Anarchistbanjo's World

Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

Chapter Five
Informs about her father and how Death stood as Godfather
when Alraune came to life.
DR. Karl Petersen brought the Privy Councilor a large
beautifully bound book that he had prepared especially for
this project. The old ten Brinken family crest showed on
the upper left corner of the red leather volume. In the
middle glowed the large golden letters ATB.
The first page had been left blank. The professor had reserved it
to write some early history himself. The next page began with a
paragraph in Dr. Petersen’s hand. He wrote of the short and simple
life history of the mother and of her character and demeanor.
He had asked the prostitute to tell her life story and then quickly
wrote it down. Even her previous convictions were mentioned. Alma
had been sentenced twice for vagrancy; five or six times due to
violations of police regulations concerning her profession and once
because of theft–Yet, she maintained that she was innocent of the
theft–the gentleman had given her the diamond pin.
Further down in the second paragraph Dr. Petersen had written
down things about the presumptive father, the unemployed miner,
Peter Weinland Noerissen, who had been condemned by a court and
jury and sentenced to death in the name of the King.
The public prosecutor had presented the facts in an amiable,
charming fashion. It appeared that P. Noerissen had been predestined
to such a fate from infancy. His mother had been a notorious drinker.
His father, an occasional worker, had been previously convicted
because of frequent crude misdemeanors. One of his brothers was
even now serving ten years in prison on similar grounds.
Peter Weinland Noerissen had become apprenticed to a
blacksmith after he finished school. This had played an important part
in the proceedings because of the skill and strength that had been
displayed in the murder. Many witnesses gave evidence of his
displays of unusual strength. He had a history of pushing himself on
females even when they said they were not interested.
He had been released from military service because of a
congenital defect. He was missing two fingers on his left hand. He
worked in several diverse factories before finally coming to the
Phoenix mine in the Ruhr industrial district. He was not a member of
any trade union, not the old socialist union, the Christian or the
mysterious Elks.
He was fired from the mine when he pulled a knife on an
overseer. This was a serious violation and he received his first
sentence of a year in jail. He was released after his counsel for the
defense argued during appeal that the conviction was only based upon
the word of the overseer with no real evidence that it was attempted
manslaughter.
After that he was on the road, had crossed over the Alps twice
and fought his way from Naples to Amsterdam. While he did work
occasionally, he spent most of his time as a vagabond or hobo and
was further convicted of a few other petty crimes. It was enough for
the public prosecutor to assume that in the course of seven or eight
years he had become a hardened criminal with no conscience.
The crime that he was now condemned for was not that clear
either. It was still not entirely certain if it had been a robbery gone
wrong or an intentional sex murder. The defense tried to portray it as
if the accused had only intended to rape the well dressed and well
endowed nineteen year old daughter of the home owner, Anna Sibilla
Trautwein, when he encountered her in the Ellinger Rhine meadow
that fateful evening.
That when he tried to rape the strong and vigorous girl she
started screaming and he pulled his knife only to threaten her into
silence. It didn’t work and she fought back more vigorously and in the
struggle was stabbed. He only finished her off out of the fear of
discovery. It was then only natural that he take her petty tip money
and jewelry to help him make good his escape.
This account did not match the condition of the corpse itself. It
was established that the terrible dismemberment of the victim’s vitals
was most skillfully done and the cut almost workman like. The public
prosecutor ended with a plea that the appeal to the Imperial court be
refused, that there was no need for further reprieve and that the
execution take place early in the morning on the following day at six
o’clock.
In conclusion the book stated that the delinquent did agree to Dr.
Petersen’s request on the condition that he be brought two bottles of
whiskey that evening around eight o’clock.
The Privy Councilor finished reading and then gave the book
back.
“The father is cheaper than the mother!” he laughed.
“You will attend the execution as well. Don’t forget to bring the
common salt solution and other things you will need. Hurry back as
soon as possible. Every minute counts, especially in a situation like
we have here. There will scarcely be enough time. I will expect you at
the clinic early in the morning. Don’t bother finding an attendant. The
princess will assist us.”
“Princess Wolkonski, Your Excellency?” Dr. Petersen asked.
“Certainly,” nodded the professor. “I have my reasons for
bringing her into this little operation–Besides, she is very interested in
such things. By the way–how is our patient today?”
The assistant doctor said, “Ah, your Excellency. It is the same
old story, always the same now for the two weeks that she has been
here. She cries, screams and raves–In short, she wants out. Today she
smashed a couple of wash basins to pieces.”
“Have you seriously tried to talk with her again?” asked the
professor.
“I tried, but she scarcely let me get a word out,” answered Dr.
Petersen. “It is fortunate that tomorrow is finally almost here–How we
can ever keep her here until the child comes into the world is a puzzle
to me.”
“That won’t be your problem Petersen,” the Privy Councilor
clapped him benevolently on the shoulder. “We will find a way–Just
do your duty.”
The assistant doctor said, “Your Excellency can count on me for
that.”
The early morning sun kissed the honeysuckle leaves in the arbor
and clean gardens where the Privy Councilor’s white women’s clinic
lay. It lightly fondled the many colored dahlias in their dew fresh beds
and caressed the large deep blue clematis on the wall.
Many colored finches and large thrushes ran across the smooth
path, scurried through the evenly mown lawn and quickly flew off as
eight iron hoofs struck sparks as they lightly hit the cobblestones of
the street.
The princess climbed out of the carriage and came with quick
strides through the garden. Her cheeks glowed, her strong bosom
breathed heavily as she climbed the high steps up to the house. The
Privy Councilor came up and opened the door for her.
“Come in, I’ve just had some tea made for you.”
She said–in a panting and hurried voice–“I just came from–there.
I saw it. It–it was fabulous–exciting.”
He led her into the room. “Where have you just come from, your
Highness? From the– execution?”
“Yes,” she said. “Dr. Petersen will be here soon–I received a
ticket–just last night. It was intense–very intense.”
The Privy Councilor offered her a chair. “May I pour for you?”
She nodded, “Please, your Excellency. Very kind of you! A pity
that you missed it! He was a splendid fellow–tall–strong.”
“Who?” He asked, “The delinquent?”
She drank her tea, “Yes, certainly, him! The murderer! Muscular
and strapping–a powerful chest–like a boxer. He wore some kind of
blue sweater–it was open at the neck. No fat, only muscle and sinews.
Like a bull.”
“Could your Highness see the execution clearly?” asked the
Privy Councilor.
“Perfectly, your Excellency!” she cried. “I stood at the window
in the hall. The guillotine was right in front of me. He swayed a bit as
he stepped up. They had to support him.”
“Please, another piece of sugar, your Excellency.”
The Privy Councilor served her. “Did he say anything?”
“Yes,” said the princess. “Twice, but each time only one word.
The first time as the attorney read the sentence. That’s when he cried
out half-loud–but I can’t really repeat it–”
“But your Highness!” The Privy Councilor grinned and patted
her lightly on the hand. “You certainly don’t need to get embarrassed
in front of me.”
She laughed, “No, certainly not. Well then–but reach me another
slice of lemon. Thank you. Put it right there in the cup! Well then–he
said, no–I can’t say it.”
“Highness,” said the professor with mild reproof.
She said, “You must close your eyes first.”
The Privy Councilor thought, “Old monkey!” but he closed his
eyes. “Now?” he asked.
She still hesitated, “I–I will say it in French–”
“That’s fine–in French then!” he cried impatiently.
Then she pressed her lips together, bent forward and whispered
in his ear, “Merde!”
The professor bent backward, the princess’s strong perfume
bothered him. “So that’s what he said?”
“Yes,” she nodded. And he said it as if he was indifferent to it
all. I found it very attractive, almost gentleman like.”
“Certainly,” confirmed the Privy Councilor. “Only a pity that he
didn’t say it in French as well. What was the other word he said?”
“Oh, that was bad,” the princess sipped her tea, nibbled at a
cookie. It completely ruined the good impression he had made on me!
Just think, your Excellency, just as the executioner’s assistants seized
him, he suddenly began to scream and cry like a little child.”
“Well,” said the professor. “Another cup, your Highness?–And
what did he scream?”
“First he defended himself,” she explained. “The best he could,
silent and powerfully even though both hands were tightly tied behind
his back. There were three assistants and they threw themselves on
him while the executioner stood there watching quietly in his dress
suit and white gloves. At first it pleased me, how the murderer threw
off the three butchers, how they tore at him and pushed without
bringing him one step closer. Oh, it was terribly exciting, your
Excellency.”
“I can only imagine, your Highness,” he blurted out.
“But then,” she continued. “Then it all changed. One grabbed his
leg while another pushed his bound arms high and he stumbled
forward. At that moment he must have felt his resistance was useless,
that he was lost. Perhaps–Perhaps he had been a little drunk–and was
now suddenly very sober –Pfui–That’s when he screamed.”
The Privy Councilor smiled, “What did he scream? Must I close
my eyes again?”
“No,” she cried. “You can leave them open, your Excellency–He
became a coward, a pathetic coward, full of fear. He screamed,
‘Mama!–Mama!–Mama!’ dozens of times while they had him on his
knees, dragged him to the guillotine and pushed his head into the
circular opening of the board.”
“Was he still crying for his mama at the last moment?” asked the
Privy Councilor.
“No,” she answered. “Not at the very last. After the hard board
was locked firmly around his neck with his head sticking out the other
side he became very quiet. Something seemed to be going on inside of
him.”
The professor became very attentive, “Could you see his face,
your Highness? Could you guess at what was going on inside him?”
The princess said, “I could see him just as clearly as I see you
right now sitting in front of me–What was going on inside him–I
don’t really know–there was just an instant–After the executioner
looked around one last time to see that everything was ready–when
his hand pressed the button that released the blade. I saw the eyes of
the murderer, they stood wide open, with insane passion, saw his
mouth panting and his features contorted with desire–”
She stopped.
“Was that all?” inquired the Privy Councilor.
She finished, “Yes, then the guillotine fell and his head sprang
into the sack that one of the assistants held open- Please, reach me the
marmalade, your Excellency.”
There was a knock at the door. It opened and Dr. Petersen
stepped inside. In his hand swung a long glass tube, tightly corked
and wrapped in wadding.
“Good morning, your Highness,” he said. “Good morning, your
Excellency–Here–here it is.”
The princess sprang up, “Let me see–”
But the Privy Councilor held her back. “Slow down, your
Highness. You will see it soon enough. If it is all right with you, we
will get right to work.”
He turned to the assistant doctor, “I don’t know if it will be
important, but just in case it would be a good idea if you–”
His voice sunk as he put his lips to the ear of the doctor.
He nodded, “Very well, your Excellency. I will give the orders
immediately.”
They went through the white corridors and stopped just in front
of No. seventeen.
“Here she is,” said the Privy Councilor as he carefully opened
the door.
The room was entirely white, radiant with sunlight. The girl lay
deeply asleep in bed. A bright ray scurried in from the tightly barred
windows, trembled on the floor, clambered up a golden ladder, darted
across the sheets and nestled lovingly on her sweet cheek, plunging
her red hair into glowing flames. Her lips were moving–half-open–as
if she were lightly whispering words of love.
“She’s dreaming of her prince,” said the Privy Councilor.
Then he laid his cold, moist hand on her shoulder and shook it.
“Wake up Alma.”

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

Sixth Chapter
In one of the few Viennese alleys that hasn’t yet
surrendered all its past to the present, stands the
house of the marriage bureau “Fortuna.” A narrow
building, no wider than two windows. Above the
dark entrance, in a small niche, is a Mother of God
with the infant Jesus. The little Madonna wears a silk
dress, changed twice yearly. The Jesus child, perched
on her right arm, reaches eagerly for the orb of the
world, which his mother playfully holds out. Before
the glass shielding the figures from street dust, a
flame burns year-round in a red chalice. Passing
under the Madonna’s blessing, one enters the house,
climbs a dim staircase, and may knock at the first-
floor door bearing a tin sign inscribed “Fortuna.”
Here, the Madonna yields to the pagan goddess of
luck.
The “Come in!” answering the knock booms like a
shotgun blast. Entering, one finds Herr Anton
Sykora, and the shotgun makes sense. Clearly,
Sykora was once an athlete. His shoulders could still
bear a piano with two players; his neck is a bulging
ridge; his arms, swollen with muscle, strain his black
frock coat. Clean-shaven, he peers cheerfully through
gold-rimmed glasses, chewing constantly. His lips
are lush—the upper starts near his nose, the lower
curls toward a massive, blunt chin. When Sykora
moves, chewing, jutting his jaw, arms dangling, he
resembles a great ape. Such giants are always good-
natured. Kindness and joviality are the first traits a
stranger notices in him. But these don’t hinder his
business acumen. On the contrary, he’s highly skilled
in his trade. He boasts a fine clientele, with
connections across all social strata. His stock is well-
assorted. Through “Fortuna,” one can enter any
marriage—dowries of any size, various ranks, titles,
even the best-preserved characters in rich variety.
The bureau’s chief is convinced of his profession’s
importance. He often says, “Matchmaking is one of modern life’s most
ingenious institutions. Marriages are no longer made
in heaven but through the classifieds. This has
practical and moral advantages. The practical are
obvious—you know where you stand, no time
wasted. The moral are equally clear. How degrading
for parents to parade their daughters through balls
and socials for years. It’s against human dignity,
leaving moral scars. Self-esteem springs a leak. It’s
different with us. We’re true benefactors of
humanity.”
In his long dealings with all classes, Sykora has
gained great eloquence and a wealth of terms and
phrases, deployed with full effect. He can speak for
hours, adorning his speech or punctuating it with
quips.
Sykora is immensely popular with the tax
authority. He submits to assessments without protest,
never appealing. He greets his district’s tax
administrator with a hat swept to the ground.
Among the pious of his neighborhood, Sykora
enjoys great esteem. He doesn’t hoard what the pagan
Fortuna brings. He gives to churches, charitable
foundations, youth groups, and the poor. No plea for
a worthy cause goes unanswered.
On a December day, shortly before Christmas, he
received a telegram from Vorderschluder: “Buy
Südbahn shares immediately per H’s order.”
Sykora smoothed the telegram with a bone folder,
correcting the “n” in “Südbahn” that looked like a
“u” with his pencil—he valued order and couldn’t
abide postal sloppiness—then rose from his swivel
chair. The ring-shaped rubber cushion sighed back
into shape. He tapped the adjacent glass partition.
Behind it sat Herr Moritz Diamant, Sykora’s
secretary, the bureau’s second-in-command.
Diamant, once a medical student, abandoned his
studies upon realizing most human ailments stem
from the wallet’s state and are best cured there. He’d
become an expert diagnostician in this field, his
therapies highly effective. In good spirits, he’d say,
“A marriage bureau is the best sanatorium.” A small,
wiry man with a bushy mop of hair falling in two
tufts to his temples, he looked like David beside
Sykora’s Goliath. He had to look up to his boss,
always with a mischievous twinkle, as if saying,
“Comrade, we know each other.”
Diamant emerged from his cubicle, gazing
absently at Sykora. “Listen, Edelstein,” the chief said,
“I’m traveling this afternoon.”
Diamant’s distraction vanished. He was all
attention. “Aha! Vorderschluder!”
“Don’t be cheeky, Doctor; it’s none of your
business.”
Diamant twinkled at him. “Comrade, we know
each other!”
“Fine, I’m off this afternoon. Everything’s in
order, right? Have you written to young Kanitz,
Früchtel, about Margarete Schweigel?”
“It’s being typed.”
“And the Statthaltereirat from Graz?”
“That… what’s her name? The Prague
manufacturer’s daughter won’t have him. Too old.”
“For a miss with her fifty thousand, we’ll find
something special. What these women fancy! Send
him another selection. Anything else?”
“No—that is, I’d like another small advance.”
Sykora clapped a paw on Diamant’s shoulder.
Diamant stood firm, unflinching. “Let me tell you,
Jewel, you’re asking for advances a bit too often!”
“Well—given the Vorderschluder deal…”
“You, Crown Jewel, the Vorderschluder deal’s
mine alone. Besides, what deal’s there? You
know…”
David twinkled up at Goliath. “Comrade, we
know each other.” Goliath withdrew his paw,
grumbling, “We’ll talk when I’m back.”
Sykora donned his winter coat, raised the fur
collar, and stepped into a light snowfall turning
Vienna’s streets to coffee-brown slush. He visited his
lawyer for a meeting with the owner of the
“Misericordia” funeral parlor, discussing a
partnership stake. Then he attended a board meeting
of the League of Christian Progress Friends, recently
elected its honorary chairman. After lunch at his
regular tavern with a bank clerk, two tax officials,
and a prosecutor’s deputy, he headed to the station.
Soon after dusk, the carriage sent to meet him
rolled into Vorderschluder’s castle courtyard. Snow
fell thicker here than in the city, blanketing the yard
an inch deep. Between the stables and servants’ wing,
a groom swept a path, his broom flinging powder left
and right. Across the yard, the overseer stood in his
open doorway, warm yellow-red light behind his
shoulders, curious about the station visitor.
In the vestibule, Lorenz awaited, taking Sykora’s
fur with the haughty deference of a lackey. They
ascended the stairs, Sykora leading, Lorenz trailing
with the coat. Cozy warmth enveloped them; below,
logs crackled in the hall’s fireplace.
On the first floor, Lorenz opened the door to the
mistress’s rooms, ushering the guest in. They entered
58an octagonal, blue-papered chamber. “Servus!”
Sykora said.
“Servus!” Lorenz replied.
They laughed, shaking hands. Matched in size and
strength, they shared similar noses and foreheads,
their faces strikingly alike. But Lorenz’s expression
leaned toward guarded vigor, Sykora’s toward genial
affability.
“Well, then,” the Fortuna chief said, rubbing his
hands, “here we are again. Where’s Helmina?”
“She’s waiting—come!”
Frau Helmina sat in her boudoir on a tabouret
inlaid with mother-of-pearl and ivory, a gift from
Herr Dankwardt’s oriental travels. She turned,
offering Sykora her hand.
“God greet you, Helma,” he said. “How’s it going,
what’re you up to? Sapperment, it always smells
divine here.” He thrust his short nose forward, lips
parting, inhaling deeply. “Nowhere smells as good as
your place. You’ve got a knack, I’ll give you that. So,
the loving husband’s away?”
“Yes, he’s in Krems. There’s a stallion show
tomorrow. He wants to buy something…”
“Bravo, tending to the estate. He’s capable. Happy
with him? Doing his duty at home and hearth?”
Sykora shook with good-natured laughter.
Helmina rose, standing between the two burly
men, slender and supple, like a fine steel blade
between two wooden clubs.
“Well, then, got nothing for me?” Sykora said, his
laughter subsiding into a chuckle. “A decent cognac
or something? That trip here’s a fair haul. Got a weak
spot in my stomach from it. The lord husband’s got
something in the house, I hope. No matter—Lorenz’ll
fetch it. Grab a cigar too, Lorenz. Right… now let’s
settle for a cozy chat.”
Lorenz nodded and left. As Helmina crossed the
black Afghan rug to lock the antechamber door,
Sykora sank with a contented sigh into a wide
cushioned chair behind a small, round Indian brass
table. His hand covered a quarter of its surface.
“You kept me waiting long for news, Helmina,”
he said, chewing with his massive jaws, puffing.
Helmina stood before him. “What was there to
write? Nothing important happened.”
“How’s the inheritance from the baron going?”
Helmina glared, annoyed. “What? Well… I don’t
know. We’re litigating. The relatives won’t yield,
claiming he was incompetent. They’re a vile lot. I
don’t know how it’ll end.”
“It’d be nice to have Rotbirnbach. But if it falls
through, it won’t kill us. We’ve got other irons in the
fire.”
Lorenz returned from the bedroom with a cognac
bottle, two glasses, and a cigar box. He poured a
glass, drank it, and nodded to Sykora, as if
confirming the cognac’s quality. Refilling both
glasses, he sat beside the guest on a low divan,
stretched his legs, and closed his eyes.
“Here’s the thing,” Sykora said after a sip, “we
need money. A lot of it.”
“I can’t give you anything,” Helmina said firmly.
“I’ve had bad luck lately. Struck out three times.”
“Yes, yes… it happens. Our bicycle and car
factories aren’t doing as well as they should either.
Lorenz must’ve mentioned, right?”
Lorenz nodded, eyes shut, a long, thin Havana
dangling from his teeth.
“But now we’ve got something new… something
splendid. I’ll say just this: Galician petroleum.
Galicia’s our European America. There’s still a
fortune to be made.

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

Her large earrings, unforgotten, sparkled, casting long, needle-sharp
blue-green rays across the room. What’s in her mind?
Ruprecht wondered. What does she feel, seeing a
man who died for her? Stronger than pity, horror, or
feminine fears seemed a pride—perhaps satisfaction
in her vanity—that she’d been his doom. She stood,
staring at the corpse. The sight of that shattered head
seemed a pleasure. What had the peasant said? They
called her a trud—a vampire…
Ruprecht glanced around the room. The walls
displayed a series of daring paintings, frivolous nudes
reflecting the baron’s taste. Against the backdrop of
that bloody head, they struck with grotesque horror.
Most pitiful was the empty space under the silk
canopy where the bed had stood. The floor and wall
bore clear marks of its place—a dusty, gray rectangle
on the dirty parquet, proof of neglectful cleaning.
That was the impression the entire castle left on
Ruprecht.
Helmina replaced the sheet’s corner over the
corpse’s head. A faint bloodstain marked her middle
finger. She drew a handkerchief and rubbed off the
sticky red.
“Have the relatives been notified?” she asked the
servant.
“We’ve telegraphed the uncle and his sister.
They’re expected this afternoon.”
“Did the baron leave anything written? A letter,
or… a sealed package?”
“We found nothing. But the gracious lord wrote
something last night. It’s likely locked in the desk.
The mayor took the key until the commission
arrives.”
“Let’s go,” Helmina said to Ruprecht. They
descended the stairs, where workers were draping
walls with black cloth. In the hall below, two women
in coarse sackcloth aprons prepared to scrub the
floor. Outside in the courtyard, the slightly drunk
coachman clutched a village policeman’s uniform
button, speaking earnestly. “See here, what’s a man?
I’ve been around, know the whole world. What’s a
man? A bit of powder, a bullet—and he’s gone!
Gone! Gone! What’s a man? Nothing! Nothing! Ask
me—I know the world…”
On the ride home, Helmina spoke of the baron’s
manner of death. She thought shooting oneself was,
all things considered, the best way to exit the world.
She described the bullet’s destruction in detail, as if
relishing the recollection of each particular. Strange
talk for a wedding morning, Ruprecht thought. He
couldn’t resist asking if the event left no unpleasant
impression on her.
Helmina studied him. “Of course, it’s dreadful.
But what’s done is done.”
No, it truly didn’t touch her deeply. He must’ve
been a nuisance, Ruprecht thought. A woman feels no
pity for a pest.
The funeral proceeded in foul weather. The uncle,
a retired general with white hair and red face, and the
sister, an elegant, slender woman behind a thick
black veil, followed the coffin. Landowners from the
region gathered. Ruprecht noticed a cool, refined
reserve toward him and his wife. Clearly, Helmina
wasn’t absolved of blame. He realized, too, that no
local gentry had attended his wedding. Defiantly, he
mirrored their aloofness. Fine—no tedious visits or
obligations.
Two days after the funeral, Helmina received a
summons from the notary in Gars. “Something
business-related,” she said, “though I’m not sure
what.” Her manner suggested she had a guess.
Ruprecht let her go alone, staying with the children to
build a toy theater. Crafting such childhood relics
brought him new joy.
Helmina returned at dusk.
“Imagine,” she said, breathless upon entering,
“Baron Kestelli named me his heir.”
Ruprecht set down pliers and hammer. “His heir?”
“Yes! It’s not much—the estate’s heavily
mortgaged. But with some capital to clear the debts
and rational management, it could yield something.
You just need money.”
Ruprecht pondered, then sent the children out.
“You’re seriously considering accepting this
inheritance?”
“Why not? The relatives will contest the will—the
notary warned me. There’ll be a lawsuit. But I’ll win.
The will seems legally sound. Rotbirnbach isn’t
entailed; the baron could dispose of it freely.”
She stood before the grand Venetian mirror, her
figure framed by a semicircle of electric flames.
Ruprecht held a paper Samiel from Der Freischütz,
studying the wild hunter’s features.
“I can’t allow you to accept it,” he said, tossing
Samiel into the box with Agathe and Kaspar.
“Oh!” Her tone was mocking.
“Yes!” Ruprecht stepped closer. “Forgive me, but
I must ask—were you ever intimate with the baron?”
Helmina turned, her smile cold and superior.
“That’s a strange question.”
“Don’t misunderstand. I’m not reproaching you. I
find it absurd to be jealous of a wife’s past. But I
need clarity here.”
With a dismissive flick, she scattered the paper
figures. “I could refuse to answer. But you’ll have
clarity. There was nothing between us. Nothing. You
52believe I’m telling the truth, don’t you? I owe you no
account of what came before.”
Nothing, then. Good—despite his open-
mindedness, Ruprecht found this reassuring. He
softened. “I believe you. But people won’t hesitate to
assume he was your lover. You must admit, it looks
that way.”
“Oh, your lofty spirit can’t bear that? You care
what people say?”
Irritated, he snapped, “Nonsense, I don’t usually
care. People—ridiculous. But it irks me that they
might think I’m complicit in something… not
entirely clean.”
“Let’s talk of other things!”
No—Helmina was resisting, rebelling. The
rebellion had to be crushed. “No,” he said, “we won’t
change the subject. I won’t allow it.”
“You’ll have to, dear. You wanted our assets
separate. You manage yours; I’m responsible for
mine. The baron loved me unhappily, killed himself,
and left me his castle to remember him. Simple. I set
aside sentiment, treat it as a financial matter, a
business operation. I’m as detached as can be.”
She broke off, laughing brightly, a clear sound
filling the room like light. She rushed to Ruprecht,
kissing away his retort. “Our first quarrel!” she cried.
“What’s it to you? Why meddle in my affairs? Isn’t it
ghostly? The baron’s dead, yet stirs strife between us.
We won’t tolerate ghosts. Perhaps that was his
intent? We’re fighting! The living man never
could’ve done this… So, away with it…!”
She laughed again, throwing herself back, head
tilted, arms falling, forcing Ruprecht to catch her to
keep her from collapsing. He felt her body’s weight.
She laughed like a bacchante, her hair loosening, a
dry, brittle lock curving like a writhing snake. She
grew heavy in his arms. He pulled her close, feeling
her hot body… what were scruples, considerations,
against this raw beauty and boundless pleasure…
That evening, Ruprecht nursed a hangover of
regret. He faced a danger, and for the first time, he
lacked absolute confidence in mastering it.

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