Swiftly, I lifted the goblet to my lips and took a large gulp of the slivovitz,
which stung nostrils, tongue, and throat like flame, but was not altogether
disagreeable. Repressing the urge to cough, I said (with a matter-of-factness
that amazed me), "Father's crypt has been violated. They have mutilated the
corpse by - "
He held up a hand, unable to hear more, and turned away towards the fire, bowed
over and clutching his heart. I straightened in the chair and moved to set down
the goblet and rise, thinking at first that he had suffered some sort of attack,
and feeling a pang of guilt that I had so bluntly broken the news to this frail
old man; but it was only grief. He remained motionless and uttered no sound
for the course of at least two full minutes. I fell back into the chair and
took another large swallow of slivovitz.
At last he spoke, in a voice so low it was almost a whisper; a voice I no longer
recognised, for it was cold and hard as the marble tomb. "Damn them," he said
slowly, still staring into the fire.
"Damn
them
" He whirled towards
me, with such sudden vehemence that I recoiled, splashing a small amount of
the liquor on my waistcoat. His hawkish features were contorted, and his eyes - no
longer Fathers, but those of Shepherd, bending over Stefan - burned with such
maniacal, dangerous rage that I grew frightened. "I will see them pay! How
dare
they think that I - !" He seemed to note my discomfort then, for his expression
relaxed somewhat, to one of mere bitterness; he turned back towards the fire
and said, "I loved your father. I cannot bear to see him come to harm, not even
now."
"I know," I responded. "I am sorry to bring such news, for I know it causes
you grief. But I thought perhaps that you might be able to help discover who - "
Once more, he turned towards me and raised his hand. "Say no more! I shall
see to it that the perpetrator of this foul deed is brought to justice. You
must trouble yourself with this not one more moment."
"I cannot help but do so," I said, "for I cannot understand how someone could
commit such a horrid act. It is simply beyond my comprehension." And I raised
the crystal goblet to my lips and drained it.
V."s lips twitched, as if in repressed disgust or amusement. He moved towards
a centuries-old upright chair, padded with golden-threaded brocade, and sat
regally, gripping the padded armrests with strong hands, looking very much like
a prince ascending his throne. "What is there to understand? The peasants ignorance
drives them to insanity."
"I suppose I am shocked. I have always believed in the basic goodness of people."
His lips thinned; his tone carried a sharp irony that I found troubling. "Then
you have much to learn about humankind, Arkady
and about yourself." At this,
I was mildly insulted, and grew more so as he continued: "Addressing servants
by their patronymics! This will never do! Royal blood flows in your veins; you
are Tsepesh, the great-nephew of a prince!"
I flushed, realising that he had somehow managed to eavesdrop on my conversation
with Masika Ivanovna; I wondered whether he had also heard about Father.
He must have sensed my discomfort, for his tone changed abruptly, and grew
cheerful. "Come now! It is settled; leave the resolution of this matter to me,
and let us speak of happier things. Is there anything else with which I may
assist? Is your dear wife resting well after the fatiguing events of the past
few days?"
The slivovitz suddenly went to my head; I felt a slight dizziness, and a rush
of warmth surged down my spine and lingered, tingling, in my feet. I relaxed
slightly, and realised that V. was simply changing subjects rapidly in order
to help me over the shock, to make me think about something other than Father.
"Yes," I replied, more calmly, though the truth was that I was somewhat concerned
about Mary, as the grueling trip and the shock of Father's death had left her
exhausted, and that morning I had had the impression that she was troubled about
something, though she denied it. "But she is still somewhat tired. It has all
been quite taxing for her."
V. listened gravely. "If she is still fatigued by tomorrow, then I shall arrange
for a physician to take up residence at the manor," he said. "And he shall remain
there to see she is taken care of until after the child is born." When I protested
that I could not allow him to incur such an enormous expense without my assistance,
he waved once more the imperious hand and said, "The matter is settled. It is
the least I can do for Petru"s grandchild, and for his son."
His manner had grown warm again, and being reassured, I confessed, "Before
I made the terrible discovery in the cemetery this evening, I came tonight because
I wished to speak about assuming Father's work."
To which he responded at once: "Ah, yes. Soon, when you have had a chance to
get over the dreadful shock. But not now. It is too soon to speak of business,
because you have just had another great shock."
"No," I answered firmly, "the distraction would help me; and it would bring
me comfort to know I was fulfilling Father's wishes. He was quite concerned
that you and your affairs be taken care of."
At this, V."s eyes misted. "Ah, your father was aptly named: Petru, the Rock.
Truly he was a rock to me, ever loyal and dependable. And you, Arkady - you must
know that I love Petru's children as my very own."
He stated this with such warmth and conviction that I was seized by a welling
of affection for him. To be sure, he is odd and elderly, with strange habits,
but he has always been inordinately generous to our family. Despite his proud
demeanour, he cuts a pathetic figure, in a way. For all his wealth, he is so
lonely, so isolated, so utterly dependent upon my father
and now on me. I am
his one real link to the outside world.
We spoke of business, then, which helped distance our thoughts from the recent
horror. Uncle promised to show me Father's office tomorrow evening, where all
the ledgers and bank books are kept, and bade me come earlier, so that I might
acquaint myself with the servants (whom, except for Laszlo the coachman, he
has never seen). It is apparently quite important that I speak with the foreman
and tour the fields, for Uncle has not the slightest inkling whether spring
planting has been arranged. He is indeed quite helpless.
He was also quite keen to dictate a letter, which I wrote down in Roumanian
and then translated into English for a Mister Jeffries. V. seems desperate to
notify the visitor to come as quickly as possible, now that the funeral has
taken place; a recluse he might be, but one who is hungry for educated company
beyond that of his family. I offered to take the letter to Laszlo and tell him
to post it in Bistritz, as I would be passing by the servants quarters on my
way home, but V. folded up the letter without signing it, and said that he wished
to give Laszlo the instruction himself.
And so I have taken my father's place. The meeting with Uncle was brief - I sensed
he was restless and eager for me to leave; I think my very presence made him
nervous to some degree. I mentioned, as I was leaving, my preoccupation with
wolves, and asked whether they still, as I remembered from childhood, constituted
a danger. V. said that this was indeed the case; and rather than have Laszlo
drive me home, he arranged for me to have a caleche and two horses for my very
own, so that I could be free to come and go without concern for the time of
day.
And so I left, feeling much calmer than when I had arrived. But driving home
in the caleche, I passed by the family tomb. Though the darkness hid the unspeakable
horror there, the grief and rage and sense of violation all struck me once again.
How can I bear to live among these people, knowing the atrocities of which
they are capable?
* * *
The Journal of Mary Windham Tsepesh
7 April, (later entry)
This afternoon I attempted once again to engage my chambermaid, Dunya, in conversation.
Like most of the peasant women here she is small of build but strong. Like them,
she wears the white double apron and beneath it a rather immodest coarse linen
dress that fails to cover her ankles and is altogether revealing when the light
catches it the right way. The peasants here seem to have a cavalier attitude
towards the wearing of undergarments.
Dunya's colouring is fair and her dark, almost black hair has a reddish cast
when the sunlight catches it. This, and her name, makes me believe she is at
least partly Russian. She cannot be more than sixteen, but seems intelligent
and thoughtful, although she displays the same reluctance as the other servants
to meet my gaze. Even so, I perceive a certain innate boldness in her, so when
I wanted to determine whether the servants fearful attitude was a Transylvanian
characteristic or whether it was inspired by something else, I chose to confront
Dunya as she was tidying the bedroom. She jumped slightly as I called her name;
I had to hide my amusement.
She speaks a little German, and so do I, and so I said, "Dunya, it is my custom
to have a friendly relationship with my domestics. Please
Do not be so afraid
of me." My uncertainty with German required that I be brief and direct.
To this, she curtsied and replied, "Thank you,
doamna."
(I have learned
this is Roumanian for "mistress.") "But I am not afraid of you."
"Good," I replied. "But clearly you are afraid of someone. Who?"
She blanched a little at that, and glanced over her shoulder as if afraid someone
were spying on us. And then she neared - a little too near for English manners,
but I have learned from watching my husband and his family that Transylvanians
prefer to be physically much closer to each other when speaking than we British
do - and whispered: "Vlad. The
voievod,
the prince."
I felt I knew the answer to my own question, but I asked it nevertheless, lowering
my voice to the same volume. "Why?"
In reply, she crossed herself, and breathed into my ear, "He is
strigoi
."
"Strigoi?""tt
was clearly a Roumanian word, but one I had never heard.
"What is this?"
She seemed surprised at my ignorance and would not answer, only pressed her
lips tightly together and shook her head. When I repeated my question, she hurried
from the room.
Zsuzsanna Tsepesh's Diary
8 April.
I am evil, evil! - a wicked woman with wicked thoughts. Sweet Papa is scarcely
cold and laid to rest, and already P have had the most shameful dream.
I do not even know how to properly pray. Papa so despised the Church, he would
never permit his children to learn its rituals. Perhaps he and Kasha are right
that there is no God. They are both so intelligent, but I am not (sometimes
I think my poor brain is as twisted as my spine) and I desperately need the
comfort of the Divine.
And so this morning I knelt at the foot of my bed, as I have seen peasants
do at roadside shrines, and tried to ask forgiveness. I do not know whether
I was successful - the very act of kneeling made me dizzy; I have felt so weak
the past few days, drained no doubt by sorrow - but I felt I could not face Kasha
and good, strong Mary without first easing my conscience in some manner.
When I rose (so light-headed that I had to clutch the poster to keep from dropping
again to my knees), I felt an overpowering urge to write everything down - to
make confession, as it were. I have no priest; this diary shall serve as my
confessor, even though my cheeks flame at the thought of recording such wickedness.
The night before last we celebrated Papa's
pomana.
It was the first
time in weeks I had seen Uncle, and the experience of his kindness and loving
attention doubtless triggered the dream. I have been so lonely in the years
since Kasha left. Papa had been so miserable, too, and then so sick, and always
too preoccupied with the dealings at the castle, that I have felt very, very
alone; were it not for Kasha's letters and Uncle's occasional visits, I feel
I should have gone mad.
Perhaps I have, a little. For a time after Kasha first left, I used to speak
to him as if he were still there (always, out of earshot of the servants! They
are too frightened of us to be trusted as confidantes; and they always find
enough to gossip about). As of late, I have begun to speak to little Stefan.
Sometimes I imagine he walks alongside Brutus and me through the halls, and
sits beside me, Brutus curled at our feet, as I embroider. (If anyone overhears,
I can always maintain I was speaking to the dog.)
Sometimes I pretend he is the child I shall never have.
Oh, it is difficult enough to have a misshapen, sickly body! But the worst
pain it inflicts is the knowledge that I shall always be denied the love of
a husband, and children. I am forced to lead a solitary life and depend on the
platonic affections of my brother and uncle for comfort. And I am crippled by
jealousy - of the happiness my brother and his new wife clearly share, even of
the small attentions Uncle paid Mary at the
pomana.
God save me from my own evil heart!
Brutus kept up the barking the night before, and last night began only minutes
after I had drifted off to sleep - and so, off to the kitchen with him! I was
so tired that when I returned alone to my bed, I fell at once into a dream.
And was awakened by a thrumming at my bedroom window. Or rather, in the
dream
I was awakened by such a sound - soft but insistent, as if a bird were
beating its wings against the pane. The night air had grown exceptionally cold,
and I had closed the window before retiring. In the dream, I rose, and went
over to the source of the sound, not at all frightened by it, nor even curious,
as if I knew exactly what, or who, awaited me there; as if I were irrevocably
drawn.