"In nomine patrii et filii et spiritus sancti!" a bass voice boomed over the deafening roar of the hovering helicopters. In the glare of the searchlights, I saw the cardinal drop to his knees and cross himself. For a mad moment I waited to see the face of God. I was filled with curiosity: did he still have a long white beard and bushy eyebrows? The image didn't seem to fit with the technology. "Drop your guns!" the voice commanded. Dr. Hans-Jurgen Gauss's guards, devout Catholics to a man, hastily complied. I rubbed my eyes: Gauss's vast bulk was moving oddly in and out of focus. It took me some seconds before I realized that he was just trembling. In that eerie moment everyone else seemed frozen, as though the glacial light were an avalanche of ice, paralyzing sense and will alike, extinguishing the brightness of the moon and all thought of defiance. Even the fine hard faces of Lady Rudolphine and Anastasia seemed stunned: gone was the glimmer in their eyes, eclipsed like sapphires and emeralds in the greater glitter of an impossibly cruel diamond.
But where was Prince Ludwig? And Otto Hell? As if we had together at one moment realized their absence, we all moved in our chairs and looked around, and indeed, the searchlights mounted on the helicopters too shifted, uneasily grazing the snowy ground all around, in search of their escaping prey. A horde of masked men in tight purple jumpsuits reeled down from the helicopters led by a thick-set balding man with a drooping lower lip. His thuggish face bore an expression of extraordinary arrogance and cruelty. "Axel!" I heard Anastasia breathe. "Don't move!" the balding man shouted in a deep bass rumble, but the moment of awe had passed, Gauss bellowed and slapped the cardinal's shoulder, Lady Rudolphine smiled reassuringly at Anastasia, and I felt a sudden surge of wild elation and filial pride at the escape of the two grim patriarchs who would surely save us, somehow, from our desperate plight.
Just then Gauss gave out an odd little moan, his face turned bright magenta, his eyeballs bulged ready to shoot out of his head (and I reflected uneasily that my shirtfront was right in front of their line of fire), and shakily pointing one arm towards the corner of the garden, he collapsed noisily onto the table, his head slamming straight into a crystal decanter which shivered into knife-like shards, one of which stayed stuck through his bull neck, quivering. A dark pool of blood quickly formed on the table cloth, running along the white surface faster than it could be absorbed, dangerously near my trousers, but I had no time to spare for this imminent threat, so I hastily tossed a few starched napkins to dam the flow, and added some salt for good measure. I was rather hazily assuming that since salt is good for removing red wine stains, it might work with blood as well, but I have since learned through much trial and error that this is not the case, and that the only effectual remedy for fresh blood stains is the immediate application of thin slices of raw potato. However, even if I had known this at the time, I could not possibly have procured raw potato slices, or even another helping of the exquisitely creamed potatoes which had accompanied our dinner, because the attention of all the waiters was riveted to the sight which had felled Dr. Gauss, the spectacle of Prince's Ludwig's suicide.
Prince Ludwig had taken off his dinner jacket, and, bathed in the icy glare of the searchlights, his starched white shirtfront seemed luminous, pearly. His snowy mane of hair swirled in the wind and an expression of incandescent hauteur lit up his pale arrogant face. In one raised hand, he clutched a short blade which glittered coldly as though wreathed in white flame. As he stood motionless in the snow by the parapet, the dark valley behind him, he looked like a god who had stepped out from some rude myth, a fearsome figure woven from the dreams of wanderers in far northern lands, an apparition of shocking clarity. "It is time," he shouted in a voice so great that we heard him clearly over the impotent din of the machines above us. I squinted at the horrid plastic face of my disposable watch. It was midnight. "Time to die!" And even as I shivered with admiration at Prince Ludwig's impeccable sense of punctuality, he buried the sword to its hilt into his body. He staggered a little, but then steadied himself, and wrenching the sword free, this time ripped it across his body. The great gashes were clean and deep and, in that long instant (before the dark blood welled up to the surface and his coiled insides plopped out, grey and bloody), as he stood proudly before us, the Prince had erased his own identity, he had become one of his ancestors, a medieval knight-templar whose insignia of a hooked red cross on a field argent was traced upon his shirtfront in his own living blood. And then he sank to his knees. The snow sizzled around him and turned into a dark slush. I noticed now that Otto Hell was standing next to him, leaning impassively on a long curved sword. Hell watched Prince Ludwig's motionless form for a while, then leaned forward, and spoke into the dying prince's ear. Then he straightened up, raised his long sword with both hands, took careful aim, and brought it down fast. Axel and his men leaped towards Hell but it was too late. A swish, a snick, a thud, a woman's shrill scream and it was all over. Hell walked over slowly and sat down at the table. "Waste of a good dinner," he muttered moodily. "Never understood all that rot about giving a condemned man a hearty breakfast. Starving children!"
The helicopters had landed near us, unnoticed, as we had watched Prince Ludwig's ceremonial suicide, transfixed. The burly men in purple jumpsuits had disarmed and bound the late Dr. Gauss's bodyguards who had not put up much resistance in their shock at the death of their master. Now the men in purple were all around us, uttering peremptory commands to which none of us paid any attention. Pipi was too busy having hysterics. The cardinal had his hands folded in prayer. Hell was engrossed with his pipe, carefully filling, tamping, and lighting its stubby little bowl. Lady Rudolphine was staring into the distance, an oddly serene expression on her face. And I was watching in fascination as Anastasia rose, brushed off the restraining hand laid on her arm by one of the burly men, calmly walked over to her father's decapitated corpse, picked up the head which had rolled away a little distance, raised it to her face, and kissed its cold lips.
It was only when she came over to me, still holding her father's head, and kissed me hard, and I tasted the warm salty blood on her lips and tongue, that I shuddered, once, hard. She smiled mysteriously into my eyes, put the head down carelessly on the table, and kissed me again, slowly, caressingly, her tongue slithering around mine, its slippery friction like the scaly dance of snakes roistering in a hot cage of flesh, and an intense burning awakened deep within me and I responded with a passion I did not understand. "I like the taste of blood," Anastasia said in a husky whisper. "Remember?" I nodded. She kissed me again. My eyes were closed and I could not see her face but I was deluged in an ecstasy I had never felt before but which I instantly recognized. I felt myself drowning in honey, immersed in its slow lethargic weight, overwhelmed by the buzzing of bees on a drowsy summer day, imbued with the tangy sweetness of Anastasia. The last remaining barriers between us lifted and her essence mingled with mine, like oil and water, fluids of different densities and textures, swirling, overlapping, intertwining. "They have come for me." I did not so much hear her words as feel her hot breath inside my mind. "They have come to take me away. You will never see me again. Unless..."
I heard the crunch of heavy boots come nearer. "Unless what?" I pleaded urgently. "Unless what?" But by then the burly men had grabbed my arms and they were pulling them hard behind me and my kicks and shoves and struggle to put up a fight were as useless and pitiful as a small boy's attempts to wriggle free of a gang of older tormentors. Axel came up to me and smiled. His breath was hot and rank in my face. He caressed my throat with a razor-sharp knife and idly peeled away a thin layer of skin from my chin. "We have much to discuss, my interfering friend. You go back to Prague soon, nicht wahr? I will find you there," he whispered. "When you least expect me. But first I must take care of my wife." I saw Anastasia's pale blank face in the distance once more, as Axel and his men led her away towards the helicopters. The chatter of their engines started up again. "Unless what?" I screamed, desperately. But her words, if she spoke any, were blown away in that hateful din, lost forever, irretrievable, like bits of confetti, or the snow which blew untidily like a sad broken mist in the wake of the machines which took my beloved's body away from me.
But where was Prince Ludwig? And Otto Hell? As if we had together at one moment realized their absence, we all moved in our chairs and looked around, and indeed, the searchlights mounted on the helicopters too shifted, uneasily grazing the snowy ground all around, in search of their escaping prey. A horde of masked men in tight purple jumpsuits reeled down from the helicopters led by a thick-set balding man with a drooping lower lip. His thuggish face bore an expression of extraordinary arrogance and cruelty. "Axel!" I heard Anastasia breathe. "Don't move!" the balding man shouted in a deep bass rumble, but the moment of awe had passed, Gauss bellowed and slapped the cardinal's shoulder, Lady Rudolphine smiled reassuringly at Anastasia, and I felt a sudden surge of wild elation and filial pride at the escape of the two grim patriarchs who would surely save us, somehow, from our desperate plight.
Just then Gauss gave out an odd little moan, his face turned bright magenta, his eyeballs bulged ready to shoot out of his head (and I reflected uneasily that my shirtfront was right in front of their line of fire), and shakily pointing one arm towards the corner of the garden, he collapsed noisily onto the table, his head slamming straight into a crystal decanter which shivered into knife-like shards, one of which stayed stuck through his bull neck, quivering. A dark pool of blood quickly formed on the table cloth, running along the white surface faster than it could be absorbed, dangerously near my trousers, but I had no time to spare for this imminent threat, so I hastily tossed a few starched napkins to dam the flow, and added some salt for good measure. I was rather hazily assuming that since salt is good for removing red wine stains, it might work with blood as well, but I have since learned through much trial and error that this is not the case, and that the only effectual remedy for fresh blood stains is the immediate application of thin slices of raw potato. However, even if I had known this at the time, I could not possibly have procured raw potato slices, or even another helping of the exquisitely creamed potatoes which had accompanied our dinner, because the attention of all the waiters was riveted to the sight which had felled Dr. Gauss, the spectacle of Prince's Ludwig's suicide.
Prince Ludwig had taken off his dinner jacket, and, bathed in the icy glare of the searchlights, his starched white shirtfront seemed luminous, pearly. His snowy mane of hair swirled in the wind and an expression of incandescent hauteur lit up his pale arrogant face. In one raised hand, he clutched a short blade which glittered coldly as though wreathed in white flame. As he stood motionless in the snow by the parapet, the dark valley behind him, he looked like a god who had stepped out from some rude myth, a fearsome figure woven from the dreams of wanderers in far northern lands, an apparition of shocking clarity. "It is time," he shouted in a voice so great that we heard him clearly over the impotent din of the machines above us. I squinted at the horrid plastic face of my disposable watch. It was midnight. "Time to die!" And even as I shivered with admiration at Prince Ludwig's impeccable sense of punctuality, he buried the sword to its hilt into his body. He staggered a little, but then steadied himself, and wrenching the sword free, this time ripped it across his body. The great gashes were clean and deep and, in that long instant (before the dark blood welled up to the surface and his coiled insides plopped out, grey and bloody), as he stood proudly before us, the Prince had erased his own identity, he had become one of his ancestors, a medieval knight-templar whose insignia of a hooked red cross on a field argent was traced upon his shirtfront in his own living blood. And then he sank to his knees. The snow sizzled around him and turned into a dark slush. I noticed now that Otto Hell was standing next to him, leaning impassively on a long curved sword. Hell watched Prince Ludwig's motionless form for a while, then leaned forward, and spoke into the dying prince's ear. Then he straightened up, raised his long sword with both hands, took careful aim, and brought it down fast. Axel and his men leaped towards Hell but it was too late. A swish, a snick, a thud, a woman's shrill scream and it was all over. Hell walked over slowly and sat down at the table. "Waste of a good dinner," he muttered moodily. "Never understood all that rot about giving a condemned man a hearty breakfast. Starving children!"
The helicopters had landed near us, unnoticed, as we had watched Prince Ludwig's ceremonial suicide, transfixed. The burly men in purple jumpsuits had disarmed and bound the late Dr. Gauss's bodyguards who had not put up much resistance in their shock at the death of their master. Now the men in purple were all around us, uttering peremptory commands to which none of us paid any attention. Pipi was too busy having hysterics. The cardinal had his hands folded in prayer. Hell was engrossed with his pipe, carefully filling, tamping, and lighting its stubby little bowl. Lady Rudolphine was staring into the distance, an oddly serene expression on her face. And I was watching in fascination as Anastasia rose, brushed off the restraining hand laid on her arm by one of the burly men, calmly walked over to her father's decapitated corpse, picked up the head which had rolled away a little distance, raised it to her face, and kissed its cold lips.
It was only when she came over to me, still holding her father's head, and kissed me hard, and I tasted the warm salty blood on her lips and tongue, that I shuddered, once, hard. She smiled mysteriously into my eyes, put the head down carelessly on the table, and kissed me again, slowly, caressingly, her tongue slithering around mine, its slippery friction like the scaly dance of snakes roistering in a hot cage of flesh, and an intense burning awakened deep within me and I responded with a passion I did not understand. "I like the taste of blood," Anastasia said in a husky whisper. "Remember?" I nodded. She kissed me again. My eyes were closed and I could not see her face but I was deluged in an ecstasy I had never felt before but which I instantly recognized. I felt myself drowning in honey, immersed in its slow lethargic weight, overwhelmed by the buzzing of bees on a drowsy summer day, imbued with the tangy sweetness of Anastasia. The last remaining barriers between us lifted and her essence mingled with mine, like oil and water, fluids of different densities and textures, swirling, overlapping, intertwining. "They have come for me." I did not so much hear her words as feel her hot breath inside my mind. "They have come to take me away. You will never see me again. Unless..."
I heard the crunch of heavy boots come nearer. "Unless what?" I pleaded urgently. "Unless what?" But by then the burly men had grabbed my arms and they were pulling them hard behind me and my kicks and shoves and struggle to put up a fight were as useless and pitiful as a small boy's attempts to wriggle free of a gang of older tormentors. Axel came up to me and smiled. His breath was hot and rank in my face. He caressed my throat with a razor-sharp knife and idly peeled away a thin layer of skin from my chin. "We have much to discuss, my interfering friend. You go back to Prague soon, nicht wahr? I will find you there," he whispered. "When you least expect me. But first I must take care of my wife." I saw Anastasia's pale blank face in the distance once more, as Axel and his men led her away towards the helicopters. The chatter of their engines started up again. "Unless what?" I screamed, desperately. But her words, if she spoke any, were blown away in that hateful din, lost forever, irretrievable, like bits of confetti, or the snow which blew untidily like a sad broken mist in the wake of the machines which took my beloved's body away from me.
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