‘Master, please step out.’ With these words my servant woke me from the light sleep into which I had fallen upon leaving Petrovaradin.
‘One of the wheels is on its way out. We have to replace it before it breaks.’
I yawned, stretched and got down from the carriage. The six white horses stood still, while the coachman and my servant readied the new wheel. It was a cold morning. I shall never understand why I always let myself be talked into travelling at the very crack of dawn, when I hate the dawn – and whatever crack it crawls out of.
I turned around where I stood, twice, having a good look at the thick fog that was rolling in from all sides across the flat black earth. The endless plain. This land is said to be quite fertile. For wheat.
The coachman drew near enough for me to smell the previous year’s inferior vintage.
‘Sir,’ he said, ‘could you mind the team while we change the wheel?’
‘All of them at once?’ I asked.
‘Oh no, sir, it’s only the leader you have to take in hand.’
How clever of him to have realized. The night before, when I’d hired him, he’d struck me as somewhat slow. Clearly, alcohol had the opposite effect on him, sharpening his wits. He really ought to give it up.
‘My dear coachman, if you only knew,’ I answered. ‘Holding the leader by the reins is fine, of course, but I’d much rather have them all.’
No sooner had I said these words than I heard a distant whinnying and sound of hooves that could belong only to another carriage heading in our direction. I couldn’t make it out through the fog, but it was coming closer, of that I was certain.
The moments passed, and the horses grew restless. My servant drew his pistol and loaded it, although this was unnecessary. I have no enemies among the sons of men. I am beloved of all.
And as I stood there, thinking of love, out of the fog came a wide carriage of black and yellow. A six-in-hand like my own. Its driver brought the team to a halt, the door emblazoned with the imperial coat of arms swung open and out of the imperial interior leaped a young man. He was dressed quite as well as myself. Tall, with broad shoulders. He bowed and spoke in German.
‘My dear sir, you seem to be having some trouble. May we be of some assistance?’
‘Thank you, my fine young gentleman, but I trust my servant and coachman will manage to change the wheel and that we shall shortly be on our way again.’
‘And where are you headed, if I may ask?’
‘To Belgrade.’
‘As are we. But please, allow me to introduce myself. I am Klaus Radetzky, physician and special investigator in the service of His Imperial Majesty Karl VI.’
‘And I am Count Otto von Hausburg, a distant cousin to His Imperial Majesty. How odd that we should happen to meet like this. It was only the other day, as I was leaving Vienna, that His Imperial Majesty received me, and yet there was no mention of any special investigator.’
Radetzky squirmed. The situation was awkward for him, not because he’d been caught in a lie but because he’d been caught in the truth.
‘His Imperial Majesty does not wish my – I mean, our – business to be a matter of general knowledge,’ he said, stumbling over his words.
‘And yet I hardly had to drag it out of you, did I?’
‘I was … how should I … I cannot explain …’ As he stammered, a way out suddenly occurred to him. ‘I was struck immediately by your resemblance to His Imperial Majesty and knew right away that you must be related.’
‘Indeed, I am related to His Imperial Majesty’s half-brother, but it’s one of those half-brothers of the illegitimate persuasion, and the connection is all on the half-brother’s mother’s side, so one could say that I’m not actually kin to His Imperial Majesty. Or even kith, as far as that goes. But no matter. What matters is the love and esteem in which His Imperial Majesty holds me. It was by personal service in the English colonies that I earned my title and lands and not by inheritance.’
Radetzky, having disgraced himself even further, was dumbstruck. He could only look around, hoping perhaps that something would come out of the fog to save him. There was, however, nothing to save him. How could there be? Out of the fog?
‘Well now, as you’ve already told me so much, you might as well tell me your business in Belgrade. Always finish what you start, as they say. Stories first and foremost.’
He considered for a few moments, then bravely swallowed. It seemed such a big thing for him – to swallow, I mean.
‘My lord,’ he said, ‘you would be sure to learn of it in Belgrade anyway. I belong to a special commission, one personally chosen and sent by His Imperial Majesty to Belgrade, so recently under Turkish dominion, in order to investigate certain occurrences there of a strange and horrifying nature. I am accompanied by two other men of science, both of the rank of Graf.’
Fortune had smiled on me at last. After the bony Hungarian girls in Pest, the clever coachman and the broken wheel, now was my chance. I had only to get close to Radetzky, gain his friendship and everything I wanted to know would be dropped right into my lap. So the news had reached the emperor after all. My journey had not been in vain.
I gave the young man a nod, and he turned and leaped into his carriage. Again the escutcheon flashed before my eyes, and then the carriage vanished into the fog.
But barely had the clip-clop of hooves and the creaking of the carriage wheels faded away when from the thick mists appeared a new figure. This one was alone and walked on his own two feet, and was therefore either a wandering beggar or a fool. Same thing, really. As he approached I was able to make out some of his features. He was exceptionally tall, had long pale hair and a beard and was dressed in rags.
He drew near, but not too near, and called out, ‘Need any help?’
What a question, coming from the likes of him. The man must have a good heart, I surmised. There were any number of his ilk wandering around in the fog. I don’t like them. They don’t bathe as a rule, thinking that cleanliness doesn’t matter. And so they stink. Other people, put off by the smell, give them a wide berth. It’s easy to be good when you haven’t actually got to deal with other people. However, it was not the offer of assistance that surprised me, coming as it did from a man who was attired – if you can call it that – in rags. No, what surprised me was the language in which he spoke to me. It was Russian. I answered in the same language, ‘Nyet!’
Then he cried out, ‘Oh! Brother of mine!’ and came running.
Ah yes, there was that smell.
‘No, not your brother,’ I said in Russian, thrusting my hands out to ward him off. The Russians love their kisses. And always in sets of three.
‘But you are Russian!’ he exclaimed, still giving signs of wanting to embrace me. ‘I am Nikolai Leskovich Patkoff of Moscow.’
‘I am Boyar Mikhail Fyodorovich Tolstoyevski,’ I responded, taking special pleasure in my introduction. ‘And where might you be going, Nikolai Leskovich?’
‘To Belgrade,’ he answered, greatly pleased for some unknown reason.
‘To Belgrade? From Moscow to Belgrade? That’s rather a long way.’
‘Yes, my lord, the way is long. It was last summer when I started out. But the journey must be made.’
My servant informed me that the wheel had been changed and that we could continue.
‘Well, Nikolai Leskovich, all the worst! Er, all the best, rather,’ I said, and got into the carriage. The six-in-hand set off with a jolt, and the Russian continued to stand there. He’d make it to Belgrade in time for dinner. As long as he didn’t lose his way in the fog. As for me, yes, it would be just as well to reach Belgrade before the commission did. I removed four kreutzers from my purse then put one back. I shouted to the coachman.
‘Get us to Belgrade before that other carriage, and you’ll have’ – I slipped another kreutzer back into my purse – ‘two kreutzers for your trouble.’
I heard the crack of the whip.