From Aberystwyth with Love (28 page)

We ate in silence. Porphyria started rubbing my flesh again. I took out one of the garlic capsules and put it in my mouth. I bit and breathed at her. The result was dramatic. She jumped back and began coughing violently. Her hand flew to her mouth as if she was about to be sick and the other hand sought furiously in the folds of her heavy dress; she found her purse and snapped it open, taking out an asthma puffer. She drew deep and long breaths on the inhaler, interspersed with agonising groans.

‘It’s nothing, do not be alarmed,’ shouted the Count trying to restore calm. The tutor took the girl to the window and opened the casement. She continued to cough and gasp.

‘Just a little childhood asthma,’ announced the Count.

Calamity returned and whispered into my ear. ‘There’s a rocking-goat in the nursery.’

I inclined my head and hissed, ‘A what?’

‘Rocking-goat.’

‘Is everything OK?’ asked the Count seeing us confer.

‘Absolutely wonderful,’ I said. ‘Calamity was just complimenting you on the . . . porcelain of your bathroom.’

He smiled and in that diplomatic smile could be seen generations of breeding that had perfected the art over the years of concealing disbelief, of smiling while plotting to stab. Calamity smiled back, equally false, but without the advantage of generations of breeding. She said, ‘Actually, I was just telling Louie that there appears to be a mob carrying torches outside my window.’

The Count dismissed her remark with a slight wave of his hand. ‘If you are concerned about them keeping you awake, I really shouldn’t worry. They soak their brands in tar, you see, which means they usually go out after about forty minutes. Once that happens the men tend to lose motivation and retire to the inn.’

‘Are they angry about something?’ I asked.

The Count gave a weary sigh. ‘Angry? Of course they are angry, they are serfs, they live in a permanent state of choler.’ He raised a goblet of wine and then thrust it back down on the table, causing the wine to spill. ‘I mean, it really is too much sometimes. They are an ungrateful lot in the village, they really are. They moan incessantly about the excesses of my ancestors and yet half of them have turned their hovels into boutique hotels to accommodate a tourist trade that wouldn’t exist were it not for the excesses they so loudly condemn. If it wasn’t for us they would still be eating turnips and swedes. You see them carrying medieval torches above their heads but half of them drive Volvos. But they forget, you see; that’s the trouble with serfs, they have very selective memories.’ He turned to his manservant who was standing at the fireplace. ‘Igor, what are they moaning about this time?’

‘Easter 1393, my lord.’

The Count made a choking sound in the back of his throat that signified exasperation and said, ‘Oh, for Pete’s sake!’

‘What happened at Easter 1393?’ asked Calamity.

‘Oh just a bit of harmless tomfoolery,’ said the Count. ‘One of my ancestors needed a new castle in a hurry, you see, so he organised an Easter party for the villagers. They all turned up in their Sunday best and there spread out before them were tables heaving under a feast the like of which they had never seen before in their sweaty lives. There was roasted ox and venison, chickens and partridges and all manner of dainty fowl, milk-fed veal and suckling pig, hedgehog pie and rabbit pâté, squirrel soufflé and pan-roasted field mouse, carp from their lord’s ponds, and real
blancmanger
made with lamb and almonds and for afters there was Turkish delight made with the tears of a virgin. All day they filled their red pox-scarred faces with my ancestor’s finest Burgundy; they danced and sang and partied and burped until sundown at which point they all learned a rather painful truth about there being no such thing as a free lunch. At an order from the Count they were all surrounded by soldiers while the blacksmith went from each to each putting fetters upon wrist and ankle. Then, still wearing their party clothes, the entire village was force-marched fifty miles north to a desolate windswept rocky promontory where they were told to start building a castle. As I say, it really is a rather droll tale. They worked from before dawn till late into the night, and were given just enough food to keep daily funerals in the single figures and ensure that work was not interrupted by excesses of weeping. Travellers who passed through the region nine months later related wonderful tales of seeing these workers slaving away almost naked because their clothes had rotted to rags and fallen quite away.’

‘Did they ever return to their village?’ I asked.

‘You know,’ said the Count thoughtfully, ‘I really can’t remember. I think they all died during the construction of the castle but it is possible the Count had them put to death. He would have been quite justified in doing so since the workmanship was appallingly shoddy. In fact, when the Count saw the finished castle he refused to set foot in it and used it instead to store his hosiery. But the moral is one of rank ingratitude: seven hundred years later and the locals still bang on about that castle but not one of them ever mentions the lovely party that preceded it.’

There was a short silence after the Count had finished his story, and the servants poured the coffees. The Count stood up and said, ‘Porphyria, take Miss Calamity off to play with your toys after dinner. Mr Louie, you will find port and cigars in the library. You must excuse me, I rather fancy an early night, we have a great day ahead of us tomorrow, is it not so?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I was meaning to ask you about the arrangements. We need to catch the early train to Brasov.’

A mild confusion creased his brow and then he burst into a wide grin. ‘Ha ha ha! Early train to Brasov! Yes very good, very dry. Your sense of humour is apt to catch one unawares.’ He raised his glass. ‘And now, before I retire, why don’t you all join me in one last toast to our patron and provider, the great Mr Mooncalf!’

Later, as I sat on a wine-coloured chesterfield enjoying the Count’s port, Monsieur Souterain appeared looking flustered.

‘Where is Mademoiselle Calamity?’ he said.

‘She’s playing with the children.’

‘Oh no! No, this must not be! You must leave this place tonight.’

‘But we’ve only just arrived.’

‘You must flee, you are in great danger, you must flee tonight. And take me with you. I have arranged everything. A carriage will wait by the scullery door tonight at nine. From your room, follow the corridor away from the great hall and take the first left after you pass the triptych depicting the Impaling of the Mother and Child. There you will find a staircase that leads directly to the scullery. Look out for the maid with webbed fingers, she will show you to the carriage  . . .’

‘Souterain!’ a voice rang out along the cold stone corridors. His eyes opened wide with fear. ‘I must go. Please, I beseech you, find Calamity, nine o’clock, remember!’ He ran away looking back. ‘Remember!’ he cried. ‘Nine o’clock.’

‘Webbed fingers,’ I shouted.

A few seconds later Porphyria appeared.

‘Have you seen Monsieur Souterain?’

‘No, not since dinner.’

‘I thought I heard voices.’

‘Yes, it seems to be a peculiar property of this castle; we heard children’s voices just now from an empty room.’

‘Those would be the little twins.’

‘Will we be meeting them?’

‘I hardly think so. They died in a fire ninety years ago. Do not be alarmed, the appearance of this particular apparition signifies good fortune unless accompanied by the sound of a music box.’

‘Have you seen Calamity?’

‘I last saw her in the nursery admiring the statue of Pan!’ She walked off giving a silvery laugh. Moments later I heard her shout, ‘Souterain, on your knees, you dog!’

I abandoned my port and went to find Calamity. I wandered along the many corridors calling her name, but I saw no one. The nursery was empty and my attention was drawn to the sound of a commotion outside. I walked over to the casements. The mob of villagers beyond the moat had gone but within the grounds of the castle there appeared to be some form of chase involving men with dogs and torches, in pursuit of a man running across the ornamental lawns. I returned to my room and found Calamity changed back into jeans and T-shirt, packing my case. ‘We’re leaving,’ she said. ‘Igor has told me everything. I’m due to marry the Count tomorrow.’

‘There must be a misunderstanding,’ I said.

‘Why? How do you think Mooncalf got the tickets so cheap?’

‘He’s got contacts in the trade.’

‘You can say that again. Did you take a look at the doll’s house in the nursery? One of the rooms in it has the charred corpses of two little babies in bed.’

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘We’re leaving.’ She looked at me, her eyes sparkling with fear. ‘Please, Louie.’

From outside the noise of the chase grew suddenly louder. The barking of dogs rose to a pitch of intoxication that suggested their snapping jaws were only inches now from the tailcoat of their quarry; and rising above their incessant yapping there came the loud clear call of a man falling followed by what sounded like a splash.

I changed back into my travelling clothes, picked up the bags, and we ran. In the scullery, we were met by a girl in a ragged dirndl carrying a small shovel and box of cinders. There were sooty smears on her cheeks. She smiled, put the shovel down and splayed the fingers of her hand before us. They were webbed. She led us through the kitchen and out of a side door to where our coach was waiting. The mob of villagers stood on either side holding their torches aloft. When they saw us they cheered and rushed forward to guide us into the carriage.

‘What about Souterain?’ I cried.

‘It is too late for him,’ a voice answered. ‘There is no time to lose.’

The coach door was slammed and the whip cracked in the night. We were jolted forward and the villagers cheered again. As we raced off into the night, lightning flashed in the night sky. High above us, on a grassy slope falling away to the moat, the servants of the Count were gathered, and seemed to be dragging something wet and heavy and man-shaped from the moat. Just then lightning flashed once more and picked out three little girls who burned like Roman candles in their gowns of taffeta. They stood erect, and proud, like marble statues unmoved by the pitiful scene being enacted before them. Three little girls who would not be having lute lessons the next day.

Chapter 20

Calamity returned from the samovar with two glasses of black tea. ‘We still owe the
provodnitsa
three gryvnia for the bowl of cabbage soup we had at breakfast,’ she said.

‘That was good soup.’

‘It sure was. Of the fifteen bowls of cabbage soup we’ve had on the ferry and this train, this
provodnitsa
’s was definitely the best.’

I warmed my hands round the hot tea. This morning had started quite chilly, and the carriage had still not warmed up. Last night’s soup had been in Odessa, and the five bowls before that had been on the Black Sea ferry from Istanbul.

‘I can’t believe Mooncalf would promise me as a bride like that,’ said Calamity.

‘We don’t know for sure that he did.’

‘That’s what Igor said.’

‘It might have been a misunderstanding, English isn’t his first language.’

‘Oh sure! What about the wedding dress, and the empty envelope? And . . . Monsieur Souterain.’

‘That was a terrible accident, I don’t see what that has to do with Mooncalf.’

‘We ought to report him to Llunos.’

‘He’d just say Transylvania was outside his jurisdiction.’

‘Yeah, he’d say it served us right for going there, and for leaving our travel arrangements to someone like Mooncalf.’ Calamity looked at me and brightened as the truth of that remark sank in. We both knew that was exactly what Llunos would say, and he would be right. ‘I’m sure Hughesovka will be a lot better,’ she said.

‘That’s right, even Mooncalf wouldn’t try and marry you twice.’

Calamity grinned and punched me on the arm and we both gazed out at the countryside flowing by. The gently rolling farmland of the Western Ukraine slowly gave way to the outskirts of that longed-for Eldorado, Hughesovka. Some people said it didn’t exist, it was just a far-off, remote, hopeless land of dreamers, where every home was an ice-cream castle in the air for romantics and fools. We were about to find out.