The Combinations, page 134
about Goebbels’ latest Barrandov blockbuster (photo opps with all the big names
874
— Moravec, the Havels, Goebbels’ fat wife — having quite the time of it, he is) &
generally hobnobbing away from the office, Eldrich von N____, self-styled baron-
in-waiting ever since his father’s been safely ensconced in a sanatorium on Lake
Geneva, moonlights (a fact not unknown to his superiors, some of them his best
customers) as an agent for the Golem City Book Emporium — Buchstabengetreu!
— earning fat commissions in the antiques trade.
Business is good. In fact, from where Eldrich von N____ is sitting, so to
speak, it couldn’t be better. Together with T.H. — a graduate of the historical
restoration programme at the National Visual Arts Academy — he’s put together
a nice little sideline in lesser-known rare editions, all fakes of course, sold at
considerable profit to unsuspecting collectors: everything from Gutenberg psalm
books to the works of that lunatic Englishman, William Blake, sometimes even
the odd papyrus from the nd Intermediate. They’ve been at it for years, even
before Munich, taking regular jaunts up to Berlin with autograph copies of
everything from Schiller to Sharkspier, milking the market in cultural Anmaßung.
It was Eldrich von N____ who’d first conceived the scam of flogging a
copy of the Bacon Manuscript to a high-ranking Nazi mystagogue — Rosenberg
possibly — circulating rumours to the effect that a long-lost Teutonic ur-text
had recently come to light… Which wasn’t a new idea admittedly, but it was
precisely the existence of older, similar rumours, that gave their little scheme all
the credence it required. So as soon as that colossal narcissist & arch-sucker, v-
Obergruppenführer Heydrich, started honing his interrogation regime along
those self-same lines ( Wo ist das Buch, du Abschaum?!), Eldrich von N____ knew
he had his man.
Right now, though, T.H. — or Josef K, as his co-conspirator insists on
calling him — is entertaining serious doubts. For one, he’s certain he’s been
watched since his last foray up to the Monastery three days ago, to collect the
vellum binding for the bogus Manuscript. The whole thing’s been put together
piecemeal over a period of years (no small undertaking) in a workshop they’d
rigged up for this & other purposes in the Archive’s basement — a disused
janitor’s closet under a stairway in the south wing whose door had been plastered
over & sometimes lacked the necessary ventilation, causing T.H. no end of trouble
keeping his head straight. If it weren’t for the two obvious-looking plainclothes
detectives sitting a few tables away, he’d probably tell himself he was imagining
things. S.D. most likely — Sicherheitsdienst — Heydrich’s personal goon squad.
Nervously T.H. shifts the attaché case containing the manuscript,
completed only that morning — the hundred-odd pages handstitched into the
875
binding with vintage gutstring (got at a discount from a Zhiddish violin-maker
who’d just been issued a deportation order) — to the chair on his left &, for the
time being at least, out of sight. In the opposite chair, Eldrich von N____ is
sipping from a cup of coffee, the restaurant on the Barrandov Terraces being the
only place in town you could still get a really decent brew, & pondering his next
move in the chess game they’ve been making a pretence at for the last half-hour:
by rights he ought to be losing, but since the twelfth move things have been
unexpectedly looking up — he puts it down to the fact that his opponent has all
the appearance of someone who hasn’t slept in a week: black around the eyes,
hollow cheeks, a little too closely shaven under the chin. Oddly, the effect is to
make him (T.H.) look younger than he actually is. Probably been losing weight, too.
He (T.H.) is playing a characteristic Queen’s Gambit, following the
orthodox line, while Eldrich von N____ is struggling to remember the proper
combination of moves that constitute the usually innocuous Vienna Game: pawn
to king four… knight to king’s bishop three… pawn to queen four (!)… &
afterwards? White’s pawn-exchange tilts the game towards an open paradox
neither player seems aware of, distracted as they each are by concerns of a different
order — terms like “classical” & “hypermodern” have no currency here, it’s all gut-
instinct & joining-the-dots — T.H. blundering his king into an impossible
position just as one of the undercover cops gets up from his table & heads across
the terrace into the restaurant, probably to take a piss but who knows, could be
making a phone call to HQ: We’ve got your man right out in the open. He’s a sitting
duck. Want us to bring him in? Even Eldrich von N____ can see there’s a checkmate
coming in the next move.
The cop’s on his way back to the table when T.H. suddenly blurts out —
‘D’you make the two SiPo stooges over there by the railing?’
Eldrich von N____ looks up from the board at his companion as if he’s just
said something incomprehensibly stupid, like Do Martians have spots on their tails?
For one frightening moment T.H., who’s already afraid his face reads like a guilty
conscience displayed in broad daylight, thinks his companion might even be in on
it — The whole thing’s a frame-up! — but then he (Eldrich von N____) points at
the board & in a voice that almost seems to doubt itself says —
‘Looks like you’re fucked, mate.’
‘No, I mean the cops, over there, the ones in the coats, by the balustrade —
they’ve been watching us for the last half-hour at least. Don’t look at them! Here,’
T.H. says, reaching into the attaché case & sliding out a Fex , ‘take a picture.’
Just then a shout goes up from below the terrace: it’s the annual Youth
876
Sports Festival taking place in the open-air Barrandov swimming pool. Women’s
m backstroke most probably — always a fave with the terrace oglers. The cops,
slow on the drawer, turn their heads well after the starter’s gun’s sent eight bathing
beauties arching away from the blocks. Eldrich von N____, who’s understood only
that his friend wants his photo taken, duly gets up & snaps a shot from a few steps
back, cropping the two plainclothesmen at shoulder height so all that can be seen
of them is their coats — T.H. in the foreground with the undeniable proof of his
recent blunder visible for all to see on the chessboard in front of him.
The cops are still peering over the balustrade when T.H. takes his turn with
the camera. They’re elbowing each other in the ribs — Core, get a load of that! —
the girl in lane three, white swimsuit a little on the sheer side & Wouldn’t mind
trying a bit of the old breaststroke with her, eh Fritzl? It’s just as they turn their heads
— a weirdly synchronous movement — towards where he’d been sitting a
moment ago that T.H. presses down with index finger on the round metal button.
Snap! When the aperture clicks back, he can still see them (the cops), frozen in the
viewfinder: Eldrich von N____ in his ridiculous Oberst’s uniform suppressing a
private gloat over the scene of carnage depicted on the board. Though, for the
record, neither appears to notice the odd disposition of black’s bishops.
The question preoccupying T.H. is whether or not the cops know who he
is, or if Eldrich’s the one who’s blown it, or if their being there is nothing but pure
coincidence? He’ll get the photos developed & see if Eldrich can have the goons
checked out, somehow, on the quiet, use one of his contacts down at Gestapo
HQ. But no sooner has he laid the camera on the table than he notices something
very peculiar about Eldrich von N____’s face: the expression reminds him of a
child who’s just dropped an icecream cone & is still factoring the details of the
situation before bursting into tears. It’s this expression that causes T.H. to glance
down, half expecting to find a mushy ball of lemon sorbet melting on the
chessboard — but instead it’s black’s bishops, both of them on white squares.
Were it not for the fact that T.H. is unable to resist casting a grinning eye
at his opponent, he undoubtedly would’ve registered the two SiPo men now
moving away from their table & the view afforded over the balustrade, coming
directly towards him, straightening their coats in unison as though they’d
rehearsed that particular touch countless times, perhaps on some casting agent’s
advice, for who’s to tell they’re both not out-of-work thespians on the make? After
all, this is Barrandov, home of the Entertainment Industry.
Yet none of this has a chance to occur to T.H., who’s still grinning but
dimly aware that not only is his companion not amused, he’s not even looking at
877
him — Probably in a huff! he thinks, losing like that on a technicality, but no, his
expression’s exactly as it was a moment ago, And he’s looking at something directly
behind me…?
It’s at precisely this moment that a tap comes on T.H.’s shoulder. Only now
does he see the two goons standing on either side of Eldrich von N____ & that
one of them’s reaching for the attaché case left lying on the chair. A voice he
doesn’t recognise says something — the man it belongs to, the man who’s just
tapped him on the shoulder, has an air of impatience that suggests he’s more
familiar with giving orders than taking them.
Turning, T.H. is finally able to appreciate the meaning of Eldrich von
N____’s expression. If the voice is unfamiliar, the face isn’t, for the man now
standing before him is none other than Horst Böhme, v-Standartenführer,
notorious owner of a red open-top Tatra sports car & commander of the City’s
Keystone Cop Brigade.
‘ So leid, Herr Oberst,’ addressing Eldrich von N____, who’s knocked his
chair over trying to get up fast enough & stand to attention, ‘I’m afraid your’ (voice
charged now with the full weight of Saxon innuendo) ‘ companion will not be at
liberty to remain for the customary revenge match’ (indicating the board), ‘which
would in any case appear superfluous. You’d be better advised in future, Herr
Oberst, to keep the company of your fellow officers. Doubtless you’re unaware,
but your companion here, this Mr Kulička, is in fact a notorious criminal & enemy
of the Reich. In view of which, I expect you in my office at eight tomorrow
morning, sharpish, with a full written account of all your dealings with this person
— am I understood?’
‘Ja wohl! Herr Standartenführer!’
T.H. can hear the snap of Eldrich von N____’s bootheels, picturing him,
right arm chopping the air in that absurd salute, like a ham-actor trying a little too
hard to convince himself of his own role in this sham, struggling not to choke on
his lines, gone completely pale by now he’d imagine. Thinking this, is probably the
only thing that keeps T.H. from fainting right there on the spot — nerves in a
state of suspended animation, for the time being at least but surely that won’t last
— as the two goons get their paws under each of his arms ready to frogmarch him
across the terrace in full view of the paying public. Plenty of excitement here today,
folks. He daren’t glance back & only hopes Eldrich’s had the presence of mind to
pocket the camera, if only for posterity’s sake…
878
64
___________
LA CHUTE
By the clocks it was almost four a.m. — nothing stirred, like a street with the
soundtrack switched off. Approached from the opposite side, the house on
Jánský Vršek had all the appearance of having been long abandoned —
streetlamps casting the workers’ scaffolds in stark chiaroscuro: the eerie
brightness of the snow against the overhanging gloom — the black holes where
the upper windows used to be — the lower windows boarded-up with graffitied
squares of plywood. Němec searched for signs of whoever might be waiting —
something out of place, footprints, cigarette butts — there was nothing, they
were playing it very subtle. It wouldn’t’ve mattered, there were no options left
anyhow — an endgame already calculated to logarithmic depths — the clock
was running & time was running out — it was pointless to hesitate any longer.*
In the courtyard, piles of terracotta stood in snow-capped ziggurats, from
where the workmen had begun hauling down the roof, section by section —
scaffolds mounted around the Tower, blotting most of it out, up above the
ramparts — tarpaulins of black plastic sagging under a weight of ice & snow.
Down the adjoining wall a long chute like an articulated backbone hung with its
tail planted in a skip half-full of snow & rubble, broken bits of things, debris
from a smashed higher world. A dead rat protruded from between a pair of table
legs, a turn-key stuck in its back. Němec wound the key-end with an effort &
watched the sodden snout with its teeth & glass eyes writhe about, unable to free
itself. Inside the stairwell, half-frozen mud lay thick across the floor & the steps
leading down to the cellar gate. Bags of cement had been stacked four-deep
behind a diesel generator, a compressor, a crusted cement mixer. They blocked
the way, more weight than one man could shift. Němec felt for the cellar key in
his trouser pocket, the tag still hanging from it, useless now. How would he get
back? Some essential exigency demanding a different solution & not the obvious
one? He’d had it with riddles. Besides, it was just a matter of time now before
* What Faktor had been at conspicuous pains to persuade him, that all the existing paths were
already insufficient? [:]
879
they had the whole set disassembled, right down to the foundations, the sub-
foundations & the sub-sub-foundations — all that was once hidden, immodestly
exposed to the light.
There was no choice but to try & remake the previous moves in a different
combination. Catch the opposition sleeping. Or if not remake, then as far as
possible transpose along a contrary line — pursue the diagonal by forgoing the
vertical — shortcircuit the traps. Everything was misconceived at the beginning,
just like you were, eh kiddo? Maybe that was the beauty of it. The wind moaned in
the Tower. A cough. A splutter. Flap of wing. The ghosts would soon be
obliged to do without their familiar habitat.
Climbing the stairs was like running an obstacle course of buckets,
wooden cases, workmen’s tools, unhinged doors & doorframes, disassembled
bits of railing. Feeling along the hall, crunch of debris underfoot — braille of
dead lightswitch — for a long time standing on the threshold of the room that
once had been the Old Man’s bureau, now barely a room even, contemplating,
so to speak, this Last End & associated items: what the two photographs meant
— the caretaker’s abduction — the sense of something closing-in — a sudden,
precipitous, concerted action. How to concede without giving-in? To whom the
final, Pyrrhic victory? Somewhere in his Purgatorio, the antique alchemist,
massaging his insteps through toe-jam crusted stocking-socks, might well be
grinning, a borrowed brogue of Didn’t I tell you so? Ironic gleam in that eye’s
wink. Take it from me, kiddo, best plan’s to look before you leap. Or if that’s out of the
question, leap like a sonofabitch and don’t look back.
The workmen had been selective in their dismantling, suggestive of some
kind of system at work: a dozen windowframes worth scavenging stood against
the wall, great holes where the windows used to be, some with billowing sheets
of black plastic, others bare, snowflakes drifting in to settle on the stripped-back
floor. Planks of fibreboard had been arranged in a patchwork over the exposed
beams, circumnavigating a heap of rubbish erected pyramid-fashion in the
middle of the room. It seemed wrong to leave it like that. Němec tried one last
time to conjure the deadman’s memory — sitting, as so often he’d seen him, in
an armchair beside his desk, preparing his thoughts, turning his drink in his
hand, about to draw some unlikely analogy from ordinary things: a simple
chesspiece, for example, reaching out & plucking a black knight from the board,
describing, as if to a child — three squares down or up to one across, three
across to one down or up — a horse jumping over, a ghost passing through — a
