The Dark Domain (8 page)

I received a letter from her.

Since her departure abroad a year ago to an unknown destination – this first wonderful sign from her … . I cannot, I truly cannot believe it! I will faint from joy!

A letter from her to me! To me, someone completely unknown to her, a humble, distant admirer with whom no friendly relations had existed before, not even a fleeting acquaintanceship. But the letter is genuine. I carry it continually with me, I do not part with it even for one second. The name on the address is clear, without a doubt: Jerzy Szamota. It is I, after all. Not believing my own eyes, I showed the envelope to several acquaintances; everyone looked at me with some amazement, then smiled and confirmed that the address is legible and bears my name.

So she is returning home, returning in just a couple of days, and the first person who will greet her at her door will be I – I, whose adoring eyes barely dared to look up at her during chance sightings on the street, on some park lane, in the theatre, at a concert … .

If I could have to my credit at least one glance, or a brief smile from her proud lips – but no! She seemed to have been completely unaware of me. Until this letter, I had been certain she did not even know of my existence. Surely she hadn't noticed me all those years while I trailed after her like a distant, timid shadow? I was so discreet, so very unobtrusive! My yearning enveloped her with such a far-removed, delicate ray. Yet she must have sensed this. With a sensitive woman's instinct, she sensed my love and my meek, boundless adoration. It seems that the invisible bonds of attraction that existed between us all these years grew more powerful during our distant separation, and now they draw her to me.

My best wishes, my most beautiful one! At this evening hour, the day bows before me in bright, cheerful flashes, and with a raised head I hum a song in praise of your magnificence – my most wonderful Lady!

It is already Thursday. The day after tomorrow, at this time, I will see her. Not until then. Such is her expressed wish. I take her letter in my hand, that priceless lilac sheet from which escapes a subtle fragrance of heliotrope, and I read for the hundredth time:

Dear! Call at the house on 8 Green Street on Saturday, the 26th, at six in the evening. You will find the garden gate open. I will be waiting for you. Let the yearning of many years be fulfilled. Yours, Jadwiga Kalergis

The house on 8 Green Street! Her villa, The Lindens! A splendid, medieval-styled little mansion in the midst of a grand park, separated from the street by woods and a thick wire fence; the aim of nearly all my daily walks. How many times during the evening had I sneaked up to this quiet spot, searching with a racing heart for her shadow on the windowpanes! …

Impatient with waiting for the anticipated Saturday, I was already at her house several times attempting to gain entry; but I always found the garden gate closed – the handle yielded, but the lock did not spring open. She still had not returned. I should be patient and wait, but I am so unbearably excited. I do not eat, I cannot sleep; I only count the hours, the minutes. So much time remains! Forty-eight hours! … Tomorrow I will spend the entire day on the river by her park. I will rent a boat and circle near her villa. Saturday I will spend the morning and part of the afternoon at the railway station. I have to welcome her, at least from afar. I know from her neighbours, who have not seen her for a year, that she has not yet returned. She has definitely postponed her arrival until the 26th of September – that is, on the day of my visit. In truth, I fear I won't come at an opportune time; after such a journey she will be extremely tired.

*        *        *

Saturday morning – that is, yesterday – I did not see her among the abundant crowds at the station. I waited until four in the afternoon for the second train, with the same result. Maybe she hadn't arrived? Or maybe she had come on the morning train and was already at home? In either case, I had to go to her villa and ascertain the truth.

Those two hours that separated us became an unbearable torment whose end I could hardly wait for. Entering a café, I drank a large amount of black coffee, smoked lots of cigarettes, and unable to sit still, I rushed back outside. Passing by a flower stall, I remembered the flowers I had ordered for today.

How absentminded of me! I would have completely forgotten!

I went and collected a bouquet of crimson roses and azaleas. The freshly-cut flowers, their fragrant buds emerging from a circle of ferns, shook gently in the evening breeze. The clocks of the city were approaching a quarter to six.

I wrapped the bouquet in paper and quickly left in the direction of the river. In several minutes I was already on the other side of the bridge. With a nervous step I neared the villa. My heart beat wildly, my legs trembled. Finally I reached the gate and pressed down on the handle: it gave way. Dazed by happiness, I rested for several minutes against the park fence, unable to contain my emotions. So, she had returned!

My wandering gaze travelled along the rows of linden trees, which, arranged on opposite sides of the pathway, stretched in long lanes to the portal. Somewhere to the left, behind mulberry and dogwood shrubs, appeared the skeleton of an autumnal vine-covered arbor; red leaves drifted down a chaotic trellis containing already-withered ivies.

Flower-beds held the blossoms of autumn: chrysanthemums and asters. Yellow chestnut and brick-red maple leaves drizzled with quiet sadness on paths overgrown with grass and weeds. Dahlias bled under a dried-up marble cistern; large glass containers alternated rainbow colours … . In the midst of a privet, on a stone bench covered with a carpet of conifer needles, two finches twittered a song of flight. Deep within the alleys, in the darkening sunset light, spiders spun out their silky, silver threads … .

With both hands I pushed open the heavy front door, and after ascending some winding stairs, I found myself on the first floor. I was struck by the absence of life. The mansion looked deserted; no one met me, nowhere was there a sign of servants or any members of the household. Scattered large electric lamps illuminated, with their blindingly bright beams, empty halls and galleries.

In the antechamber, opened hospitably for my arrival, unoccupied coat-racks presented a lonely sight. Their smooth metallic knobs glittered with the cold reflection of polished copper. I removed my coat. At that moment the sound of the city's clocks flowed in through a large, open Gothic window: they tolled the sixth hour … .

I knocked on the door in front of me. There was no response from within. I became anxious. What should I do? Enter without permission? Maybe, fatigued by travel, she was fast asleep?

Suddenly the door opened, and she stood on the threshold. Her piercing, proud yet sweet eyes gazed at me from under the regal diadem of her chestnut hair. Her classical head, worthy of Poliklet's chisel, was crowned by an emerald-inlaid tiara. A soft, snow-white peplos, flowing in harmonious waves to sixteenth-century footwear, enveloped her statuesque figure.
Juno stolata
!

I bowed before her majesty. And she, withdrawing inside, let me pass with a gesture of her hand into a palatial apartment. It was a magnificent bedroom decorated exquisitely in the fashions of former times.

In silence, she sat inside a deep niche on a
giallo antico
bed.

I knelt on the carpet by her feet, laying my head on her knees. She embraced it in a warm, maternal movement and started to tenderly comb my hair with her fingers. We gazed endlessly into each other's eyes, unable to sate ourselves with what we saw. We were silent. Thus far not one word had fallen between us – as if we feared scaring away with a reckless sound the angel of bewitchment that fettered and united our souls.

Suddenly she leaned over and kissed me on the lips. Blood pounded in my head, the world turned round drunkenly – and my passion unleashed itself. I grabbed her roughly and, not sensing any resistance, threw her on the bed. With a quick, elusive movement, she unclasped the amber fibula on her shoulder, exposing before me her divine body. So I possessed her in boundless suffering and longing, my senses intoxicated and my heart enraptured, my soul frenzied and my blood burning.

Hours passed with the speed of lightning, short as its flashes and potent with happiness; racing moments flew by like the winds of the steppe – moments precious like rare pearls. Wearied by pleasure, we drifted off to exquisite dreams that were like the groves of paradise, like magical fairy-tales – only to awaken to day-dreams even more wonderful, more beautiful … .

When I finally opened my heavy eyelids near six in the morning and glanced around, fully conscious, Jadwiga was no longer at my side.

I dressed quickly. After waiting for her in vain for an entire hour, I returned home … .

I feel giddy, there's fire in my veins. I must have a fever because my lips are swollen and there's a strange bitter taste in my mouth. Walking about, I stagger and stumble against the furniture … .

I look at the world as if through a mist or a delightful veil of entrancement … .

*        *        *

The following day, after my return from the newspaper office, I found a letter from Jadwiga on my desk, in which she designated our next meeting. It was to take place at her villa and again on a Saturday evening. That date seemed too distant for me: I went to The Lindens on Tuesday afternoon. But the gate was closed. Irritated, I walked around the little mansion a few times in the hope of spotting her in one of the park alleys. But the paths were empty – the autumn wind alone was there, raising batches of withered leaves and mercilessly driving them into lengthy, sad rows. Even though it soon became completely dark, I did not glimpse any lights through the windows. The house was silent and dead, as if there were no one living in it. So it seems she spends her evenings in one of the rooms with a northern exposure – that is, on the side least accessible to a passerby's eye. Discouraged, I left.

Similar attempts on the following days met with the same result, and so I had to submit to her wish and wait until Saturday. Nevertheless it surprised me that during that entire week I did not see her, even once, in town, not at the theatre, nor on the tram. Apparently a dramatic change has occurred in her life-style. Jadwiga Kalergis, once the daily object of admiration by the city's dandies and Don Juans, the queen of parties, concerts and social events, now lives like a nun.

In truth, I am happy and proud because of this. I do not possess the vain ambition of those who like to irritate others with a glimpse of their own happiness. I do not desire to flaunt her before the world. On the contrary – this secrecy, this furtive element in our relationship, has an inexpressible charm.
Odi profanum vulgus
… .

*        *        *

Finally Saturday arrived. Throughout the morning I paced about aimlessly. My friends at the office laughed at me, maintaining that most surely I was in love.

‘That Szamota is really crazy,' muttered the theatre reporter. ‘For some time he's been completely mad. One can't speak to him.'

‘A skirt!
Cherchez la femme
!'
explained a very old reporter. ‘Nothing else. Believe me.'

Punctually at six in the evening I entered her bedroom through the half-open door. Jadwiga was not yet present. On a splendidly laid-out table there was a cup of hot chocolate; a pyramid of pastries rose beside the cup, and a green liqueur glittered nearby.

I sat down facing the adjoining room and reached for a trabuco cigar from a chrysolite box. Suddenly my glance fell on a piece of paper placed between the cigars. I recognized her handwriting; it was meant for me.

Dear! Excuse my lateness. I went to town and will return in half-an-hour. Till then!

I kissed the note and concealed it near my bosom; then I drank the fragrant chocolate. After my first glass of liqueur, I felt somewhat drowsy. I lit up a new cigar, mechanically fixing my eyes on the wall opposite me, where a brilliant Greek shield, with Medusa at its centre, hung. The shield's shimmering chest had something strangely magnetic about it that arrested the eyes, fettered the will.

Soon my attention was completely focused on one bright spot, on the snake-haired Gorgon's blazing eye. I couldn't draw myself away from this hypnotic centre. Gradually, I drifted into a peculiar state. My surroundings retreated to a never-ending distant background, to be replaced by gorgeously rich colours, an exotic fairyland, a tropical
fata morgana
… .

Suddenly I felt a pair of warm, soft arms about my neck and a sweet, lingering kiss on my lips. I roused myself from my absorption. Next to me stood Jadwiga, smiling seductively. I took her by the waist, pressing her to my chest.

‘Forgive me,' I explained, ‘I didn't hear you come in. That shield holds one's attention most strangely.'

She responded with a silent smile of indulgence.

Today she was even more beautiful. Her statuesque loveliness, framed in Greek attire, exuded marvellous enchantment. Under wonderful brows looked out proud black eyes, smouldering with the flame of desire. Oh, what a joy to move those marble breasts with a wave of passion, to chisel out of the face of a haughty Juno her cool serenity!

Leaning her against my arm, I cast a hungry look at her, sating for a long moment my thirsty eyes on the vastness of her beauty.

‘Oh, how beautiful you are, my sweetheart, oh, how beautiful! But where are your tresses, your violet-scented tresses?' I demanded passionately, attempting to push away from her forehead the soft, immaculately white veil that covered her head tightly today. ‘I want to stroke your hair, just like that first time – remember? I want to spread out that ambrosial mantle over your shoulders, and kiss you forever. You didn't deny me on that first evening. Remove this wrap.'

She held back my hand gently, but firmly. On her lips blossomed a mysterious smile, and she shook her head.