Thirst No. 3 (30 page)

The instant I step into the Pratchli I smell him, and I know he didn’t just visit the hotel, he came here often, and might even have kept a room in the building. His odor is unique, strong, and—make no mistake—exciting.

I walk up to an elderly man at the front desk.

“Grüezi val,”
I say. Hello, how are you?

“Grüezi. Sprechen Sie Deutsch?”

“Ja.”

The man smiles. “But you prefer English?”

I smile back. “I thought my Swiss Deutsch was flawless.”

He shakes his head. “I’m afraid not, dear. You’ve spent too many years in America. It’s spoiled your accent.”

“A pity.” I offer my hand. “Lara Adams.”

“Horace Reinhart. Pleased to meet you, Ms. Adams.”

“Lara, please. I’ve heard your name mentioned in town. You own this hotel?”

“My wife and I do. It’s been in the family two hundred years. Are you looking for a room? Our rates are very reasonable this time of year.”

“Possibly. Your hotel is lovely. That’s quite a view you have out back.”

“Thank you. I’ve always felt Arosa looks like a painting from above. You might be surprised to discover you can see over into the next valley from the top floor.”

“Then I must definitely take you up on your offer and stay here a few nights.” I remove my small painting of Yaksha from my coat pocket. “But this evening I’m here on business. This man is an old friend of mine and I know he spent time here. I was wondering if you could tell me anything about where he lived or who his friends were?”

Reinhart recognizes Yaksha immediately. I don’t have to be told. However, even though he nods at the picture, he frowns as well.

“Does your friend have a name?” he asks, testing me.

“He went by Yaksha when I knew him.”

“He asked us to call him Yak.” Reinhart sets the picture aside and studies me. “That was fifteen years ago. You can imagine why I’m puzzled.”

I chuckle softly. “I’m older than I look, Herr Reinhart. May I ask how long Yak stayed here?”

Reinhart gives me a penetrating gaze, trying to decide what secrets I know, and which ones he should share. “A long time. You understand?”

I keep my voice even. “Yes.”

“He kept two rooms in the hotel. One on the top floor, overlooking the valley. Another in the basement. That’s where he spent most of his time.”

“What did he do in the basement?”

“He wrote. Day and night. A very large book. At first he told me it was a fantasy tale. Later, he said it was the story of his life. I never did get to read it. When he wasn’t writing, he kept it in a vault he constructed in the basement. The safe was a remarkable technical achievement. I had an expert out from Zurich to examine it after Yak was gone for over ten years, and he was unable to break into it. Understand I only took this step when I became convinced Yak wasn’t going to return. But a part of me prayed that if he was gone, that he had made arrangements for someone to visit us who knew the combination.”

“Herr Reinhart, I may be that person. Can I see the vault?”

“Certainly. But before I show it to you, may I ask if Yak is still alive?”

“I’m sorry to say he’s dead.”

He bows his head in respect. “Some kind of accident?”

“It was more complicated than that.”

Reinhart is genuinely sad. I can tell the two were good friends. I also know the hotel owner was acquainted with Yaksha for many years and never saw him age. Yaksha must have trusted the man a great deal to give away such a secret.

Reinhart leads me to a floor that is actually two levels beneath what the staff would call the basement. The entrance to these deeper levels is sealed tight with hefty wooden doors and large steel locks. Reinhart has with him a bulky set of keys I suspect he hasn’t made use of in years. The stairs down to the
hidden basement are covered with a fine layer of dust. Yaksha’s odor, strong in the reception area, almost overwhelms me the deeper we go.

The bottom floor has no electricity. Reinhart carries a flashlight and halts before a varnished door with a dome-shaped top. He takes out a key as large as my hand and struggles to fit it in the lock. He’s old and his hand trembles. For that matter, his pulse is shaky, even though I can tell he has a pacemaker buried in his chest to keep his heart beating.

“My wife has never been down here,” he says.

“Why not?”

He smiles. “She thinks it’s haunted.”

“Why was this floor built? It couldn’t have been for guests or staff or storage.”

Reinhart shakes his head. “My great-great-grandfather left a diary. He said this floor was only to be used in the event of an attack. Otherwise, it was to be left deserted.”

“But you let Yak stay here?”

“
Ja.
I did so because he knew about this place without being told. When I asked him how he knew, he replied, ‘I’m here to make sure you’re never attacked.’”

“An odd remark,” I say, although it makes me think of the Telar.

“
Ja.
Yak reminded me of what was in the diary. For some reason, I felt God was trying to tell me something.”

“Are you a man of faith, Herr Reinhart?”

“Very much so. And you, Lara?”

“I believe the universe is a mysterious place.”

Reinhart finally gets the door open, and I’m treated to a suite that is much larger and well furnished than I expected. The quarters are immaculate. Indeed, except for the fact the sofa, desk, and chairs are antiques, I could be looking at an expensive suite in one of the finest hotels in Zurich.

Only there are no lamps, no lights of any kind. Does Reinhart know this secret as well? That Yaksha—like myself—had no need for them?

“It’s beautiful,” I say.

“Can you believe I’ve only been down here twice since Yak left us?”

“You wanted to preserve it the way he kept it. You never stopped hoping for his return.”

“You are a wise lady. How old did you say you were?”

“I did not say, Herr Reinhart. Where did he build the safe?”

“It is this way. On the other side of the restroom.” Reinhart leads me through the bathroom, which is equipped with a large tub, and into a narrow hallway made of red bricks. The transition in the decor is sudden. The hall dead-ends in a stone wall.

Not speaking, but with a faint smile on his lips, Mr. Reinhart waits for me to make the next move. I see he’s testing me. I study the stones—they’re far from polished. On the far right and left the tips of two rocks protrude like doorknobs. I
note how worn they are. Quickly, I grip them and press them together, and envision a disk overlaying the stones. Nothing happens until I try rotating them clockwise, and then counterclockwise.

That does the trick. The upper portion of the stone wall slides to the right, disappearing into God knows where. A gray vault with a large gold dial stares back at us, twenty-four numbers etched on its face.

“I am impressed, Lara,” Reinhart says.

“Are you sure you don’t know the combination?”

“Quite sure. Otherwise the temptation would have been too great to look at Yak’s masterpiece.”

“How do you know it’s a masterpiece?”

“He was a brilliant man. It could not be otherwise.” He removes a second flashlight from his pocket. “Do you want to have a go at it?”

“You act like I’ll succeed. I’m confused, where does your faith come from?”

“I have not been completely frank with you, Lara.”

“Oh?”

“Yak told me about you.”

“About Lara Adams?”

“He said your name could be anything. But I would recognize you because of your beautiful blue eyes, and your strength, and your grace. I must admit I had given up all hope of ever meeting you. But here you are, and yes, I’m sure you know the
combination to this lock. You just have to remember the time you two spent together.”

“Did he say that?”

“I say it.” He turns on the extra flashlight and hands it to me. “Take as long as you need.”

“Thank you.”

When he is gone, I consider opening the safe by force. But when I grip the gold dial, I realize other metals have been mixed in with the gold and it is impervious to even my great strength. The same with the rest of the vault. It looks like steel, but it’s something else, possibly an alloy similar to that used to make the handcuffs I bound Numbria with.

Turning off the flashlight, I stand in the darkness and think. It does not matter that there is no source of illumination—I can see perfectly. It is odd, but my vision becomes more acute in the dark. All matter gives off a faint glow. Humans are simply unaware of it.

I spin the dial and listen for imperfections in the mechanism.

There are none. Did the damn thing not wear down at all?

I contemplate the dial and its twenty-four numbers. The English alphabet has twenty-six characters. It would have been easier to speculate on a combination if there had been two more numbers on the dial.

However, when I was young, and together with Yaksha, neither of us knew English, because it didn’t exist. We spoke
Sanskrit, not the modern version known in India today, but a type many of the ancient scriptures were written in. That Sanskrit had twenty-four characters.

That can’t be a coincidence. I don’t believe in them.

I try to imagine what word or series of words Yaksha would use as a password. “Krishna,” I gasp, convinced I’m right. “It’s got to be Krishna.”

I spell Krishna several ways. First, I go to the number that represents
K
. Then I go to
R
, followed by
I
, and so on. When that doesn’t work, I try approaching the
K
by spinning the dial clockwise, then I search for the next letter by spinning it counterclockwise.

Again, I’m sure it will work. Yet the vault remains locked.

I try Yaksha’s name, racing through the variations. Next I use Sita. No luck. Frustrated—patience is definitely not my strong suit—I sit in the dark and fume. I talk to myself.

“Sanskrit has got to be the key. He didn’t choose that number of digits by chance. But if there are Telar here, and he was hiding his book from them, he wouldn’t have trusted in the antiquity of the language alone to protect his secret. They might know the language. Hell, they might have invented it.” I pause. “The code must have been deeply personal to Yaksha. What did I ever say to him, or what did he ever say to me that . . .”

Suddenly, I know what the code is.

I dial the code by starting with a clockwise spin—to the
number that corresponds to the letter I’m seeking—followed by a counterclockwise turn. I work fast, and a minute later the vault opens. Inside is a thick manuscript, overflowing with beautiful penmanship.

The code, as I take the book into my hands, makes me blush.

I love you, Sita.

The words must have meant a lot to him.

Reinhart is stunned at my success. He is less enthusiastic when I ask if I can take the book for the night.

“It’s thick. You won’t be able to read it all in one night.”

“I’m a fast reader.” I want to take it so I can make a copy of it.

“I would feel more comfortable if you read it here. After all, Yak left the manuscript in my care. I feel responsible to make sure no harm comes to it.”

“I understand. I’d feel the same way. But you did mention that Yak said I might show up one day. And I was able to figure out the combination to the vault.”

“May I know what the combination is?”

“I prefer to read his book first before divulging that secret.”

Reinhart frowns. “You ask me to trust you, but you do not return the favor.”

“The book is not mine to give away.”

“But you said Yak is dead.”

“It still belongs to him.”

Reinhart sits behind the front desk. “You drive a hard bargain for such a pretty young lady.”

I nod but say nothing. Silence is often the strongest weapon in a tense negotiation. Reinhart is reluctant to let the book go, but seems to sense my determination. He finally nods.

“I will be at this desk at eight tomorrow morning. Do you promise to return the manuscript by then?”

“Yes,” I say, without mentioning that I might stick it back in the vault before he arrives.

“Very well. Promise me you won’t make a copy of the book.”

“I wouldn’t think of it.”

I take a cab back to the bed and breakfast where I am staying. I’m anxious to start reading. Yet I take time to borrow a copier from the strict Swiss woman at the front desk. She refuses to let me take the machine to my room until I slip her five hundred euros. Then she’s all smiles. She calls on her strong sons to lift the bulky copier to my room, and gives me ten extra reams of paper, which I need. The pages are not numbered, but the book is a foot thick. I estimate it’s five thousand pages long.

The word count is staggering. The text is in Yaksha’s own personal handwriting, in Sanskrit, and no one ever taught him
the virtue of double spacing. His penmanship is neat and tidy but compressed. Indeed, it would be hard for a human being to read it without a magnifying glass. I’m sure the size is not accidental. After what Reinhart said, I feel Yaksha wrote the book “for my eyes only.”

I copy and read at the same time. Multitasking doesn’t affect my concentration. I assumed the book would be an autobiography, and I’m not disappointed. I tremble as I begin to read. . . .

I will not start with the night I was born, although I remember it well. Nor will I begin with the summer when I realized what I was, or the time I murdered my first human being, or even the painful evening I proclaimed my love to Sita. I must start with the instant I met Krishna, and asked myself if he truly was God, if such a being did indeed exist. . . .

Yaksha’s first lines don’t surprise me. I might have started my own story the same way, if I had been the first one to tell it, instead of Seymour. Nor does his reaction to Krishna shock me, for we both felt the same awe, reverence, love, terror, and, most of all, confusion around him.

However, Yaksha’s faith that Krishna was divine seems
stronger than mine. Certainly he embraced his vow to Krishna, to destroy all the vampires he’d made, with a true believer’s zeal.