Anarchistbanjo's World

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

No one knows about it. We’ve a
cracking tip. You take a 33⅓ percent stake.”
Helmina had returned to her tabouret, sitting
higher than the men, sunk in soft cushions. She
looked down at them. “I’ve no money. How am I to
invest?” she said mockingly.
“What’s your divine husband for?”
“You know, Anton, we agreed on separate assets.
He covers the household, gives me a monthly sum for
clothes and trifles. But otherwise, we each do as we
please. There’s no joint purse.”
“You’ll bring him around.”
“You think it’s easier than it is. He’s stubborn. He
took it badly, for instance, that I’m fighting for
Kestelli’s inheritance.”
“Idiot!” Sykora muttered into his cognac.
A white cuff flashed as he swirled the cognac with
a connoisseur’s steadiness.
“Ruprecht’s a peculiar man. Catching him was
hard. He’s not as dumb as the others. I wrote him in
Abbazia, invited him to a rendezvous. He sent his
servant to say he wouldn’t come. I realized I had to
approach him differently.”
“You got him in the end.”
“Yes… but it was tough. Not a cookie-cutter job. I
had to get psychological.”
Sykora roared with laughter. “Oh… that
psychology… it’s simple… all nature’s built on it…”
He downed a cognac, shaking. “By the way, this
cognac’s truly excellent—yes!”
He rose, lumbering across the Afghan rug, arms
dangling. “Well—if he won’t give in willingly…
we’ve got the mutual inheritance clause, thank
goodness.” The stove drew him. He pushed aside the
screen, yawned, and warmed his back.
Helmina stared ahead. “He’s the fourth,” she said.
“Yes, yes!” Sykora smiled genially. “The fourth,
not counting the others—the ones no one knows
about.”
Lorenz removed the Havana from his teeth, half-
opening his eyes. “Helmi’s in love with him.”
Helmina snapped at him. “That’s not true. It’s
absurd. I wouldn’t dream of falling for a man.” Her
green eyes flashed.
“Now, now,” Sykora soothed. “You like him,
that’s plain. But we’ve given you enough time. You
might be tired of this new wedded bliss. You didn’t
make such a fuss before when we asked you to finish
things. I repeat, we need money. And another thing—
I’ve got a hunch. I’m worried the ground’s getting
too hot here. That Dr. Edelstein acts like he knows
something. He supplied some of your candidates
back then. Must’ve noticed they vanished, never
resurfaced. Now he’s getting nosy.”
Lorenz opened his eyes fully. “Then it’s time to
move on. Diamant’s useful, but not trustworthy. The
Galician petroleum deal must be our last here. We
agreed, in that case, we’d go to America. You’re only
getting lovelier, Helmi; your best years are ahead. In
America, we can run the game on a grander scale.
They don’t pry into your business or homes there.”
As Lorenz spoke, Sykora nodded approvingly,
beaming with paternal pride. He swept his broad
hand through the air, as if drawing a thick line under
a ledger. “Quite right,” he said. “You must decide,
Helmi. Time’s short. Herr von Boschan’s hurt
himself with that marriage contract. His caution’s his
worst enemy. Why give us such a golden opportunity
upon his death? The others had it better, especially
Dankwardt, who prolonged his life, as if he knew his
will was his death sentence… Well, am I getting no
food today?”
“I’m going,” Lorenz said, pulling in his legs,
slapping his knees, and rising. “Let’s see what’s
cooking.” With a self-assured lackey’s poise, he left.
Sykora watched with a fond, amused smile. “Hear
that, Helmi: ‘Let’s see what’s cooking’… like the
German chancellor… sapperment… the lad’s come
into his own… a real joy. He knows what he wants
and can do it… ‘Let’s see’… that’s a tone that says
you’re dealing with someone. A fine fellow. You two
show what upbringing can do. He was such a frail
child… a breeze could’ve toppled him. Now he’s a
bear. I reckon he’s almost as strong as I was. His
sailor years did him good, the weak little brother.”
Sykora rambled on, praising Lorenz like a smitten
lover—his courage, resolve, demeanor, wit. Helmina,
meanwhile, toyed with the gold-embroidered cloth’s
fringes on a fauteuil’s armrest, silent.
He paused, chewed his massive jaws, snorted, and
asked, “So, Helmi, when do we start with the
Galician petroleum?”
Helmina shrugged.
“It’s up to you. You must get us the money. Don’t
forget, I made you what you are. You’d have rotted
in the gutter if I hadn’t found you. I think I can count
on gratitude. You’re a landowner now, a ‘von.’ Who
knows what awaits across the ocean?”
A bell shrilled. Helmina rose. “No need to remind
me. I know we’re bound for life and death. It’ll be
done as you wish. But I’ll try first to persuade him to
part with the money willingly. How much do you
need?”
“Half a million.”
“A tidy start. I’ll try. But you must give me time.”
“Not too long… please. Let’s go. My stomach’s
rebelling.”
Before the castle’s lady and her guest, Lorenz slid
open the dining room door, standing in haughty
deference as a flawless lackey until they passed.
Neither glanced at him. He closed the door and
joined Johann to serve. The leisurely table talk,
dominated by Sykora, first touched on Helmina’s late
husband. Herr Dankwardt had been Sykora’s friend.
With deep emotion, the survivor recounted his
nobility, warmth, and philosophical calm.
Mentioning a line from Dankwardt’s last letter, his
voice broke, unable to continue.
Old Johann’s tears streamed down his cheeks,
dripping into the mayonnaise he served. He longed
for a handkerchief, a need growing urgent.
The conversation then turned elsewhere. The Karl
Borromaeus Society in Vorderschluder planned to
dedicate a new church banner. Collection lists
circulated through the countryside; donation baskets
jingled at doorsteps. One had to contribute to the
good cause. Frau Helmina recounted how resistance
had arisen in Vorderschluder itself. The paper factory
workers, stirred by a rebellious spirit, had been
roused by Social Democratic agitators. They’d
organized, aiming to push through a socialist rag’s
editor at the next provincial election. Meanwhile,
they took pleasure in railing against those rallying
around the Karl Borromaeus Society. Anton Sykora
pledged to bolster their efforts from Vienna.
After the third glass of Gumpoldskirchner, as his
cigar burned low, the guest rose, kissed the hostess’s
hand, and took his leave with heartfelt thanks.
Lorenz led the way with a candlestick.
On the second-floor corridor, a brown-skinned
man passed them. A white turban and belt gleamed
briefly before a door clicked shut.
“Who’s that?” the Fortuna chief asked.
“A Malay servant of Herr von Boschan.”
“Dangerous?”
“I doubt it. He can be handled.”
Entering his bedroom, Sykora paused, listening. A
howling chant rose from the courtyard, like the voice
of a darkness filled with terrors, a voice from the
depths. “That old hag still alive?” he asked, irritated.
Lorenz set down the candlestick, drawing back the
tulle curtain from the guest bed. “Helmi says she’s
harmless,” he replied.
“And what do you think of her—of Helmi?”
“I said it already… she’s in love. Won’t last long,
I hope.”
“We don’t have much time. You’ll need to nudge
things along.”
“Once he becomes a nuisance, he’s done for. But
you can’t push her too hard.”
“Working with women…” Sykora grumbled,
“always a risky business. Go now, Lorenz—people
will wonder why you’re lingering. Good night.”
The two giants shook hands, the floor trembling
faintly. Sykora undressed slowly, sat pensively on a
chair, and, feeling the chill, climbed into bed. He
extinguished the light, chewed contentedly, and fell
asleep.