The Angel of the West Window Read online

  My life here, with all the objects that surround me, is already determined by the “meridian”! I need calm nerves and a cool head. Waves of confusion lap over me. At any moment my reason might go under. It is foolish, it is dangerous. If I lose control over these visions then – – –

  When I think of Lipotin and his inscrutable, cynical features, or of the Princess, that magnificent woman – I come out in a cold sweat. I am completely alone, completely without outside help against – – let us say, against these monstrous products of my own imagination, against – – ghosts!

  I must pull myself together.

  Afternoon.

  Today I cannot bring myself to reach into the drawer and pull out a new notebook. It is partly because my nerves are still tingling with the agitation; partly, it is the – pleasurable – impatience caused by the news, that came with midday post, of a surprise reunion.

  It is always a tense occasion to meet a friend of your youth, with whom you were once very close but who vanished from view more than half a lifetime ago and who promises to bring back the past unscathed. Unscathed? An error, of course: surely he will have changed just as I have; none of us can preserve the past. That is an error which often causes disappointment. I must keep my expectation within bounds when I think of this evening when I will collect Theodor Gärtner from the station: Theodor Gärtner, the wild companion of my student days years ago, the young chemist whose love of adventure took him to Chile, where he found position, reputation and wealth. He’ll have become americanised, a smooth operator who has decided to spend his booty in the peace and quiet of his native heath.

  On thing that irritates me a little is that it happens to be today, when I am expecting this visit, that my housekeeper, who knows all my little ways, had finally gone on holiday to the village where she comes from. I could not legitimately keep her here any longer. When I think about it, she has been due this trip for three years now! Her conscientiousness – or my selfishness – kept making her put it off; in this case it would be the turn of my selfishness again – no, impossible! I will just have to grin and bear it and try to manage with the replacement she has arranged for me who is due to turn up tomorrow. I am curious to see how I shall get on with this doctor’s cast-off who is supposed to replace my old housekeeper:

  Divorced lady, – the innocent party, of course; without means – supposedly – compelled to seek position. – Quiet household; honest and reliable – Hm, we’ll see –

  More likely: “Lena comes to look

  With fishing rod and hook”

  as the old poem has it. So beware! I have to laugh when I think of the dreadful dangers that might threaten an old bachelor like me! Anyway, she’s not called “Lena” but Johanna Fromm. On the other hand, this ex-doctor’s wife is only twenty-three years old. We’ll have to be on our guard on all fronts and make sure that the safe stronghold of bachelordom is well-defended.

  Let’s hope at least she’s a good cook!

  I don’t think there will be any work done on John Roger’s legacy today. First I must sort out the events and impressions of yesterday evening.

  It seems to me that keeping a diary must be another characteristic I have inherited along with the Dee blood and the Dee coat of arms. If things go on like this I will have to start keeping a similar record of my own adventures. At the same time I feel the urge more strongly than ever to penetrate the long forgotten mysteries of John Dee’s life, for I feel the key must lie hidden somewhere amongst them – the key not only to the forces and fates that determined his life, but also, oddly enough, to the understanding of the labyrinth I plunged into when I started to investigate the life of my adventuresome ancestor. All other thoughts and desires are pushed aside in my feverish impatience to open the next volume of his diaries or, even more, to force open the silver Tula-ware box sitting there on my desk. – – – My imagination is running riot after the overexcitement of the past night. The only way to calm it down and bring it under control is to set down what happened in a neat and orderly fashion. So:

  Yesterday evening – on the dot of six – I was waiting for the arrival of the train by which, according to the telegram, my friend, Dr. Gärtner, was to arrive. I took up a perfect position at the barrier so that no-one could leave the platform without my seeing them.

  The express arrived on time and I checked every passenger; my friend Gärtner was not among them. I waited until the last of the travellers had passed the ticket control; I waited until the train had been shunted to another line. Somewhat disappointed, I turned to leave the station.

  Then I recalled that another train coming from the same direction, though not an international one, was due in a few minutes. I turned back, took up my position again and waited for that train.

  In vain! His old punctuality and reliability must be one of the things, I thought irritably, that has changed with the years, and not for the better. Annoyed, I left the station to make my way home, expecting perhaps to find a telegram cancelling the visit already there.

  I had hung around at the ticket barrier for almost an hour and it was getting on for seven and dusk already when, aimlessly wandering down a side alley that was not even on my route home, I ran into Lipotin. It was such a sudden surprise to meet the old antiques dealer that I stopped and responded to his greeting with the rather foolish question:

  “What on earth are you doing here?”

  Lipotin looked at me in astonishment – my bewilderment must have been obvious to him – and his sarcastic smile, that I found so irritating, immediately spread across his face. He gave the street a quizzical look and said:

  “What I am doing here? May I respectfully enquire what is special about this street? Its one advantage is that it takes me in an almost straight north-to-south line from my coffee house to my flat. And, as I am sure you are aware, a straight line is the shortest distance between two points; – – but, if you will permit me to mention it, you seem to be taking a roundabout route; I can’t imagine what would bring you to this alley, unless you are walking in your sleep!” And Lipotin gave a loud laugh which contrasted with the threat that seemed to lie behind his words. I must have given him a rather blank, disconcerted stare, as I replied:

  “Sleepwalking – quite right. I – I was on my way home.”

  “Isn’t it remarkable how easy it is for a dreamer to get lost in his native city! If you want to get home, my dear sir, you should go back and turn off left down that street there – – – but, if you permit, I will accompany you a few blocks.”

  In irritation I shook my head to clear it of the foolish trance I was in and said, a little shamefacedly, “Indeed, Lipotin, it does seem that I have been sleeping on my feet. Thank you for waking me up. But do allow me to accompany you.” Lipotin seemed pleased and we walked to his quarters together. On the way he told me – without prompting! – that Princess Shotokalungin had been asking after me recently – I had obviously made a great impression on her; I could congratulate myself on a flattering conquest. I told Lipotin rather emphatically that I was no “conqueror” and had no intention of – but Lipotin raised his hands in mock horror and laughed; adding lightly, but not without a clear hint of mockery, “By the way, she didn’t even mention the famous spearhead. That is the way she is. Obstinate one day, indifferent the next. The female prerogative, is it not, my dear sir.”

  I must say that I felt a certain amount of relief at this information. Only a caprice, after all!

  When, therefore, Lipotin suggested he take me to visit the Princess some time in the next few days – he was sure the Princess would be pleased if I were to call, indeed, she was expecting it after she had, so to speak, forced her way in on me – it seemed to me a courtesy that was perfectly in order and the ideal opportunity to renew my acquaintance with the Princess – perhaps even to clear up the matter of the antique spearhead.

  Meanwhile we had reached the house where Lipotin had his shop and his room. I was about to take my leave of him when he suddenly sai
d, “Now that you’re here I’ve just remembered that I had a delivery of some rather nice antiques from Bucharest yesterday – you know, the backdoor route by which I occasionally manage to get the odd thing out from under the noses of the Bolsheviks. Nothing sensational, I’m afraid, but there might be something you’d like to cast your eye over. Have you a minute to spare? Why don’t you come up and have a look?”

  I hesitated for a moment because I thought there might be a telegram from my friend Gärtner waiting for me at home; it did occur to me that if I stayed out I might miss a rearranged time. But then I remembered my irritation at Gärtner’s lack of punctuality and made up my mind rather more quickly than I intended and without allowing myself the chance to think it over carefully:

  “I’ve plenty of time. I’ll come up.”

  Lipotin was already pulling an ancient key out of his pocket; the lock grated and I was stumbling through the shop door into the dark room.

  I have often visited the Russian’s poky little basement by daylight; it is as romantic in its seediness as one could wish. Had it not been that by normal European standards this damp cellar, ridden with dry rot, was regarded as uninhabitable, Lipotin would have been unlikely to have obtained even this hovel, given the shortage of housing in the years after the Great War.

  Lipotin lit the tiny flame of his cigarette lighter and rummaged around in a corner. The gleam of dull light from the alley was not enough to enable me to get my bearings among the pile of fusty jumble. Lipotin’s tiny flame flickered and spluttered like a jack o’ lantern over a dark brown swamp from which lumps and knobs protruded, fragments of half-drowned objects. Finally the meagre light of a candle stump glowed in the corner, at first only illuminating the object in its immediate vicinity, a dreadful, obscene idol in matt polished soapstone; the candle was wedged into a hole in its fist. Lipotin was still bent over it, presumably to see whether the flame would survive on the dusty wick; – it looked as if he were performing some sketchy, secretive ritual before the idol. Then, in the cold flicker of the candle, his fingers finally fumbled their way to a paraffin lamp and soon a relatively cosy glow spread from its green glass. I had spent the whole time cramped motionless in a corner and now I heaved a sigh of relief.

  “The mystery of ‘Let there be light’ unfolding step by step, just as in the days of creation!” I called to Lipotin. “After such a revelation of the three-fold intensification of the sacred flame, how mean and vulgar is our unpoetic electric switch.”

  From the corner where Lipotin was bustling about came his dry, almost croaking voice:

  “Quite right, my dear sir. If you move too quickly out of the benign darkness into the brightness, you will ruin your eyes. That sums up your history, you Europeans.”

  I was forced to laugh. There we had it again, that asiatic arrogance which – hey presto! – turned a wretched back-street basement into a positive advantage. I was tempted to take up the pointless argument about the advantages or disadvantages of our beloved electricity industry, for I knew that such challenges usually drew a few witty, if caustic, remarks from Lipotin, but glancing around the room my eye was suddenly caught by the dull golden glow of a beautifully carved, antique Florentine frame around a spotted, clouded mirror. I gave it a close examination and could immediately see that it was excellent, very painstaking and yet sensitive workmanship from the seventeenth century. The frame appealed to me so much that I felt an immediate urge to have it in my possession.

  “I see you have already found one of the pieces that arrived yesterday”, said Lipotin and came over to me, “but the worst one. It’s valueless.”

  “The mirror, you mean? That certainly.”

  “The frame as well”, said Lipotin. His face, greenish in the rays of the lamp, was suffused with a reddish glow as he inhaled deeply on the cigar in his mouth.

  “The frame?” I hesitated. Lipotin did not think it was genuine. That was his affair! But immediately I felt ashamed of my instinctive collector’s reaction when dealing with someone as poor as Lipotin. He was watching me closely. Had he noticed that I felt ashamed? Strange – something akin to disappointment flitted across his face. I had an uncanny feeling in the pit of my stomach. I finished my sentence on a note of defiance: “The frame is, in my opinion, good.”

  “Good? Certainly! But a copy. Made in St. Petersburg. I sold the original years ago to Prince Yussupoff.”

  Hesitantly I turned the mirror this way and that in the light of the lamp. I am well acquainted with the quality of St. Petersburg forgeries. The Russians rival the Chinese in the art. And yet: this frame was genuine! – – – Then, quite by chance, concealed on the underside of a voluptuously curving piece of scrollwork, I discovered the mark of the Florentine studio, half hidden by the old varnish. The collector in me rebelled against the idea of revealing my discovery to Lipotin. Honour would be satisfied if I stuck by my original judgment. So, honestly and openly I said, “The frame is too good, even for the best of copies. In my opinion it’s genuine.”

  Lipotin gave an irritated shrug of the shoulders:

  “If this one here is the original then Prince Yussupoff must have been given the copy. – – Anyway, it doesn’t matter, the price I received was for the original; and the Prince, his house and his collections have been swept away from the face of the earth. Any further argument is pointless; to each his own.”

  “And the old mirror, obviously English?” I asked.

  “Is, if you insist, genuine. It is the mirror that was originally in the frame. Yussupoff had a new Venetian glass put in the frame as he was buying the mirror for his own use. He was superstitious. He said too many people had already looked into the mirror; that kind of thing could bring bad luck.”

  “And so –?”

  “And so you can keep it, sir, if it has taken your fancy. It’s not worth talking about a price.”

  “But if the frame is genuine after all?”

  “It has been paid for. Genuine or fake – let me make you a present of this memento from my native land.”

  I know Russian obstinacy. It was as he said: genuine or fake, I had to accept the present. Otherwise he would have been offended. Better to let it stick at “fake” so that he wouldn’t get annoyed at his mistake later on, if he should realise he had made a mistake.

  And that’s how I came by a little masterpiece of an early baroque frame.

  I silently decided to find a way of compensating him for his generosity by giving him a good price for some other piece. But nothing else that he showed me was of any interest. That, I’m afraid, is the way things usually are: the opportunity of turning a good intention into action is much rarer than that of satisfying a selfish urge. So it was somewhat shamefacedly that I left, half an hour later, with Lipotin’s gift under my arm, without leaving behind anything more than a promise to make up for it with several purchases on my next visit.

  It was around eight o’clock that I arrived home and found nothing on my desk, apart from a note from my housekeeper saying that her replacement had come about six and asked if it was all right not to start until eight o’clock as there were some arrangements she still had to make. My housekeeper had then left at seven, so I had made good use of the brief interregnum with my visit to Lipotin. I could look forward to the arrival of my new chatelaine in a few minutes, always assuming Frau Fromm kept her word.

  In something of a bad mood because my old friend, Gärtner, had not kept to his promise, I decided to cheer myself up by unpacking Lipotin’s present, which I still had under my arm.

  The harsh electric light could not disguise its perfection. Even the deep green glass with its opalescent spots seemed to have an antique charm; it glowed in the frame, more like a beautifully polished, smoky moss-agate – in places almost like a gigantic emerald – than the murky glass of an old mirror.

  Strangely fascinated by the chance beauty of an ancient mirror-glass with its oxidised silver backing, I propped the thing up before me and immersed myself in its unfathomable
depths shot with mysterious, iridescent reflections.

  How did the change come over me? I began to feel as if I were no longer standing in my study, but was at the station in the middle of the throng of arriving passengers and people waiting at the barrier. And wasn’t that Dr. Gärtner waving his hat at me from the crowd?! I pushed my way through the press and managed, with some difficulty, to reach my friend who was coming laughing towards me. For a moment I was struck by the fact that he had no luggage: strange, he must have sent it all on ahead, I thought, but then I forgot the matter completely.

  We greeted each other warmly; we hardly even bothered to mention the fact that we had not seen each other for close on thirty years.

  Outside we took a cab and soon reached my flat – the journey was strangely smooth and silent, almost as if the carriage were gliding along. We kept up a lively conversation all the way there and all the way up the stairs so that I did not really concentrate on other matters, such as how the cabby was paid, for example. Everything seemed to take care of itself and was forgotten in the instant. And it was just the same when we entered my flat: my astonishment at finding some things were not quite in their usual places was brief and, so to speak, absent-minded and peripheral. The first phenomenon of this kind that I noticed was when I glanced out of one of the windows and saw, instead of the expected row of houses and gardens, a huge meadow with the outlines of unknown trees and an unfamiliar horizon.

  Strange! I thought – but that was all, for on the other hand the view also seemed familiar and expected. And my friend Gärtner kept my attention occupied with his lively questioning and appeals to my memory of this or that incident from our student days.

  Then when we had settled ourselves comfortably in my study I felt like jumping up out of the chair I had sat down in: it was an old-fashioned armchair with high armrests and huge, padded wings and it was certainly not part of the furnishings of my flat: suddenly the accustomed environment seemed so alien, and yet, again, it felt reassuringly familiar. Oddly enough, I kept all these observations, reflections and feelings to myself; not a word of this unease did I mention to my friend as everything went on as normal and the conversation flowed without a break.