The Life of Polycrates and Other Stories for Antiquated Children (19 page)

Des Esseintes was silent. He couldn’t very well disagree with that. He had exhausted all of life’s pleasures many years earlier, but due to some force he himself could not explain still found himself lingering about, waiting without interest for something, though he knew not what.

The man introduced himself. “My name is Harro. Harro Pernath.”

Des Esseintes murmured his own name and watched as a waitress deposited a glass of slivovitz in front of the other man, who winked, pulled out a little flask and poured a few thimblefuls of its contents into his drink.

“
Ether, sweet vitriol, or, as some call it, the astral light, which mixed with spirit becomes earth. Capricorn and Taurus meet Mercury. The quintessence of matter.”

The man began to interest Des Esseintes, who took a swallow of his own drink and observed the other’s eyes, which flashed with an odd intelligence. The fellow reminded him vaguely of a Japanese curio he had once had at his house in Fontenay.

“
So, you have seen the sights of our city?”

“
I suppose so. I have seen what is around me. But . . .”

“
But?”

“
Nothing. I have not been caught much by the motif.”

Pernath looked at him with what seemed to be genuine pity.

“
If you wish to be entertained . . .” he suggested.

“
I don’t.”

“
When you need food, you make a calf.”

“
And you know how to make a calf?”

“
Well. . . . But, have you ever been to a Prague wedding?”

“
No.”

“
A dear friend of mine . . .”

“
They would not mind having a stranger among them?”

“
If you are with me, you are no stranger. You will be welcomed, and no doubt impressed, because not everyone can see . . .”

Des Esseintes, though not terribly tempted by the offer, acquiesced, as much out of a sense of boredom as anything else. Anything would be better than going back to his hotel and placing himself in the hands of its cook.

He paid for the drinks; they rose and left the café.

Night had fallen, and a reddish moon had risen up in the sky.

“
There are four ways to get there,” Pernath said. “The first is short, but unpleasant. The second is quite nice, but takes a long time. The third is really beautiful to go by, but I am not sure you would appreciate it.”

There was silence.

“
And the fourth?” Des Esseintes asked, without a great deal of curiosity.

“
No, better leave the fourth alone,” Pernath said hastily.

“
Well, you decide.”

“
I’ll take you by the first. It is a bit rough, but we’ll get there more quickly.”

He pulled the flask of ether out of his pocket and took a swig.

“
Go on,” he said, handing it to Des Esseintes.

“
And why not,” the latter murmured, taking the flask and lifting it cautiously to his lips. He felt the beverage slip down his throat, move about in his stomach like a live frog.

They made their way into the Josefov. Des Esseintes had been under the impression that a great portion of the ghetto had been destroyed, but the area they went through seemed vast and there was no evidence whatsoever of rehabilitation.

He was being guided through narrow lanes. Disagreeable looking prostitutes hung their heads out of the windows of sooty dwellings and offered their services in strange tongues but unmistakable terms. Children with intelligent faces walked by and winked and showed mouths of moon-coloured teeth. A man with a beard dripping down to the ground sat at his doorstep constructing human figurines out of clay by the light of six candles. On the doorway behind him, beneath a mezuzah, was a small sign which read:

Here Lives Zambrio, Magician

Des Esseintes looked at his guide questioningly.

“
No,” Pernath said. “You don’t want to be caught up with him.”

A dog with a long, thin muzzle walked by and Pernath weaved his arm through that of Des Esseintes and led him on.

They turned down a remarkably narrow alley, which led up a series of steps, which were moist and very slippery. The alley dead-ended abruptly in a high wall in which rested a small door.

Harro Pernath opened the door and the two men stepped into a tavern in which the shapes of men could be discerned amidst great clouds of tobacco smoke.

“
This is a shortcut.”

They moved through the low tables, around which men were hunched, drinking glasses of brandy, slivovitz and beer; smoking pipes and long cigars. Then along the counter, behind which were ranged beer engines, huge bottles of liquor with Hebrew written on the labels and a table on which sat baskets of bread and three or five cooked cow tongues.

A huge man with broad shoulders and a bristling black moustache came and clapped Pernath on the back, crying out in a language Des Esseintes assumed to be Yiddish.

“
This is my cousin Lipotin,” Pernath said shyly. “He insists on treating us to a drink.”

Before Des Esseintes had time to say anything, a huge tankard of beer was thrust into his hands.

“
Drink!” the man said in a guttural tone.

The Frenchman lifted the pecan-brown liquid to his lips and swallowed down a draught, which tasted vaguely of mushrooms, of old earth—of something dug up from the ground. He looked around him, fascinated to some degree by the people he saw. Men who existed behind moustaches the size of brooms and in whose eyes he could see reflections of far off lands. A white-haired gentleman who propped up an enormous black hat with his head. A very intelligent looking woman who sat in a corner, flanked by two stout fellows fondling long knives.

Des Esseintes swallowed down his beer and gave his guide an enquiring look.

“
I have to buy a round now,” Harro said. “Otherwise it would be impolite.”

Three more tankards of beer made their way into their hands. Lipotin was growing merry, reciting some story in Yiddish, chuckling, showing formidable rows of bay-coloured teeth and continuously taking Des Esseintes by the shoulder and shaking him affectionately.

“
He says you remind him of an old girlfriend of his,” Pernath said.

“
Flattered. But shouldn’t we . . .”

“
Yes, yes, we can’t be late for the wedding. You treat us to a last round and then we’ll be on our way.”

Des Esseintes was beginning to feel dizzy. But, smiling grimly, he held up three fingers to the barman.

When finally they stepped out the back door, he trod on the tail of some unknown animal which screeched and then bolted off into the darkness.

The two men wandered down narrow lanes, with unsteady steps, until they found themselves in a claustrophobic square with a well in the middle.

Above them were windows, the yellow-painted shutters of which were all closed.

Pernath called up, and the shutters to one of the windows was flung open and a knotted rope let down.

“
Up we go,” he said, grabbing hold of the rope and, with great ability, climbing to the top and through the window.

“
Come, come.”

Des Esseintes frowned. He did not feel comfortable engaging in such acrobatics, but in the end did struggle up the rope and through the window.

The room he found himself in was quite large, the walls hung with elaborate tapestries depicting green lions, crescent moons, heavenly birds and golden crowns. A number of large canvasses hung on the walls: one of Yehudah ben Bezalel Levai, another of Ramban.

A very small, very old man who wore an odd-shaped hat the colour of spring onion greeted him.

“
We have been expecting you, my child,” he said, taking Des Esseintes by the hand and giving him a look of great kindness.

“
I have come for the wedding,” the other said with some embarrassment.

“
Why, of course you have!”

“
Let him see the bride,” Pernath commented.

“
Yes, yes! Let’s take him to Vyoma.”

The old man gently pulled Des Esseintes by the arm into an adjoining room where a young woman sat on a satin divan staring into space.

She was small and pale. Des Esseintes had a hard time determining whether her face was beautiful or the very opposite. She had a blood-red ribbon wrapped around her throat with the words TEM. NA. F. written on it in purple.

“
Maiden’s milk,” Harro Pernath said slyly and then chuckled, poking his guest in the ribs with his elbow.

The Frenchman was just beginning to mumble some awkward words of admiration when a very fat woman with large ears carrying a pink feather duster came bustling into the chamber shouting.

“
Out! Out! You men are always too eager. Better to first purify your hearts!”

She thrust the feather duster at them and they retreated from the room.

“
In time, in time,” the old man murmured as he led the others into a small closet and then up a long ladder into a room which was crowded with clocks, a piano, a brass elephant and bric-a-brac. In the middle of the room was a table, covered with food. In one corner, in a large cage which sat atop a marble pedestal, was a curious bird, with yellow feathers and a long neck. A terrarium filled with African mice sat on a shelf.

Crowding the middle of the room was a large oak table on which were piled formidable cheeses and enormous pies; plates of smoked beef and pickled fish; bottles of Szamorodni wine and brightly-tinted liqueurs.

Des Esseintes lit a cigarette and sat down.

A group of musicians burst into the room and, after helping themselves freely to wine, began playing at their instruments violently. Harro jumped over to the piano and started to pound at its keys. A thinnish man with a moustache scraped away vigorously at a violin while another fellow, whose sleepy eyes relaxed behind a pair of spectacles, hammered on a cimbalom. A brooding looking man in his thirties blew on a clarinet.

Des Esseintes tried to follow the rhythm, which reminded him vaguely of certain passages of Christoph Demantius, but in the end gave up and turned his attention to the table.

A sudden hunger had come over him. He cut himself a huge slice of cheese. There was a bowl of hard-boiled eggs and, peeling the shell off one, he dashed a bit of salt on it and shoved it in his mouth. Then he cut himself a piece of rhubarb pie.

The violinist looked at him and shouted, “Feed the bird.”

Everyone took up the theme and all began shouting uproariously for him to feed the bird.

Des Esseintes, tearing a piece off a loaf of bread, took it to the cage and let the bird peck it out of his hand, at which everyone clapped and screamed in delight while the bird began to coo and run around its cage in excitement.

The violinist introduced himself.

“
My name is Gustav.”

“
Yes?”

There was a strange light in the eyes of the musician.

“
Do not be so sure.”

Des Esseintes was baffled.

“
He is talking about the transformation,” the clarinet player said in a bored tone. “Complete non-discrimination. It’s like last night. I dreamed of a man with huge antlers playing the guitar.”

“
And how did he play?” asked Gustav.

“
Better than you, only I couldn’t hear.”

“
Then how do you know?”

“
The same way I know that the bird is happy.”

“
Don’t talk nonsense Alfred,” the cimbalom player said. “The bird might be the body, but it’s not the blood. The height of feeling leads to the path of God. No question that there is beauty in ugly pictures, but that doesn’t mean our French guest here should have to endure the worst. Let him have a glass of wine and be on his way.”

“
He’s here for the wedding,” Pernath said.

“
We all are!” cried Gustav. “Max is just trying to annoy us. He doesn’t like to celebrate. He’s waiting to return to the promised land.”

“
Ah, you occultists . . .”

“
Hush, hush!” the old man interposed and then, approaching Des Esseintes, kissed him on both cheeks.

“
She’s ready now.”

“
Ready?” the Frenchman asked in astonishment.

“
Don’t be shy my child. She likes you very much.”

“
Make sure to kiss her on the lips,” Pernath whispered in his ear.

Before he knew it, he was mounting an elegant spiral staircase of brass work.

The room he made his way into was totally round with an imposing bed stationed in its centre. She was lying there, with a blank expression on her face. He moved closer, and opened his eyes wide with surprise.

“
Great God, she’s——!” he said to himself.

Yes, she was there, a man past his prime, with a balding head, face lined with wrinkles, body thin and covered with loose flesh.

He stood for a moment in indecision as the fellow looked up at him. Reasoning that at least he could not accuse himself of mediocrity, he leaned over and placed his lips to his, fed on his own substance. The figure on the bed, some strange, perverted mirror-image of himself, shrugged its shoulders.