Kiss Of The Butterfly Part 13

Judging from the notes, while working in the Vienna Kriegsarchiv, Novakovic had stumbled upon records from the Kalemegdan fortress. The notes were cryptic, but the more Steven read the more excited he became: - 3 March 1731, news to Bgd from Medvedja near JaG.o.dina, vampire reported, - 7 March 1731, Fluckinger sent to investigate with IV KaiGrKo. Commanded by Captain von Zlatinow, - 6 April 1731, Fluckinger and von Zlatinow return to Bgd, - 15 April 1731, Fluckinger, von Zlatinow and IV KaiGrKo depart, - 11 June 1731, Fluckinger and von Zlatinow return with 3 heavy sealed wagons, refuses inspection of wagons, says burned vampire in Medvedja, ashes thrown in Morava, - 18 June 1731, von Zlatinow and IV KaiGrKo. to Peterwardein w/wagons, Kalemegdan commander General Albrecht Graf von und zu Meyerling writes complaint directly to Hofburg, - 24 July 1731, IV KaiGrKo. and Fluckinger return to Bgd via boat from Peterwardein, Meyerling formal protest to Hofburg, von Zlatinow jails Meyerling 3 days, released after promising to cooperate, - 28 July 1731, von Zlatinow requisitions provisions from fortress stores, flour, salt, wine, beer, meat, salt, shot, powder, steel bars, twelve heavy wagons, teams of oxen and horses, The other entries were similar: news of a vampire; von Zlatinow and Fluckinger and KaiGrKo. depart and return at a later date, often with sealed wagons, and then a letter of complaint from Meyerling. The logbook for the next year showed a similar pattern, and Steven realized Peterwardein was the German variant of Petrovaradin.

'What does IV KaiGrKo. mean?' Steven asked himself. And then it dawned on him: 'of course, what an idiot I am,' he muttered aloud, slapping himself on the forehead, drawing stares from other readers. 'KaiGrKo...it's an abbreviation of Kaiserlich Grenadier Kompanie, an Imperial Grenadier Company.' But what authority did a lowly Captain, a company commander, have to imprison a General with impunity, and a Count at that? At that time the Austrians were busily expanding Kalemegdan with the intent of making it their main border outpost against the Turks, perhaps even larger than Petrovaradin.

Steven exhausted the Novakovic files shortly before closing time and walked to the high-rise main post office in the center of town to call Vesna, but she wasn't home, so he left a message with her grandmother. He then walked to the university, where he found Stojadinovic still in his office.

'How was your first day in the Matica Srpska?' he asked.

When Steven related his discovery, Stojadinovic's eyes glowed with excitement. 'You may be on to something quite noteworthy. How do you wish to follow up on this information?'

'Well, the fourth Imperial Grenadier Company kept going to Petrovaradin, so perhaps I can get the fortress commander's records from there. But the records for the Kalemegdan were in Vienna, so that means I'll have to go to Vienna to the Kriegsarchiv.'

'Slow down,' Stojadinovic smiled gently. 'The records haven't gone anywhere. There's an important difference between Kalemegdan and Petrovaradin: the Austrians took all the Kalemegdan records back to Vienna, whereas Petrovaradin's records were left behind. So I'm sorry Steven, you'll have to cancel your plans to eat Wienerschnitzel and Sachertorte.'

'They're here? Really? Where?' Steven's excitement grew.

Stojadinovic gave him a broad grin. 'Tomorrow I shall take you to the City Historical Archive in the old barracks on top of the fortress. There you'll find all the records you wish. If you don't mind, I would like to look into this with you, as it is very intriguing.'

'It would be an honor.'

'Oh, and tell your friends I have received permission from the new director of the APP to take you through the Great Labyrinth. If they're interested, perhaps we could visit it a week from this Sat.u.r.day.'

'That would be wonderful,' Steven answered. 'How many people can come?'

'I thought just the four of you. No one has been there since 1983, and it may still be dangerous, so I don't wish to take too large a group.'

'Great. Now for a stupid question,' Steven said, 'How do I get to Sremski Karlovci?'

'By bus, of course,' Stojadinovic answered. 'It's a beautiful town. Is there a particular reason you wish to go there?'

Steven told him about the book and Niedermeier.

'Ah yes, Danko is a good man,' Stojadinovic smiled. 'I have known him for many years and everyone at the university uses him to find old books. When he puts his mind to something, he always succeeds. If he has promised you the book, then you will get it.'

Steven then walked back to the main post office and called Vesna again.

'I missed you,' she said.

A warm spring evening was gradually descending over Novi Sad as Steven walked along the tree-lined riverfront towards the Varadin Bridge, the Danube crawling beside him like the body of a dark, undulating serpent without beginning or end. As he started across the bridge he watched the street lights gradually twinkle to life. The scent of pipe tobacco entered his nostrils, the smoke trailing from a lone fisherman in the stern of a slender wooden skiff that drifted on the current under the bridge, until the stench of decaying fish gradually overpowered the receding tobacco.

Across the river, batteries of floodlights bathed Petrovaradin's ramparts in their ethereal glow, inoculating the ma.s.sive fortress against the darkening gloom until it gradually levitated above the river and hovered over the firmament, irradiant, beckoning and untouchable, straining against the invisible chains that bound it to terrestrial captivity. Beneath it Wa.s.serstadt huddled safely behind the fortress' ma.s.sive lower walls, its Baroque buildings neglected by time, kibbitz-fensters jutting self-importantly from the upper stories of crumbling facades.

Steven descended the bridge, veered into Strossmajer Street and began checking the Baroque buildings, their street numbers standing emboldened in relief above the doorways, an echo of not-so-distant Habsburg glory. The air and pavement quivered in the dusk as though the spirits of the fortress were racing forth from the tunnel under the clock tower, down the long stairs to restore the town to glory. He walked up the empty street, past a couple of battered Yugos rising forlorn from the uneven cobblestone, bathed in the light of upper windows.

In the gloom he found the number he wanted, a two-story row house tucked against the foot of the hill with the ma.s.sive Ludwig bastion surging out from above like the prow of a Grecian Trireme. Over the entry he could make out the crumbling letters R L, and anno 1745: underneath St. George stood in an alcove, busily slaying a dragon.

Steven looked at the presents he carried: a bar of chocolate, some flowers and a small package, sensed they were inadequate, but went ahead and pressed the buzzer that read Lazarevic. He waited. And waited. And nothing happened. He pressed the buzzer again, hearing only silence. He stepped back and looked at the darkened house.

'Who are you looking for?'

Steven jumped, startled by a stooped woman in black who seemed to have sprung from the cobblestones. Her eyes peered sternly from leathery wrinkles, framed by scraggly white hair that protruded from a black head scarf. Gnarled hands planted firmly on broad hips gave her the authority of someone who had been born in that street and lived there all her life.

'What do you want? Are you one of those drug fiends?'

'Good evening; I'm looking for the Lazarevic family. I'm a student from America...their daughter Katarina asked me to give something to her mother.'

'From America? You have seen our Katarina? How is our angel? Is she healthy? Is she eating well? Does she have a boyfriend?' Gone was the scowl, replaced with a ragged smile which still held a few teeth. Her years disappeared as if by magic.

'Are you Mrs. Lazarevic' he asked hopefully.

The old woman giggled. 'No, I'm her neighbor. You won't get her by buzzing. The interphone is dead,' she volunteered, picked up a pebble and threw it against a window on the upper floor while yelling loudly: 'Mariana, you have a guest, a young man from America who knows Katarina from the university.' After a few moments a head appeared briefly in the kibbitz-fenster and then disappeared. 'Here she comes.'

All up and down the street curious heads filled the kibbitz-fensters, attracted by the old lady's voice.

The sound of bolts turning signaled that someone had come. The door opened rapidly and a tall woman of ageless beauty opened the door, her face half in shadow.

'He will make a good husband for your Katarina. See how handsome and healthy he looks,' the old lady clucked, pinching his cheek.

Mrs. Lazarevic held out her hand in greeting. 'Welcome Steven, I have been expecting you. Please come in.' As she held the door open for him she said rapidly to the old woman 'Tetka Nada, when I want a matchmaker I will call you. But Katarina is still too young. Give her time.'

'When I was her age I already had two children. She will get old before you know it and you will never see your grandchildren.' Nada stood watching them, hands back to their resting place on her hips.

Steven offered Mrs. Lazarevic the flowers, chocolate and the package he had brought from Katarina. She hugged him, kissed him warmly on one cheek and said: 'Welcome most sincerely to our home. Katarina has told me so much about you. I see she did not exaggerate in her praise.' He blushed.

Without waiting for an answer she shut and locked the door with multiple bolts and led him down a darkened photograph-filled corridor, up a flight of stairs and into a well-lit sitting room with a large, ornate ceramic stove rising all the way up to the high ceiling. A ma.s.sive china cabinet covered nearly an entire wall, while old portraits and black and white photos covered the others. Next to the cabinet hung what appeared to be an old Habsburg officer's sword and a Turkish Yataan sword.

Mrs. Lazarevic sat him at an oval table laden with food. In the light Steven could see she was probably between 40 and 50, had light hair, blue eyes and n.o.ble features.

'It is so good to finally meet you. How is my Katarina? Does she like America? Where is she staying? Is she eating well?'

The evening progressed with his answering questions between mouthfuls of the food she kept offering him. Questions, answers and more questions still, interspersed with a cuc.u.mber-tomato-pepper and cheese salad, stuffed peppers, homemade cornbread with young cheese baked inside, bread, ajvar, baked "wedding" potatoes, Wienerschnitzel, and finally some homemade Esterhazy cake. 'For a thin person you eat a lot,' she commented with a smile. 'My Katarina will never forgive me if I don't put some weight on you.'

As he finished his second slice of cake he noticed a portrait that appeared to be from the 18th century of a large man wearing an officer's sword. Next to it hung a portrait of a man attired in the field-grey uniform of a Habsburg officer at the beginning of World War I, a confident look on his face. Both men had green eyes, strong features and large, elongated moustaches.

She noticed his gaze: 'Katarina's father came from an old military family here at Petrovaradin that served the emperor for centuries in the border lands. This house has been in the family since 1745. Katarina inherited the Lazarevic eyes.'

She pointed to a framed black and white photograph of a large man, who looked strikingly similar to the men in the two portraits, holding an infant, standing next to what appeared to be a much younger version of herself. 'That is my late husband Rade, taken right after Katarina was born. He was very handsome and strong and kind.'

'I'm sorry for your loss. Please accept my condolences.'

She looked at him strangely. 'It was inevitable. No one is immortal. We all die and must one day suffer for our sins. Even the best man must do so. No one can live forever...' her sentence faded off. She then changed the topic abruptly. 'So, what are you doing here? How long will you stay? These are difficult times, you know.'

'Professor Slatina got me a fellows.h.i.+p to study folklore and has given me a research a.s.signment.'

She perked up at the mention of the professor's name. 'Ah, yes, you are working for Marko?'

'Yes, researching folklore about monsters...in fact, mostly about vampires.'

She stiffened visibly. 'What does he have you doing?'

'Mostly looking through archival records. Nothing exciting.' Steven stuffed another forkful of cake into his mouth.

She relaxed. 'And what have you found thus far? Vampires, really now...' she huffed. 'Surely you don't believe any of that nonsense.'

'Not really, at least, that is, I didn't before I came. But I think it's possible that there may be something behind the whole phenomenon. I've found lots of information about vampires. In fact, I'm getting concerned because I feel my research is drawing negative attention.' He then told her about the disappearing librarian.

'You need to be very careful,' she cautioned. 'People are suspicious. Use common sense in all you do. Now, it is late. You should go,' she said abruptly. She ushered him out of the house, thanking him for delivering the present from Katarina and changed the subject back to her daughter. As he walked out the front door, she admonished him 'be careful in what you say and do. Be extremely careful with whom you share this information. And watch your back at all times. If anything unusual happens to you, please tell me immediately. Goodnight. May G.o.d bless you.' And she disappeared into the house, leaving Steven standing on the darkened cobblestone, alone amidst the silence of the old fortress.

Slatina picked up the phone on the third ring. 'h.e.l.lo,' he said, grace and dignity resonating in his voice as he put down his pen and stood up from his desk and stretched.

'You're putting him in danger, you know that?' A woman's voice flowed smoothly over the crackling hiss of the long-distance line.

'Mariana, how good to hear from you,' Slatina answered warmly.

'Don't give me that. You know what you've done. Now make it right,' she snapped and the line went dead.

'h.e.l.lo, h.e.l.lo?' Slatina sighed and put down the phone.

'Who was that?' Katarina asked, standing in the doorway.

'Your mother.'

'My mother? Why didn't you let me talk to her?'

'Bad connection.' He picked up the phone and dialed a thirteen digit number from memory. After several rings someone picked up. 'Zoltan,' Slatina spoke in fluent Hungarian. 'I will be coming next week.'

Interlude VI: The Chamber: Tuesday, 15 January 1983 The falling bricks and shouting voices had woken them three days earlier. Yet even now they continued to lie in their coffins, floating in the shallow water, too weak to escape through the hole that beckoned tantalizingly so very high above them in the vaulted brick ceiling. Lacking nutrients or strength, they lay dormant. The first hours after the ceiling collapsed felt like centuries.

'What shall we do?' whispered a faint voice.

'Ssshhh. Patience,' came a barely audible reply.

A third voice chimed in: 'Wait and watch. They'll come to us.'

And so they waited. Then some time later they heard it...the faint sound of movement, tiny feet and claws, a scurrying of life. It came from above, closer, closer.

First a whiskered nose: then beady eyes that peered over the edge of the hole, sniffing the air, catching the strong scent of decaying wood, rusty iron, crumbling brick, mildew, moldy flesh and rotting cloth. It edged closer, seeking a way to crawl down over the edge and into the Chamber, only to lose its grip and tumble into the water. The splash sent ripples throughout the shallow pond. The rat swam towards the nearest coffin, grabbed hold of the wood and clawed its way up the sides onto the top of the partially open lid. It sniffed again, sensed the odor of moldy flesh and rotting cloth from within. It crawled haltingly towards the gap between the coffin lid and the edge of the coffin. A hand suddenly flashed out and grabbed the rat. It squealed as the hand pulled it into the coffin. And then there was silence.

The arm reappeared, flung the rat's carca.s.s away and pushed the coffin lid into the water, sending ripples across the pool.

The rat-eater sat up, an emaciated, deflated balloon of moldy skin, under a dirty mop of long, ragged hair. He wiped the blood from his lips with flesh that hung loose in folds around his hand and arm and picked his teeth with long, yellowed fingernails as his red feline eyes gazed narrowly around.

He looked around the vault, at the other coffins and the hole in the ceiling and began to wail softly, a horrible sound that started low and reached ever higher until the very bricks vibrated, causing centuries of dust to shake free from the walls and ceiling. The sound ended abruptly in a choked gasp, almost a sob. Then the rat-eater collapsed backwards into the coffin.

Minutes later more whiskered noses poked over the edge of the hole, attracted by the wail, and within minutes several dozen more furry bodies had fallen and disappeared into the coffins. The rats continued to come in increasing numbers, now squealing loudly as they poured torrentially from the ceiling into the chamber below, a waterfall of fresh rodent blood for the famished captives, churning the water white and rocking the coffins. And then abruptly the torrent ceased. The eleven grabbed the last remaining survivors from the water and made short work of them, and then gazed at the surface of the small pond, now covered in a blanket of furry carca.s.ses.

All were sitting now, gazing at each other and the ceiling. 'Manna from heaven,' the general, Branko, commented wryly.

'Is it day or night?' asked the youngest, Ivan.

'Does it matter?' answered the eldest, Lazar.

'I suppose not,' answered the pedophile bishop, Mihailo. They conversed in archaic Serbo-Croatian.

'How can we get out of here?' asked Ivan.

'We have fed. Be patient,' said Lazar. 'It is now just a matter of time. We have food, we have an opening, and we need only discover how to get through it. I sense a door, but it is the part of the wall where the water leaks the most. There are too many crosses here...let us think.'

'We are only eleven,' said the baby-faced sweet shop owner, Lynx. 'They must have killed the Vlach. Our quorum is dissolved.'

'No, he is alive. If they killed him there is no reason to keep us,' said the accordion play, Igor. 'He hid well.'

After a while the Montenegrin doctor, Rastko, broke the silence: 'Where are our burial shrouds?'

'I know not,' replied Lazar. 'But if the Venetian burned them I'll hunt him down like the dog he is, and then I'll reach my hand into his bosom, tear his heart out and suck the juice from it fresh while it's still pumping.'

'That sounds quite delicious. But you a.s.sume he is still alive...how much time has pa.s.sed?' asked one of the Bosnian twins, Hasan.

'I've lost track of time. Does anyone know?' Lazar answered. The others shook their heads. 'I wonder who the emperor and the sultan are. Are we in Turkey or Austria or perhaps even Hungary? Perhaps the Hungarians have regained their throne from the Austrians.'

'I hope we're in Turkey...the Turks were such easy prey,' said the small spy, Stanko. 'And the spices they use in their cooking make them taste quite good.'

'Yes, Turks,' chimed in the other twin, Tarik, reminiscing wistfully. 'They taste so much better than the Germans...how can those Schwabies live on a diet of cabbage and pork? They taste bland and I get gas. The Serbs eat too many onions: that also gives me gas...and the Hungarians: all that paprikash makes for horrible indigestion.'

'Everything gives you gas,' Natalija said, laughing. 'If only we had our shrouds we could get out of here.'

'Quiet, all of you.' Lazar was becoming annoyed. 'We need to escape. The Venetian did a clever job constructing this prison. We are floating in water so we can't move about and there are crosses everywhere. We must think.' And he lay down once more and closed his eyes.

A gentle b.u.mp against his coffin made him sit up. A small chest was sc.r.a.ping against the wood. He attempted to open it, but the lock held firm, so he tapped the box until he found rot and struck it repeatedly until the wood gave way. He reached in and pulled out an old piece of linen, dark with mold and mildew. 'The burial shrouds,' he shrieked triumphantly. 'He didn't destroy them!'

b.u.t.terflies make almost no noise, even when flying in groups. These eleven were no exception as they fluttered through the hole in the ceiling, up the corridor and past the marker with black Gothic letters that read IV/500 Kom. Gall. Not knowing their way through the labyrinth, they did what b.u.t.terflies do so well they followed air currents down pa.s.sageways and up ventilation shafts. After half a day of meandering flight through tunnels and galleries, they came upon a drunken night watchman, slouched against a wall just inside a gateway that led out, drinking freely from a bottle of homemade sljivovica plum brandy.

And then they had their first real meal in 253 years.

CHAPTER SEVEN.