Shades Within Us, page 18
I finally glimpsed Thea, my fellow actress with no acting job, at a far table speaking with a stranger. A man of thirty, dark-haired, wilful-mouthed. Not handsome, but striking. Faustus as well as Mephisto; perhaps a king, or a military commander; someone proud and headstrong, but not necessarily good. That is, if he were an actor at all.
“Walpurgisnacht,” I overheard him say.
I made my way toward their table. “May I join you?”
Thea’s face betrayed her disappointment for a split-second before showing an unconvincing smile, but the stranger nodded. “Please do.”
His name was August Schleier, and he introduced himself as an amateur filmmaker from Vienna. Amateur, but with big ambitions. He’d just acquired the rights to shoot The Walpurgisnacht.
“The Meyrink novel?” I interrupted.
He smiled for the first time. It wasn’t an unpleasant smile, though it bore hints of something bitter underneath. “Yes. I’m pleased you know it.” The tone suggested Thea didn’t.
The twilight of Prague aristocracy, caught amidst the Great War and a rebellion led by a possessed actor? Of course I knew it. I grew up devouring everything mystical and occult, because nothing would irritate my uptight parents more.
“Two film companies held the rights in the late ‘20s,” he said. “Neither finished the film. One didn’t even begin shooting. The other stopped after two days.”
They could have finished a half-decent film in twice that time. Why throw it away? I leaned forward. “What happened?”
“Nobody knows.”
Thea snorted, but I didn’t let her cloud my mood. “Something ghastly?” I offered.
But August remained serious. “I hope not.”
That was too much for Thea; she left soon after to find better company.
August told me his vision—and how he left Vienna in haste and had to leave behind a few projects.
“So why did you leave?” I cocked my head on the side.
“I had a feeling I wouldn’t like it there soon enough.” He didn’t elaborate on that. Perhaps the wheels turned even further into the land of damnation than I could see from here.
“Well, I’m not sure you’ll like it here so much,” I admitted. “It’s not easy finding yourself a new place.”
“Personal experience?”
“Not like yours. Or theirs,” I nodded to the groups around Rakhel and Unger. “I came from Teplitz in hope of finding work. I have Czechoslovakian citizenship. No foreigner quota applies to me, which makes getting a job a bit easier. But . . . not every kind of job.”
“How would you like to act in my film?” He asked a question that would change my life.
I controlled my expression carefully. No need to give away that I’d waited for this a long time. With my German accent in Czech, I wasn’t exactly Barrandov Studios material, and my ancestry prevented me from trying to achieve anything at all in Germany.
“Polyxena?” I asked. Please let it be her and not Božena . . .
“Indeed. You’re well-fit for that role.”
I managed to conceal my joy. “Do you intend to act in it too, or just direct?”
“I will play Zrcadlo—Spiegel.”
The mirror. The madman—perhaps an actor, perhaps an animated corpse serving as someone’s puppet—with an uncanny ability to mimic anyone, who later became the voice of rebellion and died a gruesome death.
“Aren’t you a little young for Spiegel?”
August smiled gravely. “That is of the least concern. I have unique assets for that role.”
“The previous attempts to make the film—do you really not know what happened?” I inquired.
He narrowed his eyes. “Are you questioning my honesty?”
“No, it’s just—what makes you think your film won’t meet the same fate?”
His smile grew slightly wider, but all the more grim. “Don’t you think it’s the perfect time to shoot this film? Before the crisis people were too carefree: the horrors of the Great War were almost a decade behind them, and a seemingly bright future ahead. Now, horrors lurk just behind the corner. Remember from the novel? The plotters looking forward to kill any Jews? That’s our world now. We are just waiting to dance in ruins and crown a fool to be a king.”
“There is still more than a month left to this year’s Walpurgisnacht,” I reminded him more as a joke than seriously.
But his grim expression remained. “But the insanity will ensue before that.”
Back then, I didn’t ask what he meant. I thought it a mere remark.
Two nights later, Černý Kocour managed to buzz with activity and wallow in dumbstruck astonishment at the same time. German troops were in Austria, no one knew what would happen next, and we felt trapped. The atmosphere was suffocating. You could see it in the café; it was almost palpable. The clientele was drinking more heavily. The voices were incessant, but there was little laughter to accompany them.
August was there too, and though grim like the others, he didn’t look surprised. Something in his expression puzzled me. I made my way toward him.
“Adele.” He raised a glass. “I’m proud to announce that I now have all the equipment to start producing the film, and most of the crew.”
What about the money? I bit down this remark and instead asked: “How did you escape just in time?”
“The situation in Austria has been deteriorating for a long time. I’ve lived there, seen it with my own eyes. This could have happened now or in half a year, but it could be seen.”
Then why did no one see it? Another unspoken remark. Into the silence, August said: “I want you to meet others from our crew tomorrow. All major roles are set now.”
“I haven’t even seen the script yet!”
“Tomorrow. Script, timeline, contracts.”
It was true; the following day at noon, the café was empty but for us. To my surprise Eugen Unger (Dr. Halberd, AKA The Penguin) was among them. He was the only one I’d known. As it transpired later, the rest weren’t professional actors at all.
That wasn’t the only surprise. August didn’t just want the role of Spiegel; he also intended to play Molla Osman, the Tatar who could resist the aweysha—the powerful influence of other souls on one’s will—and lead Polyxena away from the ensuing bloodshed.
I scanned the script. To my satisfaction, it didn’t reduce the role of Polyxena. On the contrary, much of it focused on her inner struggle with the spiritual influence of her grandmother—an infamous prisoner—her contempt for her aristocratic peers, and her insatiable hunger for life. Oh God, how badly I’d wished for such a role!
The script focused much less on the action of the rebellion, and more on the inner lives of the characters. If executed well, this film could become a classic. If not, it would be a complete disaster. August liked to gamble . . .
In the end, we left the café only after the waiter almost threw us out at closing time. We’d spent the time discussing how the script deviated from the novel: the imagery, costumes, music. . . . August had an answer for everything, and even more surprises in store. He intended to make the film in colour.
“Colour film is insanely expensive.” I spoke before anyone else could. Judging by the others’ expressions, most were about to voice the same objection.
“I managed to bring some with me from Vienna. No need to worry about this. We’ll start shooting next week,” August stated firmly, and it was not open for debate.
I was convinced we wouldn’t start shooting at least for another month, but August surprised us all. He adhered to his timeline, somehow got the materials and needed permits to shoot at the right locations, and we were ready. It was unlike any other shooting I’d seen: all exteriors for a start, no artificial light, few props. Since it was difficult to acquire the permit to shoot at the Daliborka Tower, those scenes got priority.
August himself stood behind his 16mm Bolex, unless Spiegel was in the scene; then he reluctantly handed the camera to Renée, a short-haired woman in man’s clothes whom I knew cursorily from the café.
This is my chance. Don’t fail now, I thought as my turn came to appear on the scene when Polyxena sees the secret meeting of the conspirators in the tower. There, Spiegel transforms into the rebellion’s leader, considered by the rebels to be the incarnation of the famous Czech hero, Jan Žižka.
August looked twenty years older thanks to the make-up and costume, but so far his Spiegel only sat quietly in the middle of the increasingly heated debate. Then the corrupted wannabe leader of the rebellion tried to get Spiegel on his side, to exert his influence, but Polyxena intervened by aweysha. And then . . .
He truly transformed.
It was as if August’s features melted and re-formed anew. What emerged made everyone gasp.
Jan Žižka of Trocnov. Come alive after five centuries.
The words that came out of his mouth sounded alien too. He still spoke German, but the accent and choice of words suggested times long past. He became a medieval hero in that moment.
The surprise was genuine—but we remembered ourselves and responded in our roles.
We continued shooting almost ‘til dusk. I volunteered to help August pack up the equipment since Renée had to leave. I was still mesmerized by August’s performance earlier that day. He had Spiegel in him. What an actor! “A mask Death itself would wear had it decided to walk amongst the living,” Meyrink had written. I shivered at the thought, my fingers caressing the exquisite camera.
August noticed my admiration for the Bolex. “Do you want to try the camera?”
I opened and closed my mouth. “I . . . I would love to,” I managed. “But the film, it’s expensive . . . and the light is fading . . .”
He chuckled. “There should be some thirty seconds of recording remaining. I’m willing to sacrifice that.” Without waiting for my reply, August showed me how the camera operated. “Here.” He put my hand on the controls. “Try it.”
Standing behind the camera was strange, but it filled me with unexpected excitement. Still, I had to ask: “Why? Why show me? Why not just pack it and go?”
August looked into the distance, where the river Vltava divided the city. “Someone else showed filmmaking to me long ago. I was just a boy. He died soon after, but my love for film stayed. And so I set on this path.” A streak of dark hair fell across his forehead. “When I saw the look in your eyes as you touched the camera . . . I imagined I must’ve had the same hungry, curious look back then.”
Each time I thought I finally knew them by heart, his features escaped me.
He coughed and straightened his back. “We should go. It’s a bit far, I’m afraid.”
“My flat is nearby—you can leave the equipment there until tomorrow,” I said.
Thus, the camera stayed the night with me—and August did too.
We mentioned nothing to the others. The day after that, we filmed the finale: the rebels’ glorious march to Hradčany, King Otokar’s death and Polyxena’s dreamlike escape. As the small crowd carried me toward the castle, I felt strangely elated. An empress of fools—but an empress nonetheless. Life was brilliant.
When the dark set in and filming stopped, I invited August to my flat again.
II. Mirror of fear
An outcry of pain pierced the warm spring night. I jerked awake and lit a lamp. It was August. He sat, huddled on the carpet in the living room, rocking back and forth. His face was contorted as if it didn’t belong to him at all.
“Another bad dream?”
He flinched when I reached to touch his shoulder, as if he didn’t recognize me. Only gradually recognition crept back into his eyes. “Yes,” he croaked. “Bad . . . dream.”
Something in the way he said it chilled me. I sat by him on the carpet.
“Bad dreams haunting me. . . . That would be the simple explanation, wouldn’t it?”
I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. But the pain in his eyes begged me to ask. “What’s . . . the real explanation?”
“The sort no one would believe.”
My stomach turned.
“I shouldn’t have come here. Or stayed. Or . . .” His lower lip quivered. “You’ve read Meyrink. Do you believe the stories?”
“Not . . . these. But,” I shrugged a little. “I’d like to. After all, Meyrink knew about ghosts.”
August chuckled slightly. “Oh, how simple it sounds when put like that. . . . What if I told you I also knew about ghosts? About . . . being haunted?”
I chilled.
“They don’t appear. They speak to me.” He laughed bitterly. “You must think I’m crazy. Voices in my head! But—” He stopped and drew a sharp breath. His pupils constricted. The colour drained from his face.
I stared at him. Was this just good acting? Or . . .
“They won’t let me go. Only if I work, if I become someone else—like Spiegel,” August uttered between strained breaths. Then he exhaled deeply. “Otherwise they are here. Around me. Tortured.”
“There must be some way, some escape,” I whispered before I could really comprehend.
“I could drink myself to death. That’s what my mother did.” His tone was impassive, his jaw tight. “The curse runs in the family.”
It was still beyond comprehension, but now I realized how he could act so well. Transform. Become.
And also how he might have known some things in advance. “Your hasty departure from Vienna . . . a ghost? Told you to leave?”
August shook his head. “Not to leave. But there was one. A man. He knew important plans. Knew about Anschluss—and supported it. I didn’t know the date; only that it was coming. Soon.”
But he had woken with dreams—hauntings—again. “Did you learn something just now?” I asked. “Is something going to happen to us?”
“I don’t know.” He shivered with the sweat from his torment. “They know no more of the future than anyone else. Only plans. Expectations.”
“What did you see?”
August shut his eyes. “The elections. If they win, there are . . . certain policies.”
At the time I could not fathom what he implied, but he refused to talk further, putting me off with excuses.
The next morning delivered a chilly awakening. I woke to a turmoil in the streets. Everyone talking about the election.
“Did you expect it?” I asked him hollowly as we drank coffee on the corner and borrowed newspapers.
August avoided my gaze. “Not exactly this. But . . .” He shrugged. “Yes.”
“Couldn’t we have done something?” I said fiercely.
“A day in advance? After people have already voted?” He let out a grim laugh. “Trust me, Berlin has been preparing these plans for months. There is nothing we could’ve done.”
ELECTION SURPRISE. PRESIDENT CALLS FOR PEACE, screamed the newspaper headlines; at least the Czech and local ones. The newsagents also had Reichspost, which spoke about a righteous political victory—HENLEIN’S WAVE OF VICTORY! TRIUMPH OF THE SUDETENDEUTSCHE!—and Czechs’ vicious fight against Germans in the land; about two unarmed Germans killed by violent Czech militia—was there any grain of truth in the story? I had no idea. But I imagined most people in my home town of Teplitz were celebrating at the moment. Few would regard Sudetendeutsche Partei’s massive victory in a negative light. But those handful who would—they would be full of fear right now.
Prague was different; there were few SdP supporters in the capital. In the streets and in the café, many looked angry or devastated, including our crew. Renée talked of emigration. Would it come to that? My friend Thea had left for Denmark a week ago.
August didn’t seem surprised. The dark circles under his eyes grew more pronounced and his cheeks thinner day by day, until I could no longer bear it.
“Come with me,” I said one morning.
“Where to?”
“You’ll see.”
We walked together into another world. Above the beating heart of Prague, there were Hradčany, the city’s medieval soul, Meyrink’s land of horrors and wonders, of stillborn future and preserved past. We finished our walk in one of the ancient narrow streets where time seemed to have stopped—or rather where countless epochs seemed to meet and mingle in a fantastical world.
This was the place where Meyrink concluded his Golem.
Here, behind a low stone wall, an old woman sat on a stool and mended a dress. Two children played with a wooden horse on the unkempt lawn. “Hyjé. Jedeme na hrad,” the girl called out, and her little brother clapped in excitement.
“This is the future,” I said quietly, and then laid my hand intertwined with his on the ancient wall, “and this is the past. It has lasted, and it continues. No matter what the voices say, or what happens around us, it will continue.”
August withdrew his hand. “This can all disappear too. I’ve seen this happen through their eyes, over and over again throughout history.”
I put his palm back on the stone wall and rested mine atop his. “This is now. In some form or another, it will persist. You’re alive now.”
“And others are dying right now,” he added in a whisper.
“Like always.”
“No, it’s not.” August withdrew his hand. It was shaking. “But . . . you’re right. You can’t change anything if you’re paralyzed by fear, can you? Not even fear of yourself.”
“Meyrink said, you just become the sad Penguin.”
He drew a long breath. “If I ever were that, please remind me of what I should be instead.”
But you’re not the Penguin. You’re Spiegel. You don’t give in to fear . . . you become someone else’s fears, become their mirror. And right now . . . everyone is afraid.
“. . . I’ll start by finishing the film. We have to,” August continued. The gleam returned to his eyes; I was just no longer sure how much of that look was his.
