Anarchistbanjo's World

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

Thirteenth Chapter
After Schiereisen’s departure, Ruprecht lingered
in a strange state. The strength with which he’d
parried the feints and counter-feints of their verbal
duel deserted him instantly. He took a few steps but
soon collapsed onto a gothic chest, slumping, letting
the bear pelt’s tufts slide through his fingers, staring
blankly ahead.
He was utterly drained, apathetic.
Yet, he felt a wild, churning life within. He was a
vessel where fermentation raged. As a jug knows
nothing of the young wine’s storm, he understood
little of what roiled inside him.
Thoughts stirred in him.
It was a thinking detached from the body, a
foreign force trapped in a tight space, hindered by its
limits, yet bent on breaking free.
Despite this tumult of thoughts, he grew wearier.
At last, he fell asleep, slumped on the gothic chest,
head drooping.
When he awoke, dusk had fallen. He felt slightly
stronger, his thoughts less jumbled, somewhat
ordered. He realized they arose in his aching head,
and he needed to shake off a stupor to grasp their
intent.
To the window! Deep, fierce breaths, a chest full
of evening air! Spring stood ripe and youthful, a
golden crown wreathed in ostrich plumes hovering
over black western forests. Below in the courtyard,
someone spoke—the overseer, two children
scampering around him. A cow lowed, long and
hollow, like a vast, echoing gate opening. The
overseer’s wife stood by the low garden wall, beating
fluffed featherbeds aired before night.
This was bright, jubilant life, untiring despite the
dusk.
And a man had been here, thought a scholar but
surely no such thing—not one whose trade was
learning. His aim was hardly in doubt. But to what
end?
His thoughts now marched neatly, one tethered to
another’s coattails.
No question—he’d meant to reveal himself. Why?
He’d taken trust, seeking an ally. But Ruprecht
wouldn’t join him. The thrill of this dangerous game
wasn’t yet buried in passion’s ashes. The wild torch
still burned, smoldering, sometimes nearly snuffed
when weakness and lethargy descended like a cloud
of numbing gas. Schiereisen was right: Ruprecht was
ill. Something dire crept within him. He’d refused to
admit it, but now it was cowardly to turn away,
pretending nothing was wrong. These states—
narcolepsy, exhaustion, numbing limbs, and above
all, raging headaches—were signs of decay. So too
were the reeling, blind desires that still bound him to
Helmina, without release.
He needed clarity, greater caution.
Ruprecht closed the window and went to dinner.
His legs wobbled before finding the floor. His hands
trembled, lifting fork and knife. He jested lightly with
the children, listening as Helmina spoke of the
upcoming banner consecration.
She’d donated a large sum, earning the role of
banner patroness. Ruprecht disapproved, believing
the money better spent on a charitable or public
cause. The paper factory workers were agitated,
demanding higher wages and affordable housing.
Such displays only stoked their resentment.
Helmina’s pale brow darkened, menacing. “I don’t
understand you,” she said loftily. “I told you my
plans. You raised no objections then. It’s too late
now.”
Ruprecht had no reply. Yes, Helmina had
mentioned it—during one of his blinding headaches,
when he was indifferent to all, unable to stir or form
words. Indeed, he’d made no objections, too
incapacitated.
They lingered together. Helmina was buoyant,
having silenced him. She mocked Schiereisen’s
clumsiness, his bourgeois narrowness, then paused.
“Why are you staring so oddly?” she asked.
“Oh, nothing! I just think… he’s very capable—in
his field.”
“Capability never saved anyone from being dull.
Or comical. Specialists are always dull or comical. I
see with regret you’re becoming a specialist.”
Another lash of her whip, a cruelty Helmina had
lately enjoyed inflicting on the defenseless. Today, he
felt it, noting it on her ledger. For now, better to act
as if he accepted it.
Alone in his bedroom, he locked the door and sank
into his rocking chair to think. A weapon against
Helmina must be forged. He’d left investigations to
Jana, who’d died for it. Ruprecht didn’t know Jana’s
plans, having refused early reports. But one thing was
clear: Jana sought a way into the tower’s lowest
level, after the cellar hole was sealed under Lorenz’s
watch…
No more tonight—the night had come, his strength
spent. Tomorrow, he’d wake tormented by
headaches, limp and spiritless. These nights were
horrific, filled with ghastly dreams and a sense of
bondage. Sleep restored nothing, only drained him.
Schiereisen had spoken oddly of sleep… or the
bed? Yes—it might be wise to inspect the bed he
entrusted himself to.
Ruprecht ensured the shutters were tight, covered
the keyhole with a travel cap hung over the key, and
switched on the bedside electric lamp.
His inspection was thorough, systematic. He could
still muster his nerves for this. Starting at the foot, he
stripped the bedding, opened pillows and blankets,
sifting through feathers. He didn’t know what he
sought, but felt compelled to fulfill a promise to
someone trustworthy.
He shone the lamp into every crevice, traced every
wooden seam, ran his finger along edges, wiping dust
from corners. The light danced over the mahogany’s
polish, spilling between slats to the floor. Another
bed came to mind—the one at Rotbirnbach, where a
corpse lay, beside a dusty rectangle marking its place.
No—Ruprecht wouldn’t fall as Helmina’s victim,
like Kestelli, Jana, or the others.
He searched eagerly, along the sides to the
headboard. His eyes, honed on pampas and Indian
mountains, regained sharpness in the hunt’s fervor.
His fingers glided carefully over the wood, growing
certain he’d find something. Through Schiereisen,
fate had sent him a warning.
Suddenly, his probing finger felt a faint roughness.
He traced up and down. A fine line emerged. Raising
the lamp, he saw a barely perceptible square of seams
in the wood, seemingly resealed but now slightly
gaping—at the headboard, where his crown would
rest when lying on his right side.
Ruprecht drew his pocketknife, wedging the blade
into the seam. The steel bent, the wood creaked. Then
he heard soft, cautious steps in the corridor. Someone
approached along the wall. His senses sharpened. He
thought he heard hands grazing the wall. The sound
was close… Ruprecht doused the light… someone
stood outside the door. Damn it—they were spying
on his sleep, ear pressed to the door! Fine. The
eavesdropper would get their show. Ruprecht clicked
his tongue against his palate, breathing raggedly,
groaning softly, and pushed the headboard, making
the seams creak. Wild West instincts flared—
memories of campfires and hunts. A thrill coursed
through him, deceiving the listener. Let them think
they heard restless sleep, moans from bad dreams. A
small victory after many defeats.
After a while, the eavesdropper retreated. The soft
steps and wall-tapping faded into silence.
Ruprecht waited, then relit his lamp, shielding its
glow from the door. On one wall hung a small
arsenal: rifles, long Arab muskets, scimitars, South
American bolas, the lasso that earned him Police
Commissioner Mirko Bovacs’s gratitude, and
assorted deadly trinkets. Ruprecht chose a hunting
knife with a stag-horn handle and broad, sturdy
blade—perfect for the task.
Ruprecht proceeded with utmost care. After a
quarter-hour, a square piece of the bed’s headboard
slid silently into his hand. He saw it had been sawed
and reglued. The hunting knife continued its work,
splitting the board into its two halves. A scrap of
tissue paper fluttered to the floor. Ruprecht’s heart
pounded steadily. He was himself again, composed.
Calmly, he examined the halves in his hands. Each
had a small hollow carved into it, forming a tiny
cavity that had held the tissue paper. Ruprecht picked
up the paper and unfolded it. Inside was a small grain
of gray substance, an unremarkable mass—nothing
else.
Ruprecht studied it, puzzled. That was all? This
elaborate secret for just this? But what had he
expected to find? A cold shiver ran through him. A
thought flared like a torch. With reverent awe, he
gazed at the gray speck between his fingertips. Didn’t
cosmic riddles cling to this tiny thing? Threads of
grim pasts tied to faint, barely glimpsed futures in
distant times. Here was a symbol of the maxim:
smallest causes, greatest effects. A shorthand for
notions of matter’s immortality, the eternity of force.
And yet—a murder weapon.
Carefully, he placed the speck on a glass ashtray
beside the clock on the dresser. Then he set about
restoring the headboard. He fitted the halves together
and reinserted the panel. No trace remained of its
removal.
Ruprecht washed his hands and, sprawled in his
rocking chair, smoked an Egyptian cigarette. He
watched the blue smoke rings, thinking of nothing. A
deep contentment filled him, a sense of centered
calm. His head ached, but that no longer mattered.
When the cigarette burned out, he crushed the stub
and undressed deliberately.
He slept dreamlessly, deeply, well into the
morning. After dressing, he wrote a letter and packed
his strange find in a small cardboard box. Old Johann
was tasked with taking both to the post office for
registered mail. The letter and box went to
Ruprecht’s childhood friend, the chemist Wetzl.
For now, there was nothing to do but wait.
In quiet Vorderschluder, a storm raged. Fanfares
blared, armies readied for battle. A strike had erupted
among the paper factory workers. Their demands
were rejected by management, and they’d declared
war.
In Vienna, strings of rebellion were pulled. A
newspaper editor had visited, arming the workers
with slogans they needed. Rauß, the rabble-rouser,
rose as deputy leader. He flailed his arms, bellowed,
and, judging by his fierce cries, capital should’ve
vanished by tomorrow, with labor triumphant
everywhere.