Anarchistbanjo's World

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

Tenth Chapter
Lorenz returned from his leave two days later.
He’d been in Vienna but, having said he was going to
Linz, he traveled a few stations past Hadersdorf, then
returned on the Linz train to connect with the
Kamptal line.
One couldn’t be too cautious. Ruprecht showed no
trace of suspicion, but that treacherous Indian’s
menacing silence made him unapproachable.
As Lorenz reached the castle, Maurerwenzel was
crossing the courtyard. In his blue apron, he moved
with deliberate care, each step proving he was at
work. Maurerwenzel had two gaits, starkly different.
For work, he used “the slow”; for the tavern after,
“the swift.” A Social Democrat, he knew his labor’s
worth and his duty to the union, refusing to sell
himself cheaply to capital.
“What’s up, Wenzel?” Lorenz asked, in the
affable tone he used to charm the “locals.”
Maurerwenzel spat—a punctuation mark before
speaking. “I’m workin’,” he said, with emphasis
befitting the event’s gravity.
“What’s to do?” Lorenz laced his words with a
hint of dialect when speaking to the “locals,” just
enough to signal condescension.
Maurerwenzel squinted at the valet from under his
cap’s brim. “The castle’s got a hole,” he said.
“Water’s got to the wine…”
“How so?”
“’Cause the castle’s got a hole… Old castles don’t
hold up no more… Foundations wobble… aye, my
friend, that’s how it is… New times do that…” The
lofty symbolism of his words was a balm to
Maurerwenzel.
Lorenz stared, alarmed. Maurerwenzel squinted
back. “So, water’s in the cellar—”
“Aye… come see the mess yerself.”
With a swaying stride, Maurerwenzel led Lorenz
across the courtyard, through the gate, and around the
outer wall to the castle’s rear. Here, the hillside rose
steeply, furrowed by rivulets exposing clay. Between
the slope and the castle’s towering wall, a streambed
had formed over time, channeling the rivulets. Spring
rains, autumn deluges, and summer storms had
battered the ancient walls for centuries. Now, water
gurgled and churned in cracks and the streambed.
Meltwater rushed toward the Kamp.
Maurerwenzel had dammed the stream slightly
above the damaged spot. “See, here’s the hole,” he
said. A gap yawned between the castle wall’s stones,
its edges worn smooth, showing years of water’s
work.
“And nothin’ happened in the cellar…?”
“Don’t fret, plenty o’ wine’s left. Water went out
another hole.”
Lorenz insisted on checking himself, unease
creeping in, though he couldn’t pinpoint why. He
disliked outsiders poking around the castle, sniffing
in every corner.
Inspecting the cellar damage, he found water had
cleared a path to unknown chambers. A jolt hit him.
He set to exploring thoroughly. After half an hour, he
returned, his lantern trembling, struggling to lock the
wooden gate.
He rushed to Frau Helmina, relieved to find her
alone. He couldn’t hide his agitation.
“Lucky I came back so soon,” he said.
“What now? You’re always rattled lately. Enjoy
scaring me?” Helmina was peevish, soured by a letter
from her Vienna lawyer with bad news about her
lawsuit.
“I feel something closing in. It’s in my bones.”
Lorenz wiped cold sweat from his brow and sank
heavily into a delicate Rococo chair. “You, of
course… sitting up here, caring for nothing… if I
don’t keep watch! Since that botched job, I’ve had no
peace. Leave the house once, and trouble strikes.
Water’s flooded the wine cellar…”
“I know, a terrible tragedy,” Helmina said
mockingly.
“Yes… a calamity. If nothing worse happened, it’s
a miracle. The water opened a way to another cellar,
then more beyond… down to the tower… and
through a hole in the wall, you can see inside…”
Helmina paled, setting down her nail file. “You
can see…?”
“Now it hits you. This wretched nest is riddled
like a molehill… I knew nothing of it…”
“So long as no one else does,” Helmina said,
picking up the file. “Only you go to the wine cellar.”
“That’s just it,” Lorenz snapped, furious. “I
shouldn’t have let the key out of my hand. That
Indian, Jana, I don’t trust… he fetched wine the day
before yesterday.”
Fear leapt at Helmina, lodging in her neck. She
stared wide-eyed at Lorenz.
“He found the damage… we don’t know if he saw
more… if he went further…”
“No,” Helmina said, regaining composure. “He
surely saw nothing.”
“You know that, of course!” Lorenz scoffed.
“Hand me a cognac… my stomach’s knotting…
quick…” He leaned back, breathing deeply.
As Helmina poured, he muttered, “You know…
sure, you always know exactly.”
“I don’t know,” Helmina said humbly. “But I’m
certain. If Jana had noticed anything, he’d have told
Ruprecht… and if Ruprecht knew, I’d have sensed it.
He can’t hide that well.”
“I don’t bank on such guesses. You’re already
sunk when you rely on that.”
Helmina gazed thoughtfully. “Even if he
knows…” she said slowly, “I doubt he’d… no, we
can be calm either way.”
“Oh, really?” Lorenz drawled mockingly. He
slapped his knees, dust puffing into the sunlight. “No,
my dear, this must end. It can’t go on. Anton says so
too… and he wants you in Vienna. To discuss
everything. Not at his office, but his apartment…”
A door slammed somewhere. Children’s laughter
rang clear. “Fine,” Helmina said quickly. “Get up…
I’ll go to Vienna. I need to see my lawyer anyway…”
When the children, trailed by Miss Nelson,
entered, Lorenz stood rigid before Mama, receiving
orders to pack the small suitcase for a Vienna trip in
two days.
When Helmina visited her lawyer about the
lawsuit, she preferred not to discuss it much with
Ruprecht. A brief hint sufficed. He disliked the
matter. The inheritance dispute irked him. Seeing
Rotbirnbach’s roofs on his field rides sparked
annoyance. But Helmina was unyielding.
Dr. Weinberger only confirmed his letter’s grim
news. No stubbornness would help. They were
losing, forced to retreat, yielding ground after
ground. Helmina blazed with fury. Her silk skirts
crackled ominously as she stormed to her carriage
outside the lawyer’s office. An electric tension
surrounded her, ready to spark words like lightning.
Driving from central Vienna to Hernals, she tore her
batiste handkerchief to shreds. The city’s
monumental buildings and streets slid past, closing
behind the carriage. Plainer districts’ unadorned
houses loomed ahead.
Her mood didn’t improve when, alighting, her
skirt’s trim caught, tearing a piece off. With a furious
glare at the coachman, she crackled into Sykora’s
doorway.
The Fortuna chief’s apartment, on the first floor,
was adorned with trust-inspiring items: ornate-framed
certificates, diplomas, badges from pious and
charitable societies, group photos from festivals, and
pictures of happy couples thanking their matchmaker.
Rare clients received here must have felt in the home
of a humanitarian benefactor.
Sykora awaited Helmina on the sofa beneath a
large oil print of Mariazell’s Church of Grace.
“It’s outrageous,” Helmina said after a curt
greeting, “unbelievable—I’m going to lose my
lawsuit.”
“I never had much faith in it,” Sykora replied
calmly.
“So I’ve toiled for nothing,” Helmina raged. “It
was no small effort to maneuver Baron Kestelli into
it… I had to painstakingly convince him it was his
revenge… and now I’m to be cheated!”
Anton Sykora drummed thoughtfully, savoring the
moment, on the table. “It’s no disaster! Think it
through. What’s Rotbirnbach to you? What would
you do with that castle? You say yourself it needs
heaps of money to make it profitable. What’s the
gain? Don’t be stubborn, Helmi! Let Rotbirnbach go.
Besides, you won’t have time to turn it around. Drop
false ambitions. Let’s be practical. We must wrap
things up here.”
“Lorenz said the same,” Helmina retorted
mulishly.
“He doesn’t even know how urgent it’s become.
Today, Diamant pestered me again. The creep’s
getting nastier. His hints are clearer. Seems he’s got
dirt on us. We weren’t careful enough. He mentioned
wealthy foreigners who used our services with little
luck. What else could that mean but he suspects…?
Short and sweet, he’s starting to threaten. Maybe he
wants in as a partner… we have to leave. Your
business needs sorting fast.”
Helmina fidgeted nervously with her purse,
snapping it open and shut, each click a sharp pop.
She had to tell Sykora what Lorenz feared.
He listened, mouth agape. When she finished, his
jaws clamped, chewing slowly. His eyebrows
climbed his forehead. Sykora pondered. “Well, then,”
he said, “Vorderschluder’s idyll must end, Helmi.
Everything’s pushing to a close. I’m sorry to insist;
Lorenz thinks it’ll be hard for you…”
Helmina glared venomously. “I won’t take blame.
You know it’s not my fault this idyll isn’t over.”
“Yes, yes… I know,” Sykora soothed genially.
“You mean… there’s no immediate danger… well!
Maybe your husband’s shrewder than you think.”
Helmina laughed scornfully, twisting her purse’s
chain around her finger. “Anyway… that Malay’s a
problem. He’s got to go.”
Shrugging, she looked past Sykora out the
window. Across the street, a young girl leaned out,
laughing at someone below. Helmina seethed, hating
her.
“Do what you must,” she said.
“Well… if you won’t pitch in, send Lorenz to me.
We’ll sort it out. But soon, hear me… as soon as
possible…”
“Yes… yes!”
“Then we’re square…” Sykora said, rising
massively from his seat. “Staying in Vienna tonight?
I’ve a nice box for Ronacher. Come! No one’ll see
you…”
“No, thanks… I’m heading home this afternoon.”
“As you wish. Servus, Helmi. Keep your eyes
open! Send Lorenz right away.” Chuckling, he
escorted her to the door.
Helmina needed no pretext. She truly left for
home that afternoon.
As her carriage rounded the last forest bend on the
high plain, the castle in view, the horses suddenly
shied, snorting and rearing. A man had burst from the
thicket, leaping clumsily over the roadside ditch. He
landed, arms and legs flailing, right before the horses.
The coachman cursed, bracing back on his seat.
The stranger, seeing his blunder, grew flustered.
He doffed his brown travel cap, stammering
something drowned by the coachman’s oaths.
Helmina eyed him with an irked smile. He was
buttoned into a tight yellow overcoat, creases
straining at the buttons, his arms curving outward as
if stuffed in sausage casing. His upturned collar
framed a clean-shaven face, blue eyes wide with
dismay, humbly begging pardon. He stood on sturdy,
boxy American boots. Even without his gray
umbrella, Helmina wouldn’t have doubted he was a
schoolman.
The horses pulled forward. The stranger, cap still
off, pleaded forgiveness from the roadside. As the
carriage moved, Helmina gave him a fleeting nod.
The bold leaper watched her go. So, that was Frau
Helmina von Boschan. He whistled through his teeth.
She lived up to her fame as a beauty. His expression
shifted. Humility gave way to a hard, resolute will;
his flustered blue eyes turned cold, clear, gray. The
carriage dipped into the river valley, winding through
the road’s final turns.