Lifeforce (13 page)

Fallada asked: “Have you been in northern Sweden?”

“Yes. I wrote my doctoral thesis on suicide in Sweden, and spent many weeks in the north. They are a gloomy and reserved people. But the scenery is beautiful.”

A hostess offered them drinks; both accepted a martini. It was early, but Carlsen felt in a holiday mood. He asked: “Did you actually speak to Geijerstam?” “Indeed. For fifteen minutes. He’s a charming old gentleman. When I told him about my experiments, he became very excited.”

“How much did you tell him about… the aliens?”

“Nothing. It was too risky over the telescreen. All I could say was that I was dealing with the strangest and most complex case I had ever encountered. And he immediately invited me to come and see him. He must be fairly rich, incidentally, because he offered to pay my fare. Of course, I explained that the institute will pay. Incidentally, we are also paying your expenses. You are here officially, as my assistant.”

Carlsen chuckled. “I’ll try to give satisfaction.” They changed planes in Stockholm, moving into a smaller plane from Swedish Airlines. Fallada remained absorbed in his book; Carlsen stared down and watched the green countryside change to pine-covered hills, then to the black tundra veined with rifts of snow. The April sun now looked pale, as if its light were filtered through ice. They were served a snack of salted biscuits and raw fish with vodka; Fallada ate abstractedly, his eyes on the book. Carlsen observed the speed at which he read and the total absorption; in the two and a half hours since they left London, he had read more than three quarters of Geijerstam’s book.

The plane nosed down through misty cloud, over islands that were partly covered with snow. The airport at Karlsborg seemed absurdly small: little more than a control building and a tiny airfield surrounded by log houses. As they stepped out of the plane, Carlsen was surprised by the sharp chill in the air. The taximan who met them was not a Scandinavian type; he had black hair and a round face that reminded Carlsen of an Eskimo. He carried their bags to a six-seater helicopter in a field beside the airport; a few minutes later, they were flying low over snow-covered farmland, then over water again. Carlsen discovered that the pilot spoke a little Norwegian; he was a Lapp from the northern province. When Carlsen asked how big Storavan was, the pilot looked surprised, then said: “About ten kilometres.”

“That is a large town.”

“It is not a town. It is a lake.”

He said no more. The scenery changed to mountains covered with forest; Carlsen caught occasional glimpses of reindeer.

Fallada read on steadily. Finally, he closed the book. “Interesting, but definitely mad.”

“You mean insane?”

“Oh, no. Not exactly. But he believes that vampires are evil spirits.”

Carlsen smiled. “Aren’t they?”

“You saw the moray attack the octopus. Was that an evil spirit?”

“But if these aliens can live outside the body, doesn’t that make them spirits?”

“Not in his sense. He is talking about ghosts and demons.”

Carlsen looked down at the forests that were a mere hundred feet below the aircraft. In this country it was easy to believe in ghosts and demons. There were small, dark-tinted lakes, in which the sky’s reflection looked like blue stained glass. Half a mile away, on the granite hillside, a waterfall threw up a cloud of white mist; Carlsen could hear its thunder over the sound of the engine. In the west, the sky was turning from gold to red. There was something dreamlike and unearthly about the landscape.

A quarter of an hour later, the pilot pointed ahead. “Heimskringla.”

They could see a lake, winding between mountains as far as the eye could see; a few miles to the south, another immense lake gleamed between the trees. Below and to the right, there was a small town; for a moment Carlsen assumed this was Heimskringla, then realised they were heading past it. He asked: ” Var är Heimskringla?” The man pointed. ” Där.” Then he saw the island in the lake, and the roof showing among the trees. As they skimmed low above the trees, they could see the front of the house, grey and turreted like a castle. Its rear overlooked the lake; in front, there were lawns and winding paths among the trees. In an open, grassy space on the edge of the lake there was a small chapel of dark timber.

The helicopter touched down lightly on the gravel in front of the house. As the rotor blades stopped moving, they saw a man coming towards them from the front door, followed by three girls. Fallada said: “Ah, what a delightful reception committee.”

The man who advanced to meet them was tall and thin, and he walked with a vigorous, purposeful stride. Fallada said: “Surely this can’t be the Count? He is too young.”

As they stepped onto the gravel, the wind blew cold on their faces; Carlsen thought it smelt of snow. The man held out his hand. “How good to see you. I am Ernst von Geijerstam. It is kind of you to come so far to see an old man.” Carlsen wondered if he was joking. Although the moustache was grey, and the thin, handsome face was lined, he looked scarcely more than sixty. The youthful impression was reinforced by the immaculate dress: black coat, pin-striped trousers, a white bow tie. His English was perfect and without accent.

Carlsen and Fallada introduced themselves. Geijerstam turned: “Allow me to introduce three of my students: Selma Bengtsson, Annaleise Freytag, Louise Curel.”

Miss Bengtsson, a tall blonde, held Carlsen’s hand a moment longer than necessary. Accustomed to the gleam of recognition in the eyes of strangers, he knew what she was going to say next. “I have seen you on television. Are you not the captain of —”

“The Hermes . Yes.”

Geijerstam said: “And you are here as Dr Fallada’s assistant.” It was a statement, but there was no irony in it.

Fallada said blandly: “That is what I shall say when I claim his expenses.”

“Ah, I see.” The Count turned and spoke to the taximan in Lettish; the man saluted and climbed into the helicopter. “I have told him to return at midday tomorrow — unless, of course, you decide to stay longer… Would you care to see the lake before we go indoors?” The helicopter roared overhead, whipping the girls’ dresses tight against their legs.

A liveried manservant took the bags. Carlsen said: “You live in a beautiful spot.”

“Beautiful, but too cold for an old man with thin blood. Would you come this way?” He Jed them down a moss-grown path towards the water, which reflected the reddening sunlight.

As Fallada walked ahead with Geijerstam, Carlsen said to the blonde girl: “The Count is a great deal younger than I expected.”

She said: “Of course. We keep him young.”

He looked at her in astonishment, and all three girls laughed.

They stood on the pebbled foreshore, looking across at the forest of firs and pine. The sunlight in the treetops made them look as though they were on fire. Overhead, the deepening sky was pure blue.

Geijerstam pointed. “The chapel is older than the house. In the time of Gustavus Vasa, there was a monastery on this island. The house was built on its site about 1590.”

Fallada asked him: “Why do you live so far north?”

“In Norrkoping, they have a saying: that in Norrland, oaks, nobelmen and crayfish cease. So when I was a child, I always wanted to live here. But I found this house nearly forty years ago, when I came here to investigate the story of Count Magnus. He is buried in a mausoleum behind the chapel.”

Carlsen said: “Wasn’t he a lover of Queen Christina?”

“That was his uncle. The nephew inherited the title.” They walked along the beach, the stones crunching underfoot. “When I came here, the house had been empty for half a century. People said it was because it was too big to keep up. But the real reason was that the people of Avaviken were still afraid of the Count. He had a reputation as a vampire.”

“Had he died recently?”

“No. He died at the battle of Poltava, in 1709. His body was brought back here. His coffin is still in the mausoleum.”

“What happened to the body?”

“In 1790, the owner of the house drove a stake through the heart and burnt it to ashes. They say that it was in an excellent state of preservation.” They were within a hundred yards of the chapel. “Would you care to look in the mausoleum?”

The French girl, Louise, said: “I’m cold.”

“Ah, in that case, we can look in the morning.” They crossed the lawn, passing a large ornamental pond; a skin of ice glittered on its surface. “The monks used to keep their trout in here.”

Carlsen said: “Do you think Count Magnus was a vampire — in your sense?”

The Count smiled. “Surely there is only one sense?” He led them up the worn stone steps, into the hall. “But the answer to your question is yes. And now, would you prefer to see your rooms? Or would you prefer a drink first?”

Fallada said decisively: “A drink.”

“Good. Then come into the library.”

Through the far window of the library, they could see the sun dipping over the mountains. A log fire burned in the enormous grate; the firelight was reflected on copper fire-irons and on the polished leather binding of books. The German girl, Annaleise, wheeled the drink trolley onto the rug. With her plump figure and rosy cheeks, she made Carlsen think of a waitress in a beer garden. She poured Swedish schnaps into the glasses.

Geijerstam said: “I drink to you, gentlemen. It is a great honour to have two such distinguished guests.”

The girls also drank. Carlsen said: “If I’m not being too inquisitive, may I ask what your attractive pupils study?”

The Count smiled. “Why not ask them?”

Louise Curel, a slender, dark-eyed girl, said: “We learn to heal the sick.”

Carlsen raised his glass. “I’m sure you’ll make charming nurses.”

The girl shook her head. “No, we don’t study to be nurses.”

“Doctors?”

“That is closer to it.”

The Count said: “Do you feel tired?”

Surprised by the change of subject, Carlsen said: “Not at all.”

“Not even slightly tired by your journey?”

“Oh, just a little.”

Geijerstam smiled at the girls. “Would you like to demonstrate?”

They looked at Carlsen and nodded.

“You see,” Geijerstam said, “this is perhaps the quickest way to answer your question and to introduce you to my work. Would you mind standing up, please?”

Carlsen stood on the rug. Selma Bengtsson began to unzip his jacket. Geijerstam said: “Close your eyes for a moment, and observe your sensations — particularly your sense of fatigue.”

Carlsen closed his eyes; he could see the dancing flames through the eyelids. He observed a sense of muscular fatigue, combined with a feeling of relaxation.

“They are going to place their hands on you and give you energy. Relax and allow yourself to absorb it. You will not feel anything.”

Louise Curel said: “Would you mind removing your tie and opening your shirt?”

When the shirt was unbuttoned, they pulled it back so his shoulders were bare. The Swedish girl said: “Close your eyes.”

He stood there, swaying slightly, and felt them place their fingertips against his skin. He could feel Louise’s breath against his face. It was an exciting, slightly erotic sensation.

They stood there for perhaps five minutes. He experienced a sensation of bubbling delight, as if he wanted to laugh. The Count said: “It could be done even more quickly if they used their lips. This is the reason that kissing gives pleasure, incidentally. It is an exchange of male and female energy. How do you feel?”

“Very pleasant.”

“Good. I think that should be enough.” The girls helped to rebutton the shirt and replace the tie.

Fallada said: “How do you feel?”

As Carlsen hesitated, Geijerstam said: “He will not know for at least five minutes.” He asked Miss Bengtsson: “How was it?”

“I think he was more tired than he realised.”

Carlsen asked: “Why do you say that?”

“You took more energy than I expected.” She looked at the others, who nodded.

He asked: “So you feel tired?”

“A little. But don’t forget that there are three of us, so we don’t give much. And we take energy from you.”

“You take it?”

“Yes. We take some of your male energy, and give you our female energy in return.” She turned to the Count. “You can explain it better.”

Geijerstam was refilling the glasses. He said: “You could call it benevolent vampirism. You see, when you’re tired, it doesn’t necessarily mean you have no energy. You may have enormous vital reserves, but there is no stimulus to make them appear. When the girls give you female energy, it releases your vital reserves, exactly like a sexual stimulus. For a moment you feel just as tired as before — perhaps more so. Then your vital energies begin to flow, and you feel much better.”

Fallada said: “A kind of instantaneous cross-fertilisation?”

“Precisely.” He asked Carlsen: “How do you feel now?”

“Marvellous, thank you.” It was a pleasant, glowing sensation, and he was inclined to wonder how far it was due to the schnaps and the magical beauty of the sunset on the lake.

“Close your eyes for a moment. Do you still notice any tiredness?”

“None whatever.”

Geijerstam said to Fallada: “If we took his lambda reading, you would find it had increased.”

Fallada said: “I’d like to do full tests.”

“Of course. Nothing could be easier. I have already done them, and I will show you my results.”

“Did you ever publish them?”

“I wrote an article for it about ten years ago in the Journal of Humanistic Psychology, but Professor Schacht of Göttingen attacked it so bitterly that I decided to wait until people are ready to listen.”

Carlsen asked: “How did you make the discovery?”

“I first came to suspect it when I was a student, more than seventy years ago. My professor was Heinz Gudermann, who was married to an exceptionally lovely young girl. He had enormous vitality, and he often used to say he owed it to his wife. And then I read a paper that pointed out that many men have retained their vitality into old age when they were married to young women: I remember it mentioned the great cellist Casals, the guitarist Segovia and the philosopher Bertrand Russell. But the author of the paper insisted that this was purely psychological, and even then I was inclined to doubt this. Fifteen years later, when I discovered the principle of vampirism, I began to suspect that it was due to a transfer of sexual energy. I persuaded a young couple to take lambda readings before they went to bed on their honeymoon night, and then again the next day. This showed a definite increase in the energy of the life field. Next, I persuaded another couple to take readings before and after lovemaking. And the first thing I observed was that the renewal curve was similar to the curve of a hungry man eating food. Only it was much steeper. This seemed to confirm my point: that both lovers had eaten a kind of food — vital energy. And yet they were both renewed. How could this be, unless there were two kinds of energy, male and female? You see, lovemaking is a symbiotic relation, like a bee taking honey from a flower and fertilising the flower. But in those days I was more interested in the negative principles of vampirism — people like Gilles de Rais and Count Magnus. When I was in my seventies, I had a serious illness, and my nurse was a pretty peasant girl. I noticed that when she had rested her hands on me, I felt much better, but she was tired. Then it struck me that if several girls did it at the same time, it would be easier for them all. It worked. And now every day I take a little energy from my three assistants, and they take a little of mine. They keep me young.”