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Indestructible | Contents Page | |
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‘It is a pleasure to meet you,’ he said, extending a hand in polite greeting. The other man shook it, but his grip was limp, dandyish, exactly as expected. ‘As with you,’ said the other gentleman. His tongue spat out from between his lips and made a quick circuit before returning home. He was nervous about something. ‘My friends have told me a great deal about you.’ ‘I am sure not only your friends,’ said the first man. ‘The name of Alan Kirikiev has, so I gather, become quite the gossip of our country.’ ‘A man so close to the president,’ said the dandyish man, ‘is bound to be talked about.’ ‘We are good friends.’ ‘And the rumours about yourself and the first lady?’ Kirikiev laughed. ‘Quite untrue, I assure you. The first lady is faithful.’ ‘To her husband,’ added the dandy with a quick, uncertain laugh. Before Kirikiev could reply, the door opened and the other two men entered. John Davis and Peter Rasimov carried between them several drinks. ‘It is the servant’s evening off,’ said Davis. ‘Sorry it took us a while to find everything. I see you have both met.’ ‘Yes,’ said the dandy, whom everyone referred to only as Oscar. ‘He does not disappoint in person.’ Kirikiev looked at the floor. ‘You are too kind. It is an interesting reputation to live up to.’ ‘Although,’ added Oscar, ‘I had half-expected you to appear in a blinding flash of light accompanied by a whiff of brimstone.’ Kirikiev laughed. ‘Have you read the newspapers recently? They are attributing me supernatural powers.’ He ran a hand through his hair, which, in contrary fashion to most of the upper echelon in their great country, was long and unkempt. Davis, his hand shaking somewhat, had begun to pour drinks. ‘What do you take?’ he asked Kirikiev. ‘Fine women,’ said Kirikiev with a grin. ‘However, failing that I will take some of your fine whiskey. Just a drop of water.’ ‘Constraint for a man with such a reputation,’ said Peter Rasimov. His right hand was playing with his beard-hair. The three friends, Oscar, Peter and Davis, were nervous. It may have been simply the presence of their distinguished and honoured guest, but their actions were more than nervous; they were almost guilty. ‘The papers tend paint me as a womaniser, a drunkard and a mystic all rolled into one. One day I am a comic fool rolling about in the middle of a field after four days on the trot with the bottle, and then the next I suddenly have the President of our glorious nation leading troops into battle because of what I read in a pig’s entrail.’ He laughed. ‘Do you study history, gentlemen?’ ‘A little,’ said Oscar. ‘The great country of Russia?’ ‘I know a little of their communist history, but not much else.’ ‘There are few people in history to receive such attention as I within the boundaries of their own nation. One of the most famous is a Russian Peasant who gained access to the Tsar’s court. He too was painted as a womaniser, a drunkard and a mystic.’ ‘Rasputin,’ said Davis. ‘The comparisons have been made by some of our more respectable papers.’ ‘Yes,’ said Kirikiev. ‘Now there was an unfortunate fellow. He was a most excellent confidence trickster, I suppose. He had everyone convinced of her very mysticism, of his powers. Yet he was mortal in the end. Three fellows, advisors to the Tsar, invited him round for tea and cakes and they killed him.’ He sipped his whiskey and smiled. ‘Barbaric, don’t you think?’ Oscar said, ‘Yes, they killed him. But he refused to die.’ ‘Quite a trick,’ said Kirikiev. ‘Cyanide, gunshots, stab wounds. I think, in the end, it was the cold of a Russian winter that did him in. Of course, some people say he is still alive. After all, the sensible bet for a man whose life has been threatened in such an obvious way is to go to ground.’ He sipped again from his drink and the placed it on the table. ‘If you will excuse me, Gentlemen,’ he said and left the room. Oscar wiped sweat from his forehead and said to Davis, ‘I don’t know if I can go through with this.’ ‘It is for a greater good,’ said Peter. ‘On this we are all agreed.’ ‘He knows,’ said Oscar. His body was shaking now. ‘All that talk of Rasputin, drawing parallels between tonight and that night so long ago.’ ‘Coincidence,’ said Davis. ‘And if you don’t believe in that, then it is a sign from God that tonight is our night. Tonight we shall kill this madman and return the nation to its former glory. The President is a good man but the presence of Kirikiev in his court is distracting him. The man is a nuisance. And all his good-humoured, civilised talk will do nothing to disguise the fact that he himself is an opportunist trickster. He claims to be a normal human being and yet he has flaunted for the people of this nation his alleged supernatural powers. Not only that but he has caused ruptures within our ranks.’ ‘He took your wife,’ said Peter. ‘So you say.’ He was beginning to look as doubtful as Oscar now. ‘I know the truth.’ ‘She denies it,’ said Oscar. ‘Because the bastard hypnotised her! I know she has been with him. She stinks of him these days and the stink will not go away. He is taunting me, taunting me with something I cannot prove.’ Oscar shivered. They watched in silence as Davis took the poison satchel from his pocket. None of them knew what it contained or from where he had obtained it. They merely watched as the powder reacted with Kirkiev’s whiskey. The liquid fizzed for just a moment and was still. There was no noticeable change in the liquid’s colour or hue. The door opened. Oscar jumped, noticeably. He looked like a guilty man. Peter tensed, his hands clenching tight. Only Davis seemed undisturbed by Kirikiev’s return. ‘Not interrupting anything, I hope.’ ‘Not at all,’ said Davis. ‘We were merely discussing the problem of finding a good woman in this country, were we not, Oscar?’ ‘Yes,’ said Oscar, visibly shaking. Of the three conspirators present he was the most uncertain in his cause. The idea of death did not sit well with him; a man used to fine pleasures and little time for ethical questions. ‘I understand you are something of an expert in the field of… relationships with the our opposite numbers.’ Kirikiev smiled, graciously. He picked up his drink from the table. ‘I have somewhat of a reputation,’ he admitted. ‘Which is, I suppose, what has led to much speculation about myself and the first lady.’ ‘Do you have a special lady in your life?’ ‘Our holy mother, the Virgin Mary,’ said Kirikiev. He smiled beneath the expanse of his beard. ‘The most special lady in my life. It is to her alone I pledge my allegiance.’ ‘And what do you get in return?’ asked Davis. ‘I forget, my friend, that you are a non-believer. In return for my belief, for my pledge, I am granted peace and serenity. I am also granted an everlasting soul.’ ‘Religion,’ said Davis, with scorn. ‘An exclusive club.’ ‘With fringe benefits, naturally,’ said Kirikiev. ‘If I have any influence over our gracious President, it is in this respect: I have assisted in his search for religion. Everyone craves religion, everyone craves salvation…’ ‘…Everyone craves eternal life,’ said Davis. ‘Yes,’ said Kirikiev. ‘Not that anyone has ever found it. The promise of the Holy Mother is not eternal life, per-se, but rather the continuation of the soul. An eternal life, as the old stories tell, is one filled with heartbreak and longing. There is the story of a knight who found eternal life, but could not live with himself. His language, his customs, became outdated and outmoded. He found it hard to move with the times, like the curmudgeonly old Grandfather who hates the modern age. But unlike the Grandfather, this man’s age was eternal. He was eternally outdated, subject to a world that changed too fast for his mind to cope.’ ‘Is he still alive?’ ‘It is a myth, I believe,’ said Kirikiev, with a non-committal shrug and a smile tugging at his lips. ‘Nothing more. Certain more believable accounts, of course, would have us believe an eternity of living to be quite different. Have you heard of the Count of Saint Germain?’ Davis smiled. ‘Should I have?’ He was watching Kirikiev with an intense stare as though he could somehow, by sheer willpower, persuade the other man to stop talking and drink the poisoned liquid. ‘It is an old tale. One with possible truth to it, although it has been dismissed by many as a confidence trick or a series of coincidences. The first real showing of the Count of Saint Germain, so the story goes, took place in Paris, in 1740. He had been encountered before then, of course, but he went under the name Cartaphilus and was remarked upon by the Knights of the Holy Crusades as a wandering Jew who claimed to have known Jesus.’ Kirikiev raised his glass almost to his lips and then, before he allowed the liquid to pass, lowered it once more. ‘This Count of Saint Germain ingratiated himself with the Parisian gentry. He was a noted poet, artist, philosopher and scientist. There was, seemingly, no end to his talents or indeed his journeys. He hinted at the possibility of his learning mystical powers in the Far East.’ Oscar chipped in. ‘You yourself have travelled East, have you not?’ ‘For a while, yes. Anyway, this Count Germain claimed to have known many historical figures including, naturally, Jesus Christ. He would have been dismissed as a blowhard, I presume, but fifty years later he was encountered by one of the gentry with whom he had once spent time who remarked that the count was the same as he had been whilst she herself had aged. He has been sighted or reported at various times in history. 1745, 1756 and in 1760 allegedly he assisted in assuring peace between Prussian and Austria. He was believed dead in 1785, and buried in a small, German town. Which was a shock to those who assumed him to be of supernatural origin.’ ‘So he was a hoaxer,’ said Davis. He was looking impatient now. ‘Possible. However, records indicate that thirty six years after his funeral he was seen again in Paris and still appeared to be of the same age he had always been. There are even stories of a man in the Great War who fits the description.’ ‘Fairy stories,’ said Davis. ‘Yes,’ said Kirikiev. ‘Indeed.’ He raised the glass to his lips. ‘To the indestructible count,’ he said, with a thin smile. The others also raised their glasses and every man in the room drank. When their glasses were once more lowered, everyone’s eyes were upon Kirikiev. He nonchalantly glanced over their heads to an ancient wall-clock and said, ‘My, how time flies. I need a seat, Davis. Where may a man rest his legs?’ They walked through to an adjoining room where several soft chairs were arranged near a roaring coal fire. Each man took a seat. Kirikiev sat by himself in a great armchair. He yawned as he sat down. Oscar, on a sofa, was beginning to shake. He looked afraid. ‘You do not look well,’ said Kirikiev. ‘You can’t handle your drink, eh?’ Oscar trembled even more. Kirikiev finished his drink completely and said, ‘I must say the conversation has dried up.’ Davis stood up and walked to the fireplace. He reached inside of his jacket and pulled out a handgun. He aimed it at Kirikiev, who said, ‘This is a joke, of course.’ ‘No joke,’ said Davis. He pulled the trigger. Kirikiev’s body jerked. He slumped in the chair, his head down, balanced on his upper chest. He looked like a rag doll discarded by some bored child. ‘You killed him!’ said Oscar, his voice trembling from the strain. ‘Yes,’ said Davis. ‘That is why we brought him here, after all. This man has been nothing but trouble for our nation. He took the power away from the President’s advisors. He took the power away from us!’ ‘If this is the way you conduct business,’ said Kirikiev, ‘I am surprised he did not do it long ago.’ The three conspirators looked to their victim. He was bleeding from a hole in his chest. The shot should have punctured his heart. He started to rise from the chair. Oscar fell forward onto his knees and began praying, his words unclear, his sentiments painfully clear. Peter, whose sense of presence was greater than Oscar’s, ran to the fireplace and picked up a poker. He smashed it into the back of Kirikiev’s head with a force that he was not aware he had within him. The shock of the impact echoed back along the poker and up Peter’s arm. He dropped the poker as Kirikiev stumbled. But still the man did not fall down. Davis shot him once more. Kirikiev fell to the floor. The trail he had made from the armchair to the middle of the floor was a bloody mess. ‘When we have disposed of the body,’ said Davis, ‘Then we shall have to clear this up.’ Oscar got to his feet. His skin was pale and translucent with sweat. Peter went to him, put an arm around the dandyish man’s shoulder. ‘We done it.’ ‘Yeah,’ said Oscar. ‘We’ve done it.’ ‘We have done our nation a great service.’ ‘Of course.’ They looked to the body. Kirikiev smiled up at them. ‘You cannot kill me,’ he said. His voice was slow and deliberate. He was in a great pain. ‘You cannot kill one who has seen the Virgin Mary.’ ‘What is it that keeps you alive?’ said Davis, moving to the man and kicking him hard in the ribs. ‘Is it faith? Nothing more than faith?’ Kirikiev did not answer. He took the blows silently. Davis said, ‘Scream for me. Scream for me, bastard!’ Kirikiev stretched out an arm towards the roaring fire and let the flames lick around his skin. The flames caught upon his clothes, the fire spreading up his arm. Still he did not scream. Davis backed away. The flames consumed Kirikiev rapidly. Davis hustled his co-conspirators from the room. ‘We must leave. Of the house burns, there will be no proof.’ They ran from the house, out into the cold night air. With no servants present to observe or to raise the alarm, the three men stood in the courtyard and watched the ancient house burn. Davis said, ‘That was my ancestral home. I was born there.’ Oscar said, ‘I’m sorry, my friend.’ Davis smiled. ‘Do not be. I would sacrifice anything for my country.’ It had been three weeks since the house had burned. For three weeks, Oscar had been haunted by visions of a burning man. The man visited Oscar in his sleep. Sleep was a constant nightmare now, and to be avoided wherever possible. Oscar walked the corridors of power slowly. He had nothing to do, or rather, nothing that he felt like doing. It was as though all energy had been driven from him. He remembered Kirikiev’s funeral. He remembered the look upon the President’s face as the coffin – empty, of course, no body having been recovered – was lowered into the pit of earth. He was not a murderer. He did not feel like a patriot, either. Kirikiev had been a poor man once. The President had shunned the man’s company. But, through sheer persistence and charm, Kirikiev had wormed his way into the upper echelons of power. Surely there was no crime in aspiring to something greater than yourself? Davis would disagree, of course. That was why Davis was a true patriot: he believed in the nation above all else. Did Oscar love his country? Yes, he did, truly. He would not have even volunteered his services to Davis otherwise. Oscar walked to the library, nodding to the young, blonde man who sat behind the desk. The man gave a lazy wink in reply. If it had been three weeks earlier, Oscar might even have been attracted to the man. There was an attraction in youth for a man of Oscar’s years. The book on Russian History was where Oscar had left it the day before; open upon a table towards the back of the library. An image of Rasputin glared up at Oscar. The facial similarities to Kirikiev were striking. It was the eyes; there was a look of intent and purpose about the eyes that clinched it. Oscar gazed upon the picture sadly and turned his attention to the text on the page opposite. The text described, in great detail, the circumstances of Rasputin’s death. The parallels between Russian history and their own country were clear. Rasputin had worked his way in with the Tsar, gaining access to levels of power that should not have been his. In the end, he was betrayed by three men, all close to the Tsar and all fearful of that which Rasputin represented. They were fearful for their country. Oscar heard a voice and his head snapped up. He got to his feet and wound his way between bookcases to the front desk once more. ‘I shall be leaving the country, soon, I suppose. I am no longer so welcome as I once was.’ It was Kirikiev’s voice! Oscar ran to the front desk in time to see the main doors swing close and a figure dash off. Oscar turned to the young librarian and said, ‘Who was that man?’ The librarian, hardly looking up from his book said, ‘He’s been in from time to time. Who he is, I don’t know. Seemed kinda familiar, though. Mebbe I seen him in the papers from time to time.’ Oscar ran outside. The corridor was empty. Somewhere, in the distance, heavy footsteps bounced off a marble floor. In his head, he remembered Kirikiev’s speech concerning the Count of St Germain: ‘He was believed dead in 1785, which was a shock to those who assumed him to be of supernatural origin.’ ‘Records indicate that thirty six years after his funeral he was seen again in Paris and still appeared to be of the same age he had always been.’ And then, in his mind’s eye, Oscar saw the man’s face, his thin lips curling upwards in a secret smile as he raised his whiskey glass into the air. ‘To the indestructible count!’ END Note: Fiction, as an exercise, reflects reality. Kirikiev reflects two very real figures in certain senses: Rasputin’s tale is well known and does not bear repeating here. The Count of St Germain, however, is another matter. There are records that exist of his existence in the upper echelons of fashionable Parisian society around the year 1740. He has been encountered at various moments since and before then, of course. He is a man who wanders through history (certain people would have us connect the Count to a Jew whom crusading knights encountered in the East) and never changes, never ages. Is there any truth to the tale of two WWI German Soldiers who encountered a man claiming to be the count? Is there any truth to the rumours that he told them when the war would end and that, after the war, all German people would become millionaires and carry their moneys around in wheelbarrows? He was a genius, by all accounts. He was a poet, a musician, a philosopher. He was an enigma. The details, even, of his origins are debatable. The knight who lived on in a tower and spoke only Latin is a myth I once heard. I cannot say for certain the country of its origin, but it is a tale with an obvious moral: the dangers of immortality. In closing, let us raise our glasses to the indestructible count and wish him well wherever in the world he may be. Russel D. McLean |
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