Anarchistbanjo's World

Madame Bluebeard by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

Not a single false tooth, Ruprecht thought. How
graceful she is, younger than I, her cheeks smooth
and soft, the dimple in her chin like a flower’s calyx.
Resolute, he said, “No, no, I want to discuss this.
Will you grant me the pleasure of calling on you
tomorrow?”
“Does it matter so much to you?”
“Yes!”
“Daytime’s packed—every hour’s booked. But…
evening, around eight, when it’s dark, come to the
small park behind the Nordstern Hotel.”
Evening, when it’s dark, Ruprecht thought. She
smiled once more and left. How slender she is, how
she moves, echoed in him. It’s the music of motion,
harmony of the outer self. If she walked over a
gravestone, the dead below would feel their heart
beat.
The door clicked shut. Ruprecht stared at the
garish patterns a well-meaning painter had added to
the walls. Only with her gone did he realize how
much she’d swayed him. She’d truly unsettled his
composure. That perfume still roiled his senses. By
Saint Pachomius! It hit him—what that elusive note
in her scent recalled. It was—God, what a thought—
the smell of dried blood, mixed with rotting fruit and
steaming hay. Such fancies people have. Yet it was a
strange perfume, sparking such thoughts. So,
tomorrow evening… in the park behind the
Nordstern… Ah, this woman was a danger! Now,
with her gone, it was clear. A danger… all the better.
Let a battle replace a flirtation. Ruprecht relished
testing his strength. God—a danger, coursing through
veins, washing over muscles. Let’s see, little lady,
what comes of this… I’ve never fled danger, little
lady!
He’d missed the table d’hôte. Dining in his room,
he drank a whole bottle of white Bordeaux. Then,
needing action, he went to the hotel garden, stood
before a thick plane tree, gripped his walking stick
like a saber, and slashed at the groaning trunk with
thirds, fourths, and thrusts until little remained but
the handle.
The next morning, Ruprecht received an
anonymous letter. In scrawled script, it read: “Well,
you’ve fallen for it, dear sir! You’ve chosen the
worthiest of your suitors. Frau Dankwardt was seen
visiting you yesterday. So, Frau Dankwardt is the
favored one! You’re too new here to know what’s
said of Frau Hermina Dankwardt. She’s been married
three times, and it’s rumored she killed all three
husbands. We call her nothing but Madame
Bluebeard. She’s the greatest coquette for twenty
miles around, juggling twenty men at once, all fools
like you, stringing them along with her wiles. We
wish you fine entertainment. Dance well on her
string. Three friends who mean you well.”
Three friends, Ruprecht thought, tossing the letter
into the wastebasket. Three of those Jana told I
wouldn’t come. So, they know she visited. All the
better; if she’s compromised herself, it binds her to
me more.
Today, Ruprecht swam farther into the sea than
usual, letting waves carry him, lying on his back,
watching white clouds, then hiked the hills, returning
refreshed and limber. At dusk, he entered the small
park behind the Nordstern Hotel and sat on a bench.
He thought of nothing, waiting patiently, time
passing like a gentle wing’s brush.
Children’s voices came through the dark… a small
laugh. Ruprecht looked up. Stars gleamed above the
palms, large and bright, and streetlamp light broke
through the rough, hairy trunks, casting jagged
yellow patches on the shadowed paths. He rose. Frau
Dankwardt rounded the corner, two little girls and a
young lady trailing her. The children held hands; the
governess carried their cloaks.
Frau Dankwardt greeted Ruprecht with an
unselfconscious handshake. “These are my two little
misses… Miss Nelson! They were at Arbe, only
arriving tonight.”
No—this wasn’t the meeting Ruprecht had
imagined. They walked side by side, the children
chattering freely about their myriad adventures. Now
one, now the other clung to their beautiful mother’s
arm, and more incessant than the children’s prattle
was the governess’s measured silence. Had Ruprecht
not loved children, he might’ve been furious. But
soon the girls ensnared him, weaving him into their
secrets. After an hour, they parted as fast friends.
Frau Hermina offered her hand, gazing at him with
the same expression as her daughters. Ruprecht
poured a swarm of feelings into his handshake. She
didn’t return the pressure, her eyes widening in
surprise, withdrawing her fingers.
It had been a disappointment, Ruprecht thought, if
not an outright defeat. He paced his bedroom.
Where’s your composure? something within him
chided. Silence! he snapped at himself. I expected a
wrestling match, and it turned into an idyll. What
kind of woman is this? Her perfume carries the scent
of blood, yet she’s the mother of two charming little
girls. I’ll visit her tomorrow—I must understand her.
Very well—tomorrow, then.
The next afternoon, Ruprecht went to the Hotel
Royal, where Frau Dankwardt was staying. The
porter, in a tone of polite regret, informed him that
the lady and her two girls had departed at noon.