Anarchistbanjo's World

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

Fifth Chapter
Early in the morning, Ruprecht rushed into the
garden. The rain had stopped, and the sky had
lightened. In the west, a patch of clear, cold blue was
visible, with clouds framing the opening like jagged
rocks around a cave of blue ice. One could peer deep
into the heavens. Far back, a demon sat on a throne of
frozen air, playing a gentle, ardent melody—a demon
resembling an archangel, whose robes concealed hot,
yearning flesh craving embrace.
The leaves on the trees were brown, curled,
trembling on branches as if in mortal fear.
Ruprecht strode firmly through the garden on
sodden paths. Brown muck splashed around his
shoes, clods of earth clung to his heels. He paused
before a bed of tall, red flowers. Most blooms had
been torn and broken by yesterday’s storm, their
fleshy petals drooping, wilted, scorched. The reedy
stems bore yellow and brown patches, signs of decay.
Only one flower stood tall and erect on a taut stem—
a blazing red blossom, its base a cluster of yellow
stamens.
As if it sprang from this night, Ruprecht thought.
This night! That vast, heavy roar, full of thunderous
blows and chaos’s wonders. How to name this
night—terrible bliss! Oh—and far, far off, those
sounds: shrieking weathervanes, old Marianne’s
howling and whimpering, until Lorenz silenced her.
Ruprecht had just cleaned his shoes on a grassy
strip but stepped back into the wet, black, sticky earth
of the flowerbed, snapping off the proud, fiery
bloom. He’d bring it to Helmina.
He passed the old tower and through a echoing
gate arch, its walls hung with rusty chains, into the
courtyard.
The estate manager, Augenthaler, had just ridden
in and dismounted, speaking with the overseer.
Augenthaler was the first to accept the inevitable,
recognizing Ruprecht as the new master. A talk over
the wedding feast had shown him Ruprecht’s
expertise in farming. He needed to curry favor,
abandoning resistance.
With a courteous greeting, he approached
Ruprecht. The overseer stepped back.
Ruprecht noticed Augenthaler’s unease, like one
with something to say but unsure how to say it.
“What is it?” he asked.
“It’s not good news,” Augenthaler forced out.
“The morning after… well, after a wedding, one
should bring only good news…”
“Speak, then—speak,” Ruprecht urged. What
people deem a calamity is often just a mishap, easily
fixed. He smiled: not just happiness, but misfortune
means different things to different people.
“Yeees!” Augenthaler said, tapping drying mud
from his leather gaiters with his riding crop. “When a
wedding guest… folks say it means something…”
“Please, I don’t understand a word.”
“Well… Baron Kestelli shot himself last night.”
“Shot himself?”
“Yes—with an army revolver, clean through the
temple.”
Ruprecht pictured the baron, his twitching face,
struggling to offer congratulations yesterday. Then, at
the feast, he’d given a jocular speech. Oh—a ghastly
jest before a revolver’s muzzle. Death had
breakfasted with them. Who could’ve known? With
his high, lisping voice, the baron delivered one of
those merry toasts typical of such occasions. His
shoulders quaked as if lashed. His face was a mask.
Ruprecht climbed thoughtfully to the breakfast
room. This was truly unpleasant news. A vile affair!
How to tell Helmina? Should he mimic Augenthaler,
circling like a cat around hot porridge? No—Helmina
was strong enough to bear it.
He found her in the room. The balcony door had
just been shut, and the large green tiled stove hadn’t
yet warmed the air. Helmina sat shivering at the table
in her green kimono, arms crossed, hands tucked
away. As Ruprecht entered, she yawned like a cat,
revealing a rosy throat.
“Good morning, dearest,” he said, kissing her
lightly on the forehead. “I brought you a flower. I
was in the garden. It’s the very last.”
“Thank you,” Helmina said, placing the bloom on
the snowy tablecloth. Like a bloodstain on linen,
Ruprecht thought. He braced himself—no beating
around the bush.
“Please, don’t be alarmed. It’s a sad matter. Baron
Kestelli shot himself last night.”
Helmina’s eyes widened, fixed. She stared at
Ruprecht, a green glow in her gaze. She rose, limbs
taut and strong, as if to cry out. Her small fist rested
beside the red flower on the cloth. Her kimono
parted, baring a sliver of white throat. She no longer
shivered.
“Ah… so he did!” she said.
“What, did you expect it?”
Her face paled. Her hair seemed to writhe!
Medusa! Ruprecht thought. She smiled now.
“Expect? Not exactly. But he always talked of
doing it. I laughed at him.”
“Tell me, does he have family?”
“An uncle, I think, and a married sister. By the
way…” Helmina turned to the stove, her back to
Ruprecht, “has he… left a will? They haven’t
searched yet, I suppose?”
“The manager didn’t mention one.”
“I’d like… I’d like to see him again. I’ll ride over
after breakfast. Will you come?”
Ruprecht found her wish odd. Everyone knew the
baron loved her. Such a move would spark bold
rumors. Still, he didn’t want to seem petty or narrow.
Let the world talk.
After breakfast, Helmina had horses saddled, and
they rode to Rotbirnbach. The sky shone in pure,
vaulted, ringing white. Autumn’s last beauty was
trapped beneath, refined and spiritualized by Earth’s
forces. Helmina chatted as if heading to a picnic.
“Oh… his relatives always wanted him under
guardianship. Now he’s tricked them, slipped away.
He spent too much of their money. There won’t be
much left, but something… Old Kestelli had a vast
fortune.”
They reached Rotbirnbach, riding into the castle.
All was in disarray. An old maid wept by a trough
where pigs fed, rubbing her eyes with filthy fists,
gray streaks smearing her face. A servant, his livery
vest half-buttoned, led them to the bedroom where
the baron lay temporarily. In haste, they’d moved the
bed under its silk canopy to the room’s center. On
two chairs at the headboard, long candles burned in
silver holders, too thick for them, shaved down to fit.
Shaved wax bits littered the floor around the holders.
A linen sheet draped the body, outlining human
contours. At the head, a bloody stain bloomed.
Helmina approached the bed with steady steps,
then hesitated. She lifted the sheet, lowered her head,
and stared at the mute, mangled skull.
Ruprecht stood behind his wife, watching her
back. Strands of hair floated around her delicate ears
in the breeze from open windows.