The Scar (34 page)

These highwaymen were just like those scoundrels who had stopped the coach in the forest. Rapists and murderers, insisted Egert to himself, but he felt even worse.

Unwillingly, he again glanced at the scaffold: the magistrate held two wooden balls, exactly the same size, in his hands. The white ball signified life, while the black ball would bring certain death by decapitation to one of the two. The scribe spread open an ordinary linen pouch, the balls were tossed into it one after the other, and the scribe carefully shook this instrument of the lottery for a long moment. Inside the linen sack, death knocked against life with dull, wooden rattles. The hopes of both convicts reached their peak, their horror of death achieved maximum intensity, and the crowd hushed, tormented by curiosity; at a sign from the magistrate, both the condemned men simultaneously thrust their hands into the pouch.

A silent battle ensued. The faces of the contestants were sweating, and their hands compulsively ferreted about in the linen darkness, each trying to possess the ball that was already gripped by his rival. The strain of their hope and despair snatched a groan from Egert; those standing next to him in the crowd began looking askance at him.

Finally, both the condemned selected their fate and, breathing heavily, exchanged long glances.

“Withdraw!” ordered the magistrate. The crowd froze in anticipation.

They delayed for a second longer then simultaneously jerked their hands from the pouch. Each eyed the ball that was gripped in the hand of the other.

The public in the square exploded into a roar: in front of the numerous spectators, the possessor of the white ball collapsed onto his knees, stretching his hand toward the sky and soundlessly opening and closing his wide, round mouth; the man who squeezed the black ball stood motionless and, as if he could not believe his eyes, shifted his gaze from the empty pouch to his own doom, clutched in his fist.

The magistrate gave a sign: the one who was dazed with happiness was led away from the scaffold, while at the same time his comrade’s hands were jerked behind his back. The black ball crashed to the boards, and a piercing scream rattled around Egert’s head: No!

The unfortunate wretch had not made a sound, but his entire essence shrieked shrilly at the mistake, the injustice, the dreadful misunderstanding: How! Why? Why him of all people! Is this really conceivable; is this really possible?

The soundless scream that arose from the block forced Egert to double over in pain. The crowd oppressed him with two incongruous emotions, powerful as organ chords: passionate joy for the pardoned and intemperate desire to witness the execution of the other, the one who was now doomed.

Cast upon the block, the entire man exuded supplication, terror, and despair. Egert pressed his hands to his ears and squeezed his eyes shut, but the keen No! penetrated his awareness without the assistance of sight or hearing. The ax soared up into the sky—Egert felt goose bumps thrilling over the skin of hundreds of onlookers at that moment—and on a high, sobbing note the soundless plea broke off; it broke off in a convulsion and died, but was immediately followed by a whirling, troubled wave of loathsome excitement, of satisfaction at the rare spectacle, of pleasure at thrilled nerves.…

Egert howled.

Unable to restrain the horror and pain, he screamed, tearing at his throat. People in the crowd cringed away from him, but no longer seeing or hearing anything, he raved and yowled as he rushed through the gelatinous human wall, until the moment finally came when his consciousness mercifully left him in peace.

*   *   *

The rumble of the crowd outside hardly reached into the room filled with incense. Two men sat at a table made of polished wood, listening to a distant drum roar.

“We cannot wait anymore,” said an old man with a mane of silver hair.

“I will obtain it sooner or later.”

“
Later
does not suit us!” burst out the old man. “
Later
will not satisfy Lash! We will do it the way I wanted in the first place. And Lash will help us.”

Fagirra lowered his head. His hood covered half his face, and the Magister did not notice the contempt in his cold squinted eyes.

*   *   *

Toria could feel herself fretting over the appearance of the Wanderer in the city.

“Does Soll have a chance?” she inquired breezily that first day, following Egert with her eyes as he set out into the city to search.

The dean, to whom this question was addressed, merely shrugged his shoulders.

Pre-holiday concerns distracted her attention, but on the next day she was still interested. “He hasn’t found him yet?”

The dean shook his head. “Who knows? The Wanderer could be a needle in a haystack, or he could be a burning coal in a pocket. Who knows?”

On the morning of the third day Toria did not ask about the search, but the dean morosely said to her in a low voice, “I doubt there is a way out for him. The Wanderer is not one to reconsider a judgment. You might not believe me, but I feel pity for Soll, simple, human pity.”

Toria raised her eyebrows but did not reply.

Least of all did she desire to witness the execution that was in preparation in the square. Even though she fastened her window tightly, she could still hear both the roar of the agitated crowd and the booming of the drums, as if through cotton padding. She greatly desired to know where Egert Soll was at this moment and tried hard to suppress the urge to visit the annex.

Several minutes passed. Toria, tormented by a presentiment, paced around her room; then, biting her lip, she flung the windows open.

The square was covered with people, like a living, moving carpet, and Toria no longer doubted that Soll had disappeared somewhere in that swarm. Cringing, she looked at the scaffold at the very moment when the glinting blade crashed down.

The crowd gasped with one voice, and then drew breath in its vast chest, about to break out into a cheer, but the crowd was anticipated by a single, solitary human voice, a heartrending voice full of pain. This voice was distorted beyond recognition, but Toria recognized it. She recognized it and flinched.

How long has this been going on?

I have no control over it.

*   *   *

The steps of the spiral staircase were already streaking past her eyes. Not knowing why, she ran to the exit, and the weary words repeated over and over again in her ears: I have no control over it … no control … no control …

Fireworks shot up over the square. The official celebration of the Day of Jubilation had begun.

Daylight was fading, but the streets were lit as if it were day. Torches burned in every hand, and clusters of lanterns and lamps transformed the city into one large, rejoicing tavern. Fireworks raged over the square, and under their short bursts traveling jugglers and acrobats performed tirelessly: the largest and most prosperous troop had laid claim to the empty scaffold, and their competitors could only sigh enviously as the fool’s cap that continuously circled the crowd grew ever plumper and clanked more resonantly with each pass.

Barrels of wine stood at each crossroads, and drunken dogs, who lapped at the rose-colored streams that trickled along the pavement, crept, lurching, into courtyard entrances. Dissonant, shrill, yet lively music flooded over the city: people in the crowd played on whatever came to hand; herds of reed pipes, wine bottles, wooden rasps, and children’s rattles squawked and clamored shrilly, and the haunting sound of a stray violin from time to time rose up over this tuneless noise. Strings of people, joined by the hands, skipping and laughing, weaved in chains from alley to alley, and there were times when the heads of these impossibly long human chains swerved into a street from which the tail was just disappearing.

Toria understood the folly of her plan right away: to search for a single man in this dancing city, however distinctive he might be, was a pointless exercise worthy of an imbecile. Soll had either been trampled right there in the square or he had long been drinking and dancing together with the rest. But if something bad had really happened to him and he needed help, why did she not immediately turn to her father? What was the good of flinging herself headlong into this drunken, festive cauldron?

Having thoroughly berated herself, Toria reluctantly turned back, but at that very moment a dancing chain leapt out onto the street in front of her. Toria halted and watched as all the faces turned into one laughing face in the light of the torches and lanterns, a laughing face that flew by her from alley to alley, grasping the hands of strangers and dragging them into the rabid dance. Last in line was a young, happy boy in a white shirt, and his clinging hand seized Toria by the wrist.

“With us, little sister! Let’s dance, hey!”

The street rushed up to meet her.

Barely managing to run, stumbling and trying to break free, Toria flew at the tail of the dancing chain. Someone latched on behind, squeezing her palm with sweaty fingers; afraid of falling and being trampled, Toria matched the movements of her partners, skipping through sharp turns and trying not to fly into walls. At one point the chain snapped, and those dancing behind almost fell on Toria, but she adroitly wrenched herself free and, abandoning the laughing, human press, darted away.

Her heart was beating furiously, her breast was rising rapidly, but all the same she could not catch her breath; her hair had fallen down and her slim-toed slippers were as drenched in filth as the pavement. Supporting herself against a wall with her hand, Toria shivered, catching sight of a man lying motionless beneath that same wall. Overcoming her fear, she walked up and peered into his face. The drunkard was sleeping peacefully; he was a brunet with a magnificent mustache, and the black, luxuriant hairs now retracted inward, now puffed outward to the beat of his valiant snoring.

Toria staggered back and ran away. Some youngling tried to slip a caramel, held in his teeth, into her mouth: Toria gave him such a look that the poor fellow felt compelled to swallow the candy himself. Horsemen were rushing back and forth across the wide street, and with weary indignation Toria speculated on murderous horse hooves and drunken pedestrians who had lost all sense of caution.

One of them had collapsed right in the middle of the street. Toria’s blood ran cold as the boisterous riders came back.

“Get out of the way!” someone cried commandingly as hooves struck the stones right near the head of the man passed out in the road, but the noble animals, clearly surpassing in wisdom the people who had saddled them, did not tread on the drunkard, and the cavalcade galloped on.

The man on the pavement did not move. Toria overcame her fear and revulsion and walked up to him.

The prone man was unusually tall and wide of shoulder. His fair hair was matted at the back of his head with dried, black brown blood: it was obvious that this fall had not been his first.

Feeling how hard her heart was beating, Toria crouched down next to him on her haunches and peered into the face that pressed against the pavement. “Egert…”

He did not answer. His face was a gray, dusty mask, notched by the furrows of tears.

“Egert,” she said, dismayed, “you can’t stay here! You’ll be trampled, do you hear me?”

Another dancing chain dashed by. A foot, shod in a heavy boot, stumbled and kicked the recumbent Egert on the back. He did not flinch.

Toria seized him by the shoulders. “Egert! Wake up! Come on, wake up! Quickly!”

Hooves were beating at the end of the street. It would be impossible to drag Egert: he was too heavy and tall. Gritting her teeth, she turned him over onto his back, then onto his stomach, and again onto his back. She rolled him like a woodcutter rolls a log; his head with the fair, clotted hair flopped limply.

The riders galloped through the place where Egert had just been, and the hooves struck bright sparks from the stones. Toria felt a gust of wind, smelling of wine and smoke. She pushed Egert up against a wall; his eyes were open, but his vacant gaze went right through the girl who was bending over him. It frightened Toria: never before had she seen such a strange gaze on a person.

“Egert,” she said in despair. “Please, can you hear me?”

Not even a shadow of a thought glimmered in his cloudy, motionless eyes.

Grappling with her fear, Toria tried to get angry. “Oh, you! Tell me, why should I have to bother with such a drunken brute?”

She leaned over his face, trying and wishing to catch the thick smell of wine. But the smell was not there, and Toria was not so naïve as to not understand that Egert was indeed sober.

Then she lost courage. It seemed most natural to run to her father for help, and she had already taken a few steps away to do so, but then she returned. Somehow she knew without a doubt that leaving Egert now would mean his death. Her father would not make it here before the turmoil of the holiday devoured the lifeless Egert, and the city guards would haul his mutilated body to the university in the morning.

Gritting her teeth with a vengeance, she pressed her fingers to Egert’s temples. The skin was hot and his veins twitched in time with the beating of his heart: at least he was alive. Toria took a deep breath and methodically, just as her father had taught her, began to knead and massage Egert’s neck and the back of his head.

“Egert, come back. Wake up, please.… What am I going to do if you don’t wake up?”

Her fingers grew numb and refused to keep working, but Egert’s eyes remained as lifeless as before. Her ever-increasing certainty that Egert was lost in his mind caused Toria to be covered in chills.

“No,” she muttered, “this is too … Don’t do this, Egert, don’t you do this!”

Dozens of tramping, staggering feet were whirling all around, and someone was bawling out an indecent song that rose up even louder than the universal din.

Toria was ready to start crying when the wide gray eyes finally flickered. The eyelids fell down on them and instantly flew up again. Now Egert was looking, dense and dazed, at Toria.