Free Voltaire's Calligrapher by Pablo De Santis Page A

now among them.
    “I saw your father at the cemetery. Would he be visiting your mother’s grave?”
    “My mother died elsewhere, and my father never went to her grave.”
    “So what is he looking for there at this time of night?”
    “I don’t know. If you’re so interested in my father, why didn’t you follow him?”
    “Because I wanted to come here.”
    “Then enough about the cemetery. Your shoes are already caked with mud. The more you talk, the muddier things will get.”
    She offered me a chair with a cracked leg, and I nearly fell off it. She sat down on a trunk. The room was nearly dark. I thought I could hear the whirring of little machines in the corners.
    “It’s been a long time since I’ve spoken to anyone. My father isn’t much of a conversationalist.”
    “They say he’s the greatest maker of automatons in Europe.”
    “He’s made a tiger and a ballerina and won over the courts of Portugal and Russia. Sometimes I thought all the time he spent around machines allowed him to discover the secret workings ofthe world, and his every wish was granted. But then automatons went out of style, and now my father isn’t moved by art but by greed and fear.”
    “What is he afraid of?”
    “He’s afraid of Abbot Mazy and his calligrapher, who’s writing a book that never ends, using his enemies’ blood as ink.”
    Darkness had filled the space as we talked, pushing us closer together. I reached to put my arm around her, in that cowardly, imperceptible way that tries not to appear deliberate. Clarissa gave no sign of approval or disapproval, and I wondered whether I might have touched her so softly she hadn’t even noticed. Emboldened by her apparent acquiescence, I moved closer still. She didn’t reject my caresses, but she didn’t return them either. The things around us gradually began to move: the Dutch dolls and the dismembered soldiers and the little Greek gods all moved. Everything moved but Clarissa, who sat perfectly upright, as if pretending to be made of stone.
    Von Knepper opened the door, and I now felt as if I were caught between two wax statues. He stared at me without seeing. He had something to say—he was going to throw me out of his house, maybe even report me to the police—but it was obvious the very thought of speaking to me annoyed him. His coat was soaking wet and his boots were caked with mud. His mind was still elsewhere, out there among the graves, and not yet fully present. Now that his body was warming up, it was likely his thoughts would return, too.
    “My daughter is ill,” Von Knepper said. “She often falls into this state.”
    He passed his hand in front of her eyes. Clarissa didn’t move.
    “Please don’t visit her again. Her attacks are brought on by strangers.”
    “But I didn’t go near her.”
    “You don’t need to. Her condition is very sensitive and can detect strangers before they even enter a room.”
    “But you have your daughter shut up in here like a prisoner.”
    “It’s her illness that imprisons her. If I were to let her lead a normal life, she’d fall into a trance and never wake up. Don’t try to understand. Go now, now that you can, now that you won’t run into anyone outside.”
    I could feel an extraneous cold. It came from either the girl’s immobility or the profound impact the night had had on Von Knepper. He crossed the room and, before I knew it, threw Kolm’s walking stick at me. The metal hand closed around my throat. If it had possessed its former destructive force, it would have killed me. Instead, all I felt was a slight squeeze that would barely leave a mark.
    “Tell your friend I’ve adjusted the mechanism. There’ll be no need for us to see one another again.”

The Burial Chamber
    M athilde no longer had any hold over me; Clarissa filled my thoughts as my hand traced letters on a woman’s skin. It wasn’t my fantasy to write on her, but I imagined she came to my room late one rainy night, and I slowly