You might imagine how much of a surprise that was to me. I like to think that nowadays I would take a shock like that on the chin, since I am a good deal older and I have got used to the idea that—while I am pretty smart—there are other people who are much smarter than I am. We learn these things as we go along and some of them take a while. First comes the terrible knowledge that we can live without our mothers. Then we begin to understand that we will die one day and then, very gradually, we realize that we can be outsmarted. Beyond that, a very few of us achieve the great insight that there are other people in the world besides ourselves. These people are called “saints” and they are usually made to pay. Since the bombs have been quiet for a bit and there is just the slimmest of chances that I might live through the night after all, I will leave you to judge how far down the path of enlightenment our great leader has trod. Enough said.
So, there I was, my jaw dropping to the floor, following on behind Mrs. MacLeod like a stunned ox and asking myself over and over how she knew so much about me and never thinking who it was that knew so much or why a Scotchwoman was talking Scotch to a band of Gypsy brigands in a hidden courtyard of Dubrovnik.
The others were just as amazed and just as worried—all except for Varga who was laughing like a drain. “See? I knew it all along. Didn’t I say it? I knew you were no gentleman. I knew it.”
But my mate Max gripped him warmly by the cravat and said, “Listen! It doesn’t matter whether he’s a grand duke or a gutter sweeper, he still took you on and he beat you fair and square. Now get in there and eat.”
We all trooped in through the broken green doors and we found ourselves in a narrow courtyard, crowded with people. At one side there was a platform—not what you would call a stage—covered in Gypsy brigands, each of them armed with a musical instrument—drums and shawms and violins and clarinets and tiny fairy bells and accordions—but there were so many of them in the orchestra that they spilled off on to the floor, where they sat round in untidy heaps, tuning up or sharpening long, thin daggers.
At the other side of the courtyard there was a house, three or four stories high with all its windows hidden behind pierced sandalwood shutters, but the ground floor was open, with square wooden pillars holding the front of the house up and a kind of a veranda covered in fancy rugs and pillows.
Waiters in baggy trousers were running up and down the front steps and disappearing into the building or running out again with great round trays loaded with food for the dozens of customers crammed around the tables that filled the place.
All these people must have been sitting there in obedient silence while we stumbled about outside, waiting, listening, holding their breaths, but now the whole place was yelling and screaming, shouting orders for food, demanding coffee, sucking blue smoke from hubble-bubble pipes and blowing it up to the open sky, rattling dice down on backgammon boards and kvetching about the score. I was impressed. That silence showed a certain amount of military discipline and, more than that, it meant they knew we were there all along, just as Mrs. MacLeod said.
She signaled to one of her Gypsy brigands, who led the camel away to the stables—but not before Max took its saddlebags off and laid them across his own shoulders. My mate Max wasn’t going to leave the cash box any place he couldn’t see it. We followed on behind Mrs. MacLeod, threading our way between the tables toward the veranda, where a long man with a henna-red beard and a jaw like a wolf was lying amongst the carpets and the cushions, smiling at us as we came.
He stood up to meet us, bending a little to Mrs. MacLeod as she passed and offering his hand while she sank, crosslegged, into a bank of richly patterned cloth. By God, he was a tall man. I might have been standing on the bottom step, but he was big and he was wiry. When he shook my hand, the arm that fell from his cloak was hard and stringy, like one of those fancy Italian hams you used to see hanging in the delicatessens in the old days, and he had a grip like a pair of nutcrackers.
“Witte,” he said, “lovely to meet you at last.”
And then, because I was still too busy gaping to say anything, he greeted the girls, bending to kiss their hands so his fiery beard brushed their fingers. “Miss Von Mesmer. Countess Gourdas, I am enchanted. Ladies, if there is anything you wish for your comfort, you need only say.”
I was past being surprised that he knew all our names.
“Professor, welcome. May I help you to a seat? Let’s put you here and get you some coffee. Herr Fregattenkapitän Varga, good afternoon. Schlepsig. Glad to meet you.”
He got us all arranged, sitting on the floor on cushions around a low table, a thing like a huge brass gong set on little turned legs with a fancy enamel coffee pot and a stack of tiny cups, like porcelain eyebaths waiting to be filled. The long red wolf scattered the cups around the table and began to pour.
Nobody drank.
“Please take a little. It will refresh you. It’s quite safe. You are quite safe. Food is being prepared for you. We can offer you anything you require.” Then he leaned back on a huge cushion, resting on one elbow with his legs folded up underneath him like a spider waiting to pounce, and lifted one of the tiny cups to his mouth. When he put it back on the table, it was empty.
Still nobody drank. Is there anything more terrifying than the reassurance that you are not about to be killed? But I snatched my cup from the table and swallowed it down. It was like a mouthful of fire and I could feel the skin peeling off the roof of my mouth, but I was damned if he was going to show me up.
“Oh, bravo!” said Mrs. MacLeod from behind her veil.
“You see? Nothing to fear,” said the long man.
The others began to sip their coffee, but he and I simply sat there, on opposite sides of the table, looking at each other, and it was no easy task looking at him, believe me.
His eyes … I don’t know what it was about them. His eyes were like a desert or a mountain top. Not empty eyes, not dead, but he had looked at terrible things that had left them scoured and rubbed clean. They say the eyes are the windows of the soul. Well, the soul that looked out of those eyes was blown along on a cold, dry wind, screaming at the world as it went. Martyr, monk or maniac, I was never very sure what he was, but whatever he was, it showed in his terrible eyes.
I dropped my gaze, but he waited until I looked back again before he spoke.
“So, I understand you are the rightful King of Albania.”
“Is there any brandy?” Varga said. “Do you have any brandy?”
Mrs. MacLeod raised a slim, pale arm, all a-clatter with bangles, clicked her fingers and muttered something at the brigand who raced to attend her. It gave me a moment to think.
I said, “You seem to know an awful lot about my business, but I don’t even know your name.”
“Names are a confusion and I pick up so many. I wander about. I stop for a night in this village or that and in the morning I find myself with somebody else’s coat and a new name. So far as I know, you have only two, and look at the mess that’s landed you in already.”
“Tell me one of them.”
“At home, amongst my own people, they call me Sandy Arbuthnot.”
I felt the Professor suddenly stiffen beside me but he said nothing.
“An Englishman then?”
“Not quite, Mr. Witte. A Scotsman. Some would say that’s a thousand times better or a hundred times worse. I make no such claim.”
“Scotch. Like Mrs. MacLeod.”
“Oh no. Mrs. MacLeod is Dutch. Only her name is Scottish. Our connection is purely professional … most of the time.”
She gave another of her little titters.
“And may I ask how you earn your bread?”
“Well, not by jumping through hoops in a circus ring, Mr. Witte—although there’s nothing wrong with that. No, I go to and fro in the earth, and walk up and down in it, you might say and I keep my ears open as I go. It’s how I came to hear about you.”
Varga’s brandy had arrived. He pulled the cork with his teeth and set about emptying the bottle, filling cup after tiny cup in quick succession. Tifty finished her coffee and held her hand out with an expression of boredom, but her cup rattled against the bottle as he poured.
“That you’re the next King of Albania, of course. Not that I knew it straight away. Sometimes a strange little bit of information comes along and it means nothing, then another piece of the picture falls into place, and another and then all becomes clear. First there was all that strange telegraph traffic announcing that the little Turkish prince was on his way. But why from Budapest? Of course, none of that would have meant anything but for the code. I must admit I’ve scratched my head over that, Mr. Witte. Very good stuff. I can’t make head nor tail of it. Then some anxious signaling from your navy chums, Mr. Varga. That lovely yacht of yours has gone missing and the story of your unfortunate duel has got out, I’m afraid. Your colleagues fear you may have taken her out and sunk her out of shame. In fact, I rather think they expect it.”
“Fat chance,” said Varga, and he poured himself another brandy.
Mrs. MacLeod laughed one of those frozen little laughs again, like hailstones tinkling over broken ribs.
“Very wise,” said the long man. “Anyway, then we heard about a robbery at a circus in Budapest. A great deal of money stolen and a missing camel—perhaps the same camel that was seen at Fiume. Everything began to make sense. Budapest. Coded telegrams. A camel traveling south with the Graf von Mucklenberg and his party. And then your description circulated, Mr. Witte. You bear an astonishing resemblance to that Turk, you know. All the pieces fit. Clearly, you are the next King of Albania, which is disappointing as I was rather hoping to do that job myself.”
“Please don’t let me stop you.”
“I’m afraid it’s quite impossible. Your code has ruined it for everybody. The Turk himself may have some trouble getting crowned because of that.”
I looked around the courtyard. “Surely, with this army of yours, you could be on the throne by tomorrow afternoon.”
Mrs. MacLeod laughed out loud and the long man said, “Oh, Mr. Witte, an army is no good. Armies require supplies and orders and communications. Armies can be repulsed. Armies can be engaged with and battled. But a few resourceful friends could slip into Albania like the rain. And we are not an army. We never go together but we are never apart. A few here, a few there, we know one another intimately but we have never met, each one of them is a brother to me and none of them has ever heard of me, wherever they sleep—in a shepherd’s hut in the mountains, in the mansion of the Bey—I am with them, always and everywhere, they obey me instantly and I issue no commands. We are not an army, Mr. Witte. We are—”
“I know who you are,” said the Professor. “For God’s sake, Otto, give him Albania. Give him the camel, give him the money, give him anything he wants and let’s get out of here.”
Mrs. MacLeod said, “If we wanted those things, don’t you think your throat would be cut by now?”
“You could have a go,” said Max.
Mrs. MacLeod turned to the long man. “Oh, I like him. Look at the muscles on that one.”
“I know,” said Varga. “Gorgeous.”
And then she clapped her hands and said, “Your food is ready.”
I wasn’t interested in food. I was trying to remember what I’d done with Varga’s pistol, and then I noticed Tifty’s gloved hand fluttering over the catch of her bag. I patted her gently. “Let’s have something to eat,” I said, and she took her hand away.
Waiters arrived, with their round-cornered waistcoats and trousers like flapping sails. Don’t ask me for notes on what they delivered. I don’t remember that meal like I remember the lunch at Varga’s place. I was too scared. I had a frightened countess on one side, groping for a gun, a blind professor on the other side, trembling like a violin string—afraid even to hear a name spoken aloud—and I was sitting down to dine with a couple of maniacs, surrounded by their gang of assassins. I think I was entitled to be a little bit scared.
“So you don’t want Albania, Mr. …”
“Arbuthnot,” the Professor said.
“Mr. Arbuthnot.”
“Oh, I couldn’t care less about wearing the crown of Albania for myself, Mr. Witte, but it is of intense interest to the British Government who does. They feel I should not. I imagine they don’t want the second son of an earl getting ideas above his station and putting himself on a par with the dear old King Emperor. Downright snobbish of them, if you ask me, so I think it might be rather jolly to have the old fellow shaking hands with a former circus acrobat instead, but I need to know this: whose side are you on—apart from your own?”
I remembered all that damned silly nonsense I’d said to Sarah on the night passage, stuff about how I would govern always and exclusively in the interests of the people of Albania, “Mostly my own,” I said.
The long man said, “You sound like you’ll make a fine king. But here’s the thing.”
“Can’t you hurry this up?” said Varga.
“Yes, can’t you hurry this up?” said Mrs. MacLeod.
He turned those eyes on her for a long moment. “Do you think you might like to dance, Mrs. MacLeod? I’m busy chatting to the king.”
“Ooh, yes. Why don’t I dance? What a good idea.”
Mrs. MacLeod stood up from her bed of carpets and cushions and walked to the edge of the veranda on kitten feet. It was as if a rocket had gone off. All the eating and drinking stopped, all the shouting and arguing, the backgammon and the gambling, everything stopped. Men stood up from their chairs. They moved their tables to the walls to make an arena for her. The place was silent. But there was something, a thrumming, like the noise a guitar makes the moment after it stops playing, a noise you could feel even though you couldn’t hear it.
Mrs. MacLeod stood in the midst of them, like a candle ready to be lit, swathed from head to foot in Arab silks, waiting for the music.
I said, “She told me they obey her. She did not lie.”
“No,” he said. “This is why.”
The music started, long, mournful chords, the sound of birds flying south for the winter. Mrs. MacLeod stood without moving.
The music played on, saxophones and melodeons, tiny fairy bells and the twanging of a Jew’s harp, the music of blossom falling.
Mrs. MacLeod raised her arms over her head and, suddenly, she was naked. Absolutely naked. Every scrap of silk that had covered her from the crown of her head to her ankles was suddenly lying in a pool about her feet—everything except for that little strip of cloth that hung across her nose and mouth and it only made her more naked than if she had been naked. The horns wailed. Drums beat. And she danced. She danced for every man in that place. She danced with every man in that place and she offered herself to each of them and none of them dared to touch her, but that noise, that plucked guitar noise, got louder and stronger. It was the sound of men watching her, the breath in their lungs, the sound of them wanting her.
“It’s a remarkable thing, is it not?” said Mr. Arbuthnot.
“Remarkable,” I said.
“I’ve seen better,” said Tifty.
“They follow her because she is a witch,” he said. “She charms them. Every man there is ready to have the flesh cut from his bones for her sake because he entertains the wild hope that she may love him. One day. For a day.” He turned his back on the dance. “As we were saying … you must understand, Mr. Witte, Albania is part of the Great Game. She has a coast, and anything that touches the sea touches Britain. The Turk has lost her and the Turk desires her. Germany desires what the Turk desires, and Russia desires the opposite. The Balkans are a running fuse, aimed right at the heart of Europe, Mr. Witte, and they are about to explode. I don’t mind that. Explosions interest me. But I need to know in which direction you will be pointed when you go off.”
“I haven’t decided.”
“I’d urge you to choose. It’s my turn to dance.”
Tifty let her breath out in a long whistle and the Professor smashed the head of his cane down on to the table. “Don’t let him dance, Otto! Don’t let him dance. Don’t!”
But the long man just laughed and, anyway, how could I prevent it?
The woman was approaching. Mr. Arbuthnot stood up, took off his fine, blue cloak and wrapped it around Mrs. MacLeod, who sat down in his place.
“Did you like that?” she asked.
Sarah glared at me.
“Oh, never mind her. You can tell me later.”
“What’s happening?” said the Professor. “Tell me what’s happening.”
“Nothing, Daddy. Mr. Arbuthnot is going to dance, that’s all.”
“Sarah, don’t look at him. Look at me. Don’t look at him. Ignore it.”
Let me tell you now that I don’t believe in magic. I know there is magic in the world, rainbows and babies and snowflakes and dandelions, the love of a man and a woman, sunrises and all that, but the rabbit out of a hat stuff, sawing girls in half and table tapping, no, I don’t believe in any of that. So don’t ask me to explain what I saw. All I can tell you is what happened, and if you don’t believe it, that’s all right because I don’t believe it either.
Arbuthnot went out and stood in the middle of the courtyard, feet together, arms spread, and he raised his long wolf jaw to the sky and he began to blow. His lips were formed in a tight O and he blew, like a silent whistle at the bright noon sky. All around the courtyard the men lining the walls did the same, they turned their faces up to the sky and they blew. There were dozens of men there, more than a hundred, all of them blowing thin blue trails of tobacco smoke at the sky, cigarettes and hookah pipes all puffing upward and—this is the part I don’t believe—the sky darkened. The smoke rose and, as it rose, it thickened and gray clouds crept in over the rooftops and hid the sun.
There was a fiddle playing, the same two wheezy seesaw notes over and over, in and out, like an old man in winter, in and out, in and out, in time with Arbuthnot’s breathing. Soon the whole place was breathing with him. I was breathing with him and the fiddles scraped and the clouds boiled over the sun.
Two men carrying lamps came and stood with Arbuthnot. He looked down at them and smiled a welcome and then he began to turn, slowly at first, then faster and faster, and the men with lamps went round about him, faster yet, and their lamps swung out like comets as they danced, trailing smoke like incense. The fiddle music got faster and faster but fainter and fainter until it died away and, in its place, there was a single throbbing, rumbling note, like the music of a mill wheel turning, like a mechanical thing, ringing out from the throats of all those men. I have heard music like that since then—but only once—far away in the east when one day I came through the woods and found a waterfall plunging between velvet-green pine trees into a cavern which I could not see. I don’t know, maybe that’s what the music of heaven sounds like. From all around the room more men came out of the shadows to join the dance, leaping through the circle of fire, over and under amongst the swinging lamps, and the music went on and on and the smoke drifted like fog and the lamps swirled until they weren’t there any more and I was lying on my back in a field of cut corn looking up at the stars, and the sky went on forever and I could see everything. I could see the whole earth laid out in front of me until it curved away to the dark ocean; I could see the swirls in the skin at the tips of my fingers, the weave in the cloth of my shirt, the jewel eye of the tiny fly that was crawling there and it was exactly the same as the stars.
I don’t know how long it lasted, but the music changed again. The singing faded and turned into a clash of knives and shrieks and howls and pot-lid clangs. The men in the circle were looking out at us with gargoyle faces, beckoning us to join the dance. Tifty was beside me, whimpering, rocking back and forward like a trapped thing. She put her hand inside her bag and gripped Varga’s pistol and I laid my hand on her arm—not to prevent her but for the love of her—just for the touch of another human being and to still my own fear. Sarah covered her face and sobbed and tears were running down from the Professor’s dead eyes and Mrs. MacLeod shrugged off her blue cloak and laughed and laughed and the music didn’t stop. It would not stop.
And then the courtyard was empty and we were sitting on the veranda, Mrs. MacLeod was wrapped in cloth again and the sky was clear and I was asking the long man, “Who are you?”
“I think the Professor knows,” he said.
“I know. God help us, I know who you are.” He gripped his cane very tightly and he said, “They call themselves the Companions of the Rosy Hours.”
“Just a name. Just one of many,” said Arbuthnot. “But I see one of your companions is gone. You are only five. The Fregattenkapitän seems to have slipped his moorings.”
My heart sank. “He’s gone and stolen his boat back.”
“Quite impossible. My brothers have been looking after it since the moment you arrived and our young friend ran ahead to show you the way here. Varga cannot take the boat and he cannot leave the city. If you want him returned to you, that will be done.”
“Everything is provided for those who can pay,” said Mrs. MacLeod. “Would you like his throat cut instead?”
“I don’t care if he lives or dies, but I need somebody to sail me to Albania.”
“Oh, I can do that,” said Arbuthnot. “But, Mr. Witte, please believe me, there is a gale coming. It’s going to blow through the whole of Europe and I don’t know what will be left after it has passed. You may sail through it with me but, I promise you, you will not sail through it without me.”
“Then it seems I have no choice,” I said, and I shook his hand.
The Professor held his head in his hands. “Better sell your soul to the devil. These people are maniacs. They are demons.”
“Oh, it’s far, far worse than that,” said Arbuthnot. “Some of them are poets.”