The Days of the King (10 page)

Two hours later, the light faded and took on a baleful potency, resembling the glow of putrid swamps or gloomy, witch-haunted woods, a whistle of angry, threatening light, as gusts of wind snatched away the garlands and wreaked havoc among the tents and stalls. The storm began suddenly. It shattered the repose of amorous glances, intrigues, backstabbing, and honeyed fawning. The cream of the nation was drenched, the vaporous gowns were deflated, the striped trousers were rumpled, the high-heeled and lacquered shoes were spattered with mud, the courtesies were transformed into an uproar of short feminine shrieks and irritated masculine shouts, a stampede toward the carriages and coupés, which in their turn were embroiled in a dreadful hullaballoo, hampered by one
another and by all those confused and sopping people. Herr Strauss, shivering and holding his coat over his head, kept near the fence, hoping by some miracle to find shelter or a cab. In a corner on the eastern side of the grounds, as he was never to forget, he lifted his eyes to decide which way to go and met a pair of blue, warm, and haughty eyes that scrutinized him, eyes in which there was no fear. For a few seconds he did not move, who knows for how many, he did not feel the raindrops falling on his face or the water in his boots. He thought that shelter was to be found within those eyes, where happiness had taken refuge. When he came to his senses, he discovered that they belonged to a brown-haired woman with white skin and a slender neck and a little dimple in her chin, like the hollow of a shell. Her long locks were plastered to her cheeks, her clothes were sticking to her skin, and at her thighs pressed two young children, a boy and a girl, wrapped in a beige shawl and sheltered from the downpour by a parasol. At once, he threw his coat over her shoulders, then leaped in front of the first passing cab, his shirt fluttering, his feet planted in the greasy mud of the road, his arms raised. The cabman was about to strike him with his whip, but he reined in his horses, gazing at Joseph apprehensively. The svelte Lipizzaners came to a halt, champing at their bits. Joseph spoke to one of the passengers, shook the hand that was extended to him through the half-opened door, conducted the woman and children through the lashing rain, helped them to climb aboard, and then climbed aboard himself, thanking the good Lord and Judge Farmache, their saviors. It was not until they were within, all four huddled on one of the benches, for on the other were seated the magistrate and his wife, that he learned her name. It was a Serbian name. Beneath her blue eyes, as the horses raced over the Outer Market Bridge, her fleshy, slightly purple lips smiled at him. Bizarrely, although he might have been thinking about the Erdreich Baths, with their scorching steam and basins of hot water, all of a sudden he remembered his dream of the dwarf and that pale flame within which he had glimpsed so many things. The woman's eyes enveloped him. There was no need for other words.

Sometime in July, while blazing heat weighed on the city, another three chairs in the day room had their backrests slashed to ribbons. Herr Strauss was no longer surprised, he did not take it to heart, nor did he imagine that the velvet, full of gashes, rents, slits, and punctures, hundreds, perhaps thousands of them, had been gnawed by moths or pecked by sharp-beaked birds. The author of the textile carnage was Siegfried, there could be no doubt, but the deeds and the impulses of the tomcat were worth infinitely more to Joseph than the state of the upholstery. Besides, aflame during those days, not because of the heat but for reasons of amour, Joseph no longer saw the objects around him and often forgot to eat. He would go missing from home for long periods, he slept little and restlessly, and whenever he was to be found in the rooms of the upper story of the redbrick house, at number 18 Lipscani Lane, he would content himself with holding the tomcat in his lap, stroking him and talking to him. His thoughts would wander aimlessly, he would remember and conjure up places, gestures, pangs, touches, always beneath the glitter of blue Serbian eyes. One afternoon, on the feast of the prophet Elijah, in the darkened room he began to tell Siegfried what he had heard that very morning from her lips, in the courtyard of the Stavropoleos Inn, when the chiming of the bells had once more filled the sky. He translated into German for the cat how God's charioteer, flying in his car of fire and with seven
cannons to hand, could cast down upon sinners rain, drought, famine, cholera, plague, perdition, and war, how the prophet Elijah was the patron not only of cloudbursts but also of bees, and how on his feast day he caused the dead to wander abroad and honey to be harvested from the hives. The tomcat purred softly, with his black ear pricked up and the tip of his tail aloft, with his muzzle resting between his master's clavicles, and the chestnut-haired, thin man, looking thinner than ever, told him all that had been spoken to him, troubled less by the fury of the Apocalypse and more by the black wind-tousled hair, by the throat as slender as a new shoot, by the plump lobes of the ears, by the small dimple in the chin. As if with a mouth not his own he spoke about the blood that will gush forth and scorch the earth if the Unclean One manages to cut off the head of Saint Elijah, about the folk that will be born and resemble the Blazhini, the Meek Folk who live on the banks of the River at the Ends of the Earth, about the huge burial mound whence will emerge the souls of all the dead, incarnated as sheep and goats, the former following the Good Lord, the latter the Devil. He related calmly things that had been told to him with passion in her low, slightly singsong voice, in a Romanian full of slips (different errors than his own), a language mangled but enchanting in its way, because it bound him fast to Elena Duković. And, to conclude the nocturnal narrative, Herr Strauss poured himself a tumbler of raki and sweetened it with honey, throwing it back in the company of his best friend, the tomcat, since he had just learned that this is an Orthodox custom at the Feast of the Prophet, when the honeycombs overflow and the hives are moved. He did not care about the backrests of the chairs. Nor did he even recall that the first among them had been clawed during his voyage to Istanbul. Almost two years had passed since then, and on different occasions, Siegfried had written on the yellow velvet:

(on the middle chair along the side of the table by the stove)
Only you, good Otto Huer, enchanter, showed a warm heart in the dead of winter, you took pity and made me breathe quickly, more quickly than I have ever breathed before, I was suffocating and gulping the air with knots in my throat, like those athirst, for many things have happened, barber, countless things, firstly you scattered the mystery and yearning, you opened the eyes of my beloved master and made him turn his ear to your words, together you strode through the snowdrifts, and the cold and wind frightened you not, I know, you pressed that door handle, you, glorious one, may your scissors ever be sharp, you opened the door, you let the heat of the chamber lap over us and let us guess at the wonders within, I thought I would faint, lose myself, not because of the fire, but because of the ruddy flecks in herfur, Manastamirflorinda stepped forth shyly and with wonderment, she was quivering, again I heard how you called her Ritza and I tried to soothe her shame, to steal it away, to scatter it, love brooks no insistent stares, O barber, and time flowed slowly until she purred, it took some moments, and the moments were long, my breast was fit to burst, I was crawling with unseen ants, happiness has a tart taste, I tell you, her moist nose touched me and her tail spoke to me, it is a secret, I shall not divulge it, not her eyes but the moments gleamed, you humans think that cats purr, and all of a sudden the heavens seeped through the ceiling and the ceiling washed over us, I was rid of the ants, you did not drink and you did not eat, from the swirling white heavens and from the cloudlike ceiling what dripped
was not tears, not snowflakes, but four droplet-like kittens, I wanted to cry out, but my mouth would not obey me, I wanted to flee, but my legs were limp, I wanted to taste the milk from her dugs, but Manastamirflorinda had become one with my children, I grew dizzy and leaned against the wall, dear one, you must understand, the world is much more than we suspect, the spots in herfur were ruddy flecks of sun, you both laughed and believed that she-cats purr, the scent of the hot pie and the steam of the boiled brandy wafted over us, and the miracle did not spring from a mirror in which I saw my own face, it was not a phantasm, not a dream, the valiant tomcat with his hackles up looked just like me, but smaller, I thought I wouldfaint, lose myself, that I would take flight, and to thee, to thee only, dear Otto Huer, I now confess that on the way back, when you and my beloved master set off once more through the snows and chill wind, verily did I take flight, in my mind, alongside Manastamirflorinda, in my wicker basket, with my muzzle buried in her belly. Thanks be to thee, good Otto, be thou protected and may thy razor cut deftly!

(on the chair in the corner by the window)
How all things mingle, master, wonderful master! How close is sweet to bitter and how swiftly light is changed to darkness, I thought that goodness had been poured upon this house, that nothing and no one could drive it out, I bathed at ease in the water of joy after you gave me the greatest, the most bewildering gift, after you, gentle Joseph, angel, allowed anotherfive feline souls into your chambers, after you smiled and puffed on long curved pipes, you kept watch over us in your armchair as though from the boundless azure heavens, and we melted, six bodies, twelve ears, twenty-four paws,
singing, not purring, we rolled together in a lazy tabby ball, on the rugs or under the dresser with five drawers, a ball with spots of ruddy fur, softly crackling, like hot coals, as though happiness were eternal, a ball from which sometimes rose a fluffed-up white tail with a black tuft at the tip, a wee tail like a flower stalk, so deceptive, master, but it let me imagine harmony does not perish, a wee tail that one fine morning of gray clouds all of a sudden went limp and trembled, together with the other three wee tails, with their gleaming points of flame, my children were first of all astonished, they made to fondle their mother and imitate the lullabies of her throat, they were cadging milk, of course, from herfirm, swollen dugs, but they were met with frowns, with blows, with unfamiliar growls, Manastamirflorinda, my heart, leaped on top of the tall cupboard, where the dust reigns and the swirling smoke collects, I caressed her in my mind, from afar, and only then did I decipher her looks, I swear to you, two looks, because the green of her eyes had been sundered into rival halves, one with vernal meadows full of gophers, the other new and steely, threatening, I shuddered and again I fell in love, do not laugh, Joseph Strauss, my friend, I felt in that moment how the end began, I saw how her soul wandered, perhaps you, too, saw it or perhaps you were lighting your black, healing pipe, I heard the soft steps of the coming storm, creeping closer, I was not afraid, but I grew sad, the hours ticked by differently and time grew damp, then I glimpsed streaks of lightning beyond the walls and windows, beyond the houses and fields, I heard the muffled thunderclaps, out of nowhere, the tempest broke upon us, dear one, and Manastamirflorinda changed her care for the kittens into enmity and anger, she chased them from her dugs, you humans say that she-cats purr, and likewise you say that they spit, the truth is in
hymns and hate, it was necessary for you, big-hearted and tender one, to seek welcoming homes for my children, to give me leave to wash and fondle them, one by one, on parting, you let me accompany them, you, Joseph, to convince me that they would fall into good hands, there were four journeys and on each something shattered within me, I will not conceal from you that I wept for my matchless he-kitten, a red-hot iron burnt me, him I shall never forget because there are mirrors aplenty in the world, I shall not lie to you, dear one, be at peace, memory is short and the wounds soon closed, Manastamirflorinda descended to the rugs and bandaged them, her little tongue, like a petal, licked my scars, I grew drunk, I was dead drunk without sipping your aromatic schnapps, you were away from home a long time, long enough for us to be alone amid rustlings, caresses, and passions, you wandered the whole night long, long enough for us to be convinced that we were enveloped in dense, impenetrable vapors, until the two of you, a dentist and a barber, entered those steamy chambers, and Otto Huer, incomparable enchanter, clapped his palms and caused Manastamirflorinda all at once to have a master, he struck the floor with the sole of his shoe and that master was he, a blessed barber, so that we, loving thee, she and I, might meet often and ever meow.

(on a chair in another corner, the nearest)
You are withering away, day after day, dear one, you scorch and burn yourself, your cheeks have grown blue and you have deep bags under your eyes, you, Joseph, how much longer will you torture yourself ? You do not understand my language and my pleas fall on deaf ears, I am not the one chosen to give counsel, I have decided to keep my silence, I merely sing,
ceaselessly, even if sometimes you forget that I exist, in your lap it is warm and peaceful, on your breast it is like an island with grasses and plump mice, you speak so much, untiringly, you do not grow hoarse, lately I can no longer follow you, the words slide away, collide with the windows and vanish, where do they vanish? Why do they vanish? It is a mystery and the mysteries are not unraveledfor me, the hardest for me is listening to the tumult in your heart, the tempest, as though two armies were clashing, who is at war? Why so many cries? Why such grim fury? These are the battles of love, I know, and ashamed I make bold to think of them, but how can I avoid it, dear one, how can I flee? Your body has weakened and your deeds slumber, you seem powerless or bewitched, I know you, goodly Joseph, as none other knows you and I worship you like the sun, any knife that thrusts into your body stabs me too, what pains you pains me, you are a dentist and the gnashing of your teeth gives me shivers, I want to hide and to endure it, I touch your hands and feet with my muzzle, my whiskers have guessed that you have wings, love has given you wings, my friend, and you needs must soar into the air, a woman awaits you, I want to see you gliding, now I am alone and desolate, you will return late, you will tell me your tales, you will tremble and perspire, I am not hungry, or thirsty, I am not at all sleepy, nor will you eat, you will not drink and you will not sleep, I know, you will tell your dreams aloud, sighing you will hope, your fingers will briefly stretch, indifferent, then they will clench into a fist, inestimable Joseph Strauss, healer, how much would I like to heal thee and to promise thee that thy bitter minutes, hours, and days will pass, that the second will arrive, one among all, when thou wilt hold in thy palms her life and her soul.