Writ in blood : a novel of Saint-Germain Read online

  A strapping young man in a costume like the desk clerk s came for-

  ward and bowed slightly to the arrivals. “If you will follow me?” he offered.

  Von Wolgast kept Nadezna’s hand through the crook of his arm by placing his free hand on it. “We would be delighted,” he told Werner, adding to Nadezna, “I’m surprised they don’t insist the staff be tonsured,” referring to Werner’s thick blond hair.

  “Some of the patrons might not like being reminded of baldness,” she answered, letting her words cut; she knew von Wolgast was dismayed by his thinning hair.

  “Of course,” he said, acknowledging her barb. “Isn’t this an amazing place?” he went on, pointing out the deep Oriental carpets on the stone floors, and the fine tapestries hanging on the walls, ensconced by electric lights in fixtures designed to look like torch flames. Above them the ceiling was painted a deep blue with large golden stars spangled across it, the constellations picked out in fine silver lines. They followed Werner along a corridor decorated with murals of Teutonic legends: “Seigfried and the Dragon, Brunhilde asleep within a ring of fire, Lola approaching Baldur, Wotan and Urda in confrontation, Thor summoning stormclouds, Kundry attempting to seduce Parzifal, Undines drawing the Knight into deep water with drowning embraces, the Rainbow Bridge with heros passing across it to Valhalla.

  “Strange paintings for a supposed monastery,” said Nadezna, as much to annoy von Wolgast as to point out the inappropriateness of the murals.

  “Think of Wagner, my dear,” von Wolgast reminded her, refusing to be drawn into any dispute with her. “We’re almost there.”

  The dining room turned out to be a vast hall where a number of men and women in evening clothes watched a young woman in somewhat medieval dress play on an old harp while singing a lament about the Crusader who left her to find glory in the Holy Land.

  Werner indicated a line of carved oaken doors at the far end of the room. “Number nine is on the right side, third from the end.”

  “Very good,” said von Wolgast, standing aside as two waiters in page’s garb carried out trays of roast pork and veal sausages. “I’m getting hungry. And you, my dear?”

  Food was the last thing Nadezna wanted now, but she nodded, thinking that at another time she might enjoy the fantasy and display of this place, but now it only made her feel more cheapened and betrayed. She glanced once at the singer and noted with satisfaction that her long, cascading locks of yellow hair were a wig. It confirmed her cynical view of the place.

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  “Be careful. There are two steps up here,” Werner warned.

  Von Wolgast and Nadezna did as he recommended; she said, “I suppose this is more difficult at the end of the evening, when the wine and beer and champagne have done their work.”

  Werner glanced back at her and showed her a quick, sarcastic smile. “Occasionally it has been ...” He left her to imagine what it had been.

  The door to private dining room number nine stood slightly ajar. As they reached it, Werner flung it open, revealing a room done on Oriental themes, with a peacock fountain in the center, and numerous divans upholsted in brocade Chinese silk around it, each with its own low hammered-brass table. The whole chamber was draped in long panels of heavy irridescent silk from India, so that the room looked to be more of a tent than a stone apartment. Lamps in the shapes of tall lotuses glittered in clusters of two or three at various places about the room.

  “Ludwig the Mad would be envious,” said Nadezna, who had seen the Bavarian Kings fabulous palaces when performing in Munich.

  A stoutish man of about forty in a loose robe of deep-rose damask silk turned around from the brass filigree bar and gestured a greeting. “I agree, lovely lady.” His German was Bavarian-accented, his manner polished to the point of contempt. His expression was worthy of a Parisian man-about-town, worldly and jaded, detracting from the air of bonhomie he was striving to achieve. There was something about his eyes, however, a covetousness that belied his apparent charm. He held out a tulip glass to her. “If you will be good enough?” He swung around to Werner. “Take their wraps, if you will.” He poured a second glass of champagne, offering it to von Wolgast. “Baron?”

  “Good evening, Herr Sisak,” said von Wolgast, making the most of the moment. “How good of you to invite us.”

  “It is my pleasure, Baron,” he replied as his green eyes lingered on Nadezna.

  “Ah, yes,” said von Wolgast, taking his cue from his host. “This is Nadezna.” He put his hand on the small of her back and urged her forward a few steps. “Our host, my dear. Tancred Sisak.”

  She moved the tulip glass into her left hand and extended her right. “Mister Sisak.”

  He bowed over her hand, and did not release it when he straightened up. “I have been anticipating this evening ever since my friend Herzog Persuic told me about the superb hospitality he was given at your house, Madame.”

  “You know Herzog Persuic, then?” she said, standing as if preparing to dance the Black Swan.

  Chelsea Quinn Yarhro

  “We have been engaged in various business dealings, yes,” said Sisak, as if unaware of the hauteur Nadezna displayed. “I thought it would be an honor to meet you, and to enjoy your company, since I am told it is a rare experience.”

  Nadezna took a long sip of the champagne, hoping its bubbles might infuse some gaiety into her, but for all the response she felt, she might have been drinking cold, weak tea. She summoned up a practiced smile. “It is often difficult to live up to such high expectations, Herr Sisak.”

  “Very likely,” he said, his tongue flicking over his lips. “But you have always striven for perfection, haven’t you? I saw you dance many years ago, and I thought it was impossible for any human to be so weightless, so ethereal.”

  “That would have been . . . Rosamunda ?” she guessed, remembering the triumph she had had in the role. How she had relished her adulation then, and how hollow it seemed to her now. Her next sip drained her glass.

  “I was breathless for days afterward,” he confessed with a chuckle. “But I was very young.” The lascivious implications of this last were so obvious that it was an effort for Nadezna not to laugh in scorn.

  “The choreography was very good. And Rene Kranz, my partner, was excellent. I was fortunate in both.” Both these things were true, but saying them in this company, she felt they were lies.

  “Yes. I would have given half my savings to have changed places with him. A most satisfying work, I thought.” He reached for the bottle and refilled her glass.

  “I’ll never forget it,” said von Wolgast, lifting an eyebrow to signal her. “Very generous with his praise, isn’t he, my dear?”

  She nearly choked on the word. “Very.”

  If Sisak was aware of her discomfort, he said nothing about it. Instead he gave a winning smile and continued with the utmost cordiality, “I will arrange for another bottle and our... private entertainment, if you will excuse me? It will not take long. I will return in just a moment.”

  As soon as he was gone, von Wolgast rounded on her. “You are going to have to do better, my dear. Much better.”

  “Do you think so?” she countered hotly, the champagne finally reaching her blood. “I think he wants the aloof, remote dancer, not the woman you know. He thinks of me as Rosamunda, not Nadezna. He is determined to return to that magic he felt in his youth.” She stopped his questions before he could pose them. “Do not argue with me, Manfred. I have much more experience in these matters than you do; I have seen this before, this yearning for a dream from the stage. Often.”

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  Von Wolgast shrugged. “If you think your way will get the results we both see ...” He bowed to her. “I will defer to your experience, my dear. «But remember,” he added with an edge in his voice, “I have certain information I seek, and I depend upon you to gamer it for me.”

  She shook her head, doing her best t
o conceal her distaste. “I will do what I can, whatever it may be.”

  “And I want him grateful to me for this evening, grateful enough to make concessions in my favor.” He loomed toward her. “Am I making myself plain enough?”

  “I said I will do whatever I must,” she repeated, her defiance less confident now.

  She hated herself for asking, “Why are you doing this to me?”

  The smile he gave her was without a spark of warmth. “Because I can.” He touched her chin with one finger. “Never forget that, my dear.”

  “I will remember,” she said quietly, hoping to quell the panic deep within her.

  “You certainly will, or you will not—” He was not allowed to finish: Sisak bustled back into the room followed by two liveried waiters bearing trays of silver serving dishes filled with caviar, flaky meat pastries, pork loin stuffed with apples and raisins, broiled oysters, eel soup, pick-led onions, fruit glacee, and a large bowl of sour cream, a concession to Nadezna’s heritage. There were also two bottles of champagne in a large silver bucket, and a bottle of schnapps, as well.

  “Your dinner is waiting, von Wolgast. They have reserved you a seat at the high table, near the Deputy Minister for Foreign Affairs, as you requested.” Sisak beamed again, his best salesman s smile. “He has said he is looking forward to your company. I am certain you and he will find something to talk about. Before you go, there is one more matter.” Then he held out a dark velvet jeweler s case, large enough to contain a necklace or brooch and earrings. “Let us get this out of the way, so that we may concentrate on other things.”

  “Thank you,” said von Wolgast, taking the case and shoving it into the inner breast pocket of his claw-tailed jacket. He glanced once at Nadezna, his expression significant, containing both a threat and a challenge. “I will arrange to have the carriage ready at... shall we say ten? In the morning?”

  “Ten will be very good,” said Sisak before Nadezna could protest. “If you would like to breakfast with me, Nadezna will be able to restore herself in peace.” He moved toward her possessively. “Come, Madame. Our supper is waiting.”

  Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  The two page-costumed waiters had left the private room and it remained only for von Wolgast to depart. He went to Nadezna, bowed over her hand without kissing it. “Until tomorrow, my dear.”

  “As you say,” she answered distantly, looking at the supper as if she saw rotten bodies instead of food. Sisak was very nearly touching her; she could smell his cologne, and under it, the stink of stale sweat.

  Von Wolgast nodded to Sisak. “Enjoy yourself, my friend.”

  Sisak said nothing as von Wolgast left them alone. When the door was closed, he took the last step. He wrapped his arms around her from behind, bending to lass her neck while his hands explored her breasts through the satin of her dress; she felt his erection pressed against her buttocks.

  Nadezna tried to laugh off his impetuosity. “Herr Sisak, you will ruin our supper. Be patient and we will manage better.” This had worked with others in the past.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said in a tone of voice that chilled her; she knew what obsession sounded like, and what it meant for her. He let her go, but only to pull her around to him. “Take your clothes off. Take them off.”

  “How can I?” she asked, trying to keep the fear out of her voice. “You’re holding onto me.”

  “Oh. Yes.” He released her and stepped back two paces; his eyes were fevered. “You should have another glass of champagne.”

  “That would be . .. nice,” she said, thinking frantically about how to delay what was going to happen. If he had only adored her as so many of her lovers had, she could make him do as she wished. But those who had made a fantasy of her, a dream image, she knew she could not control. To keep him from becoming too insistent, she began to unfasten her dress, unfastening the hooks and eyes under her left arm so that the dress was no longer clinging sleekly to her. “I should have my maid here, to help me.” Usually Charlotte would take the shoulders of the dress, and as Nadezna bent over, she would pull it smoothly off her. Without Charlotte, it would be awkward getting out of the dress.

  “I will watch you,” said Sisak, suddenly reclining on the nearest divan, adjusting the drape of his robe to draw attention to his penis as it pushed the rosy cloth upward. “Leave your gloves on.”

  “What?” She had been about to remove them, and this order surprised her.

  “Leave your gloves on,” he repeated in a tone that brooked no op-postion. “I will tell you when you can take them off.”

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  “As you wish,” she said, and began the awkward process of struggling out of her evening dress, bending and wriggling as she worked first the bodice and then the trumpet skirts over her head.

  “Leave it on the floor,” he told her as he drank more champagne. “The stockings next, and then the corset.” His voice was becoming hoarse, low, urgent.

  “If I took off my gloves, I could—” she began.

  “No. Leave them on.” He propped himself on his elbow and continued to watch her.

  At least, she thought, she had the good sense to wear a modern corset, one with hooks and eyes down the front instead of laces up the back. She unfastened the garters holding her stockings to her corset, and rolled them down her legs, first right, then left. Seeing his gesture, she dropped the stockings on her dress, then went to work on the corset. “What will you want after this?” she asked as she began to unfasten the hooks and eyes.

  “I will tell you then,” he said sharply.

  She relented at once, recognizing the compulsion behind his instruction; she continued to unfasten her corset. When she was done, she dropped it with the rest of her clothes. “My drawers?” she asked, and was given a terse nod of consent.

  “Give them to me.” He held out his hand for them, and kissed them as she gave them to him.

  Standing naked but for her long gloves, she watched him caress her silken under-drawers. Her spine went cold as he rolled onto his back, her underwear over his face. He sighed luxuriously. Without moving, he said. “Get on your knees and crawl to me.”

  “What?” she demanded, shocked out of her compliance.

  He half-sat up. “I said to get on your knees and crawl to me. Do it.”

  She flinched at the sound of the words. “I ... I don’t understand,” she protested, although she did, and only too well.

  He regarded her with steely eyes. “Listen very carefully: you will crawl to me. You will lift my robe. You will suck me until I tell you to stop. If you speak to me again, I will break your jaw.”

  Nadezna wished then she could go numb, that all of this would fade away as the nightmare it was. There was no doubt that Sisak meant what he said, and in a place like this, who would come to her rescue if she resisted him, or tried to get away? Where would she go? She got onto the floor and began to crawl.

  Chelsea Quinn Yarhro

  Text of a letter from Franchot Ragoczy to Rowena Pearce-Manning, delivered by his chauffeur, Timothy Harris; read by Clarice Pearce-Manning upon its arrival.

  London March 9, 1910

  Rowena Pearce-Manning Longacres, Buckinghamshire

  Dear Miss Pearce-Manning; or Saxon, if you prefer;

  Let me take this belated opportunity to thank you for showing your work to me. I found it evocative and innovative, and I look forward to seeing more of it in the future, if you will consider showing it to me.

  I regret, however, that the press of business which I mentioned to you is taking me to Germany very shortly, and I must therefore decline your gracious invitation to visit the gallery you spoke of at least for the present. The appointment 1 had with His Majesty has been postponed, and I now have to advance the time of my departure by two days. I trust this will not prove an inconvenience to you. Currently my plans call for a return to London within six weeks, and it is my hope that you will still be of a mind to show me this gallery. I do
not say this idly. I am convinced that the work of women artists is not a mere curiosity, as some have called it, but as much a contribution to the world as any accomplished by males. To see such a gallery is a most intriguing prospect.

  Please extend my remembrances to your parents; 1 passed a very interesting weekend as their guest at Longacres. When you return to London next week, I would count it a personal favor if you would be willing to send a note to my house. I will not receive it until I return, but it will be a welcome I would deeply appreciate; should this impose upon you over-much, I ask you to disregard it. If there are any alterations in my plans, I will send you word so that my commitments will not put you at any disadvantage.

  Again, Miss Saxon, I am obliged to you for your kindness in permitting me to visit your studio; I hope you will permit me to do so another time when it suits your convenience.

  Most sincerely, Franchot Ragoczy Count Saint-Germain (his sigil, the eclipse)

  Lowering clouds promised rain, and cold gusts of wind punctuated the threat, but a few determined strollers in the Tiergarten huddled into their coats and did their best to ignore the ominous skies as they wandered through the paddocks and cages, lawns and larger plants; Berlin was showing tentative hints at spring coming, and the Berliners were making the most of them.

  Among the visitors to the Tiergarten was a long-faced, sharp-eyed, full-mouthed man in a Russian greatcoat in the company of a short, weedy fellow of about thirty with a Viennese accent. They made a point of keeping to the less-frequented paths where few visitors stopped to stare at the shrubbery in the hope of seeing an exotic bird or hidden animal. They were not obviously avoiding others, yet certainly making no effort to seek them out. Neither paid any attention to their surroundings beyond the effort to maintain privacy.