly.
She read the chapter on Adrian Marcato and the one called
Witch Practices
, and then she went into the kitchen and ate some tuna salad and lettuce and tomatoes, thinking about what she had read.
She was just beginning the chapter called
Witchcraft and Satanism
when the front door unlocked and was pushed against the chain. The doorbell rang as she went to see who it was. It was Guy.
“What’s with the chain?” he asked when she had let him in.
She said nothing, closing the door and rechaining it.
“What’s the matter?” He had a bunch of daisies and a box from Bronzini.
“I’ll tell you inside,” she said as he gave her the daisies and a kiss.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. She went into the kitchen.
“How was the memorial?”
“Very nice. Very short.”
“I got the shirt that was in
The New Yorker
,” he said, going to the bedroom. “Hey,” he called, “
On A Clear Day
and
Skyscraper
are both closing.”
She put the daisies in a blue pitcher and brought them into the living room. Guy came in and showed her the shirt. She admired it.
Then she said, “Do you know who Roman really is?”
Guy looked at her, blinked, and frowned. “What do you mean, honey?” he said. “He’s Roman.”
“He’s Adrian Marcato’s son,” she said. “The man who said he conjured up Satan and was attacked downstairs by a mob. Roman is his son Steven. ‘Roman Castevet’ is ‘Steven Marcato’ rearranged—an anagram.”
Guy said, “Who told you?”
“Hutch,” Rosemary said. She told Guy about
All Of Them Witches
and Hutch’s message. She showed him the book, and he put aside his shirt and took it and looked at it, looked at the title page and the table of contents and then sprung the pages out slowly from under his thumb, looking at all of them.
“There he is when he was thirteen,” Rosemary said. “See the eyes?”
“It might just
possibly
be a coincidence,” Guy said.
“And another coincidence that he’s living here? In the same house Steven Marcato was brought up in?” Rosemary shook her head. “The ages match too,” she said. “Steven Marcato was born in August, 1886, which would make him seventy-nine now. Which is what Roman is. It’s no coincidence.”
“No, I guess it’s not,” Guy said, springing out more pages. “I guess he’s Steven Marcato, all right. The poor old geezer. No wonder he switched his name around, with a crazy father like that.”
Rosemary looked at Guy uncertainly and said, “You don’t think he’s—the same as his father?”
“What do you mean?” Guy said, and smiled at her. “A witch? A devil worshiper?”
She nodded.
“
Ro
,” he said. “Are you
kidding?
Do you
really—
” He laughed and gave the book back to her. “Ah, Ro,
honey
,” he said.
“It’s a religion,” she said. “It’s an early religion that got—pushed into the corner.”
“All right,” he said, “but
today?
”
“His father was a
martyr
to it,” she said. “That’s how it must look to him. Do you know where Adrian Marcato died? In a stable. On Corfu. Wherever
that
is. Because they wouldn’t let him into the hotel. Really. ‘No room at the inn.’ So he died in the stable. And
he
was with him. Roman. Do you think he’s given it up after
that?
”
“Honey, it’s 1966,” Guy said.
“This book was published in 1933,” Rosemary said; “there were covens in Europe—that’s what they’re called, the groups, the congregations; covens—in Europe, in North and South America, in Australia; do you think they’ve all died out in just thirty-three years? They’ve got a coven
here
, Minnie and Roman, with Laura-Louise and the Fountains and the Gilmores and the Weeses; those parties with the flute and the chanting, those are
sabbaths
or
esbats
or whatever-they-are!”
“Honey,” Guy said, “don’t get excited. Let’s—”
“Read what they do, Guy,” she said, holding the book open at him and jabbing a page with her forefinger. “They use
blood
in their rituals, because blood has
power
, and the blood that has the
most
power is a
baby’s
blood, a baby that hasn’t been baptized; and they use
more
than the blood, they use the
flesh
too!”
“For God’s sake, Rosemary!”
“Why have they been so friendly to us?” she demanded.
“Because they’re friendly people! What do you think they are, maniacs?”
“Yes! Yes. Maniacs who think they have magic power, who think they’re real storybook witches,
who perform all sorts of crazy rituals and practices
because they’re—sick and crazy maniacs!”
“Honey—”
“Those black candles Minnie brought us were from the black mass! That’s how Hutch caught on. And their living room is clear in the middle so that they have
room
.”
“Honey,” Guy said, “they’re old people and they have a bunch of old friends, and Dr. Shand happens to play the recorder. You can get black candles right down in the hardware store, and red ones and green ones and blue ones. And their living room is clear because Minnie is a lousy decorator. Roman’s father was a nut, okay; but that’s no reason to think that Roman is too.”
“They’re not setting foot in this apartment ever again,” Rosemary said. “Either one of them. Or Laura-Louise or any of the others. And they’re not coming within fifty feet of the baby.”