The Opal, and Other Stories Read online

  Once more the same more or less meaningless fancies engendered by the city worthies.

  The medical men smiled in embarrassed fashion, but were not this time to be persuaded to think into the flask.

  When at last a group of military officers stepped forward everyone drew respectfully aside – well, of course they would!

  ‘Gustl, whatd’ye say, why don’t ye think of somethin!?’ remarked one brilliantined lieutenant to another.

  ‘Not me, far too civvy for me, don’t you know.’

  ‘Come, gentlemen, come, someone here shall volunteer’ asserted the Major testily.

  A Captain spoke up: ‘You there, interpreter, is one permitted to think of something imaginary? I wish to think of something imaginary.’

  ‘What shall it be then, sir?’ (‘Let’s see what that peacock can do!’ shouted someone from the crowd.) ‘No, no, I was just going to think of the military code of honour.’ ‘Oh,’ and the interpreter stroked his chin. ‘Hm – I think, I do think, sir, that the flasks are perhaps not strong enough.’ A First Lieutenant pushed his way forward. ‘In that case, allow me.’ ‘Yes, yes, leave it to Kashmacek,’ the chorus went up, ‘He’s a sharp fellow.’ The First Lieutenant put the chain to his head.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ the interpreter (in a state of some embarrassment) offered him a cloth: ‘excuse me, sir, but pomade is rather an insulator.’

  Deb Shumsha Jung, the Gosain in red loincloth and chalky face positioned himself behind the officer. He looked even more uncanny here than he had done in Berlin.

  Then he raised his arms.

  Five minutes went by.

  Ten minutes. Nothing.

  The Indian gritted his teeth with the effort; the sweat was running down into his eyes.

  There, at last! The powder hadn’t actually exploded, but a velvet-black ball, as big as an apple, appeared floating free inside the glass.

  ‘It’ll never work,’ said the officer, excusing himself with an embarrassed smile as he stepped down from the stage.

  The crowd roared with laughter.

  The Brahman caught hold of the flask in amazement; as he did so the floating ball, disturbed by the movement, came into contact with the side. The glass shattered instantly, and the splinters as if drawn by a magnet flew into the ball and vanished without trace.

  The velvet-black object hovered motionless in the air. Actually, the thing looked not so much like a ball: it gave the appearance more of a yawning chasm. And indeed it was nothing other than a hole.

  It was an absolute: a mathematical ‘nothing’. What happened then of course was the inevitable consequence of this ‘nothing’. Everything adjacent to it of necessity fell into it, and became on the instant equally ‘nothing’, that is, it vanished absolutely.

  In fact, there began a violent roaring noise, getting louder and louder, as the air in the ball was sucked into this Black Hole. Pieces of paper, gloves, ladles’ veils, everything was swallowed up.

  When one officer poked at it with his sabre the whole blade disappeared, as if it had melted.

  ‘This is too much,’ expostulated the Major. ‘I’m not putting up with this. Come, gentlemen, that’s enough!’

  ‘What on earth were you thinking of, Kashmacek?’ asked his fellow-officers as they stalked out.

  ‘Me? Well – er, only what we usually think of, don’t ye know.’ The crowd, unable to explain the phenomenon, and conscious only of the terrifying and ever-increasing roar, pressed more urgently towards the doors.

  The only ones who remained were the two Indians.

  The whole universe as it was created by Brahma, sustained by Vishnu and destroyed by Shiva, will in due course sink into this Hole,’ said Rajendralalamitra solemnly.

  That is the curse on us, brother, for coming to the West!’ ‘What does it matter,’ murmured the Gosain. ‘We must all in time enter into the negative realm of existence.’

  The Preparation

  The two friends were sitting in a corner of the Radetzky Cafe by the window, deep in conversation.

  ‘He’s gone – he went off with his man to Berlin this afternoon. The house is completely empty: I’ve just been round there to check. Those two Persians were the only inhabitants.’

  ‘So he really did fall for that telegram?’

  ‘I never doubted he would for a moment. The name of Fabio Marini will make him do anything.’

  That surprises me a bit, since he lived with him for so long – until he died, in fact. What else could he expect to find out about him in Berlin?’

  ‘Aha! Professor Marini is supposed to have kept quite a lot secret from him – he said so himself once, in passing, about six months ago, when dear old Axel was still with us.’

  ‘Is there really something in this mysterious preparation method that Fabio Marini invented, then? Do you honestly believe in it, Sinclair?’

  ‘It’s not at all a matter of‘believing’. When I was in Florence I saw with my own eyes a child’s corpse that had been prepared by Marini. I tell you, anyone would have sworn the child was just asleep – not a trace of rigor, no wrinkles or creases – it even had the pink skin of a living being.’

  ‘Hm ... You think the Persian may actually have murdered Axel and ...’

  ‘That’s not something I’d swear to, Ottokar, but it is the moral duty of us both to get to the bottom of what happened to Axel. What if some kind of poison had merely produced an analogue of rigor mortis in him? My Cod, when I think how I pleaded with the doctors at the Institute of Anatomy – begged them even to make some attempt at resuscitation. What on earth are you getting at, they said, the man is dead, that’s obvious, and any interference with the body without Dr Daryashkoh’s permission is quite improper. And they showed me the contract which explicitly said that after Axel’s death his body was to become the property of whoever owned the document, and in respect of which he had already received, on such and such a date the sum, duly receipted, of 500 Crowns.’

  ‘No, really? That’s horrible! And to think that something like that is legal in this day and age. The more I think of it the more incensed I get. Poor old Axel! If he had only known that this Persian, his worst enemy, might come to own the contract. He always thought the Institute of Anatomy itself...’

  ‘And the lawyer couldn’t do anything?’

  ‘It was pointless. They wouldn’t even take any notice of the old milkwoman’s evidence, who had once seen Daryashkoh in his garden at sunrise cursing Axel’s name for so long that he started foaming at the mouth. Of course, if Daryashkoh hadn’t qualified as a doctor in Europe ... But what’s the point of talking – are you coming or not, Ottokar? Make up your mind.’

  ‘Sure, I’ll come – but take care we don’t get caught as burglars! The Persian’s got a spotless reputation as a scholar. Mere reliance on suspicion, for Heaven’s sake, is hardly a plausible reason. Don’t get me wrong, but are you absolutely sure you weren’t mistaken in thinking you heard Axel’s voice? Don’t get angry, Sinclair, please, but tell me again exactly what happened that time: weren’t you just a little bit worked up somehow beforehand?’

  ‘But not in the least! Half an hour before that I had been up on the Hradschin, looking at Wenceslas’ Chapel and St. Vitus’ Cathedral again; you know what old buildings they are, with those sculptures that look as though they’re made of congealed blood and which always make such a deep and unaccountable impression on my soul whenever I see them. And then I went to the Hunger Tower and along Alchemists’ Lane to the steps down from the Castle, and was brought up short at the little door in the Castle wall that leads to Daryashkoh’s house, because it was standing open. And at the very same moment I heard a voice – it must have come from the window, and I’ll swear it was Axel’s voice – calling out: one – two – three – four.

  Cod, if only I had gone in straight away; but before I could pull myself together from the surprise that Turkish servant of his had slammed the door shut. I tell you, we’ve got to get into that house! We mus
t! What if Axel were really still alive? Look, nobody will find us; who ever uses those steps at night-time anyway? And you’ve no idea how good at picking locks I am these days!’

  The two friends passed the time wandering idly up and down the streets before embarking on their plan. Then at dusk they scaled the wall and at last found themselves standing before the Persian’s antiquated house.

  This isolated building stands on the slopes of Furstenberg Park, leaning like some inanimate watchman against the wall that encloses the grass-grown steps up to the Castle.

  There really is something horribly sinister about this garden and those old elms down there,’ whispered Ottokar Dohnal. ‘Look how the Hradschin stands out so threateningly against the skyline. And those windows, all lit up in the embrasures of the wall! Even the air is different, here on the Klei nseite, as if all the life in it has drained off deep underground for fear of the Death that stalks above.

  Don’t you ever get the feeling that this whole shadowy scene will one day just vanish like a mirage, a fata morgana, and that all the pent-up life that’s waiting here somewhere in suspended animation will suddenly revive, wraithlike, and turn into something totally and horribly unexpected? I know I do. And just look at those gravel paths down there, glimmering white, like veins.’

  ‘Oh, do come on!’ urged Sinclair. ‘My knees are knocking with all the tension. Here, hold the map for me.’

  The door was soon opened and the two of them felt their way up an ancient staircase, which was barely illuminated by the light of an overcast sky striking fitfully through the round windows.

  ‘We’ll have no lights, Ottokar – they might be seen from down below, or from the summer-house outside: follow me closely ... watch out, there’s a broken tread here. The door to the corridor is open ... here, here on the left.’

  They suddenly found themselves in a room.

  ‘For Heaven’s sake don’t make such a noise!’

  ‘I couldn’t help it – the door slammed of its own accord.’ ‘We shall have to strike a light. I’m afraid of knocking something over all the time, there are so many chairs in the way.’ At that moment a blue spark blazed on the wall, and they heard a sound like a sighing intake of breath. A faint grating noise became apparent, seeming to come from floor and walls, and out of all the joints in the woodwork at once. There was a moment of total silence again, and then a croaking voice started, loud and slow: One ... tu’o ... three.

  Ottokar Dohnal cried out, scraping madly at his matchbox, his hands quivering with fear. At last there came a

  light – light! And the two friends were revealed staring at each other, chalk-white. ‘Axel!’----fo-our ... ffive …

  sssix... ssseven …

  The counting was coming from an alcove in the corner.

  ‘Light the candle – quick, quick!’

  eight... nine ... te-en ... eleee …

  Suspended from a copper rod hanging down inside the recess was a blond-haired human head. The lower end of the rod had been driven straight through the top of the skull, and the neck below the chin was concealed under a silk scarf. Beneath it projected trachea, bronchi and two pink lungs. Between them, beating steadily, was the heart, surrounded by a number of gold-coloured wires which led away to some kind of electrifying machine on the floor. Fat veins, gorged with blood, carried the circulation up from two narrow-necked reservoir bottles.

  Ottokar Dohnal had put the candle down on a little stand, and was now clutching his friend’s arm in a faint.

  It was Axel’s head, with carmine lips and a blooming complexion – alive. The eyes, widely staring and with a wild expression were focused on a burning-glass hanging on the wall opposite and which seemed to be draped with Asiatic weapons and hangings.

  Everywhere they could make out the bizarre designs of oriental fabrics.

  The room was otherwise filled with preserved animal specimens – snakes and apes in various contorted poses amidst a jumble of books lying about on the floor.

  In a large glass bowl on a bench at the side a human abdomen was floating in a bluish liquid. Gazing gravely down upon the whole scene from a pedestal above was the plaster bust of Fabio Marini.

  The onlookers stood, struck dumb, staring hypnotised by the heart of this monstrous human clock, beating and quivering with life.

  ‘God help us, let’s get away. I’m going to pass out. Damn that Persian monster!’ They made for the door. As they did so there came again that queer grating noise, seeming to come this time directly from the preparation’s mouth itself. Two blue sparks flashed, and were reflected by the burning-glass precisely into the pupils of the dead eyes opposite. The lips parted, the tongue poked out and curled behind the front teeth as the voice rasped: a quarr – ter passst.

  The mouth closed and the face stared blankly out again.

  ‘Horrible, horrible – the brain is still functioning – it’s still alive. - Out, get out, - into the open! The candle, get the candle, Sinclair!’

  ‘Open the door, for God’s sake! Why can’t you open it?’ ‘I can’t-there, look there!’

  The handle on the inside of the door had been replaced by a hand, a human hand, with rings on its fingers – the dead man’s hand, in fact. The fingers curled in the air.

  ‘Come on, use a cloth! What are you afraid of? It’s only old Axel’s hand!’ Outside in the corridor they watched as the door swung slowly shut behind them. A black glass plate on the outside was inscribed: Dr Mohammed Daryash-Koh Anatomist

  The candle-flame flickered in the draught wafting up the tiled stairwell.

  Ottokar staggered to the wall and fell to his knees with a groan: ‘Look, look at that!’ - He was pointing to the bell-pull. Sinclair held the candle closer, then with a loud exclamation dropped it, and the tin candlestick clattered away down the stone steps. In the darkness they followed it in a mad rush to the bottom, hair standing on end, lungs bursting with the effort.

  ‘Persian Fiend – The Persian Fiend!’

  Dr. Lederer

  ‘Did you see that flash? Something must have happened at the power station. Right over there, behind the houses.’

  A few people had remained standing, looking in the same direction. A bank of cloud lay heavily over the town, darkly blanketing the valley: a haze, rising from the roofs, unwilling for the stars to make fun of a foolish population.

  There was another flash from the slope, lighting up the sky and then vanishing.

  ‘Heaven knows what that is; just now it was on the left, and now it’s over there?! 'Perhaps it’s the Prussians’ suggested someone.

  ‘What would they be doing here, I ask you. Anyway, I saw the Generals sitting in the Hotel de Saxe not ten minutes ago.’

  ‘Well, that’s no reason; but the Prussians! That’s not even a joke -it couldn’t possibly happen even here.’

  Suddenly, a dazzling bright oval disc, of huge dimensions, appeared in the sky. The crowd gazed up, open-mouthed.

  ‘A compass, a compass’, cried fat Frau Schmiell as she rushed out onto her balcony.

  ‘In the first place, it’s called a comet, and in the second place it ought to have a tail’, said her superior daughter, in a crushing tone. Sounds of amazement broke out all over the town, running through streets and alleyways, in through doors, down dark passages and up narrow stairs until they penetrated the lowliest garrets. Everyone pulled their curtains aside and flung open their casements. A sea of heads peered in an instant from the windows: Ah!

  Up in the fog of the night sky a glowing disk, and in the middle of it the silhouette of a great monster, like a dragon.

  As big as Josefsplatz, pitch black, with a hideous snout – Just like Josefsplatz.

  A chameleon, a chameleon! Horrible.

  Before the people had pulled themselves together the phantom had vanished, and the sky was as dark as ever.

  The crowd went on staring up into the air for hours, till they got nosebleeds – but nothing more appeared.

  It was as if the devi
l had played a joke on them.

  The beast of the apocalypse’, was the Catholic opinion, and they crossed themselves, over and over again.

  ‘No, no, a chameleon’, rejoined the Protestants, soothingly.

  The shrill clang, clang, clang of an ambulance broke through the crowd, who scattered shrieking in all directions as the vehicle came to halt outside the low door of one of the houses.

  ‘Is something amiss here? What is the problem?’ enquired the municipal medical officer, ploughing a stately course through the human tangle. They were just bringing a stretcher out of the house, covered with sheets.

  ‘Lord, sir, the fright has brought the Mistress’s pains on,’ wailed the parlourmaid, ‘and it must be eight months at the most – the Master says he knows just exactly when.’

  ‘Frau Cinibulk has come a cropper over the monster,’ the word went round. The crowd grew restless.

  ‘Make way, for Heaven’s sake, get out of the way, I must get home,’ came a few voices.

  ‘Let’s go home, we must see to our wives,’ mocked some vulgar bystanders: the mob shouted approval.

  ‘Quiet, you rabble,’ roared the medical man with a curse – and went off home as fast as possible.

  Who knows how long the crowds could have stayed out in the streets if it hadn’t started to rain. But gradually the narrow lanes and open squares emptied until nocturnal silence descended on the damp cobbles, shining dully in the light of the lamps.

  That night though marked the end of conjugal bliss for the Cinibulks. That a thing like that should happen in such a model marriage! If only the child had died, at least. Eight-month babies usually do, after all.

  The husband, Tarquinius Cinibulk (City Councillor) was in a lather of rage. The street urchins followed him whooping down the road. The country nursemaid had an attack of the vapours when she saw the child, and he had to put an advertisement in the paper printed in big letters, requesting a blind replacement.