Hannibal Rising

  Hannibal’s shovel hit and scooped up a skeletal hand and then exposed the skull of the cook. Good tidings in the skeleton smile—its gold teeth showed looters had not reached this far—and then he found, still clutched by arm bones in a sleeve, the cook’s leather dispatch case. Hannibal seized it from under the arm, and carried it to the stove. The contents rattled on the iron as he dumped them out: assorted military collar brass, Lithuanian police insignia, Nazi SS lightning brass, Nazi Waffen-SS skull-and-cross-bones cap device, Lithuanian aluminum police eagles, Salvation Army collar brass, and last, six stainless-steel dog tags.

  The top one was Dortlich’s.

  Cesar took notice of two classes of things in the hands of men: apples and feedbags were the first, and whips and sticks second. He could not be approached with a stick in hand, a consequence of being driven out of the vegetables by an infuriated cook when he was a colt. If Dortlich had not been carrying a leaded riot baton in his hand when he came out of the trees, Cesar might have ignored him. As it was, the horse snorted and clopped a few steps further away, trailing his rope down the steps of the lodge, and turned to face the man.

  Dortlich backed into the trees and disappeared in the woods. He went a hundred meters further from the lodge, among the breast-high ferns wet with dew and out of the view of the empty windows. He took out his pistol and jacked a round into the chamber. A Victorian privy with gingerbread under the eaves was about forty meters behind the lodge, the thyme planted on its narrow path grown wild and tall, and the hedges that screened it from the lodge were grown together across the path. Dortlich could barely squeeze through, branches and leaves in his collar, brushing his neck, but the hedge was supple and did not crackle. He held his baton before his face and pushed through quietly. Baton ready in one hand and pistol in the other, he advanced two steps toward a side window of the lodge when the edge of a shovel caught him across the spine and his legs went numb. He fired a shot into the ground as his legs crumpled under him and the flat of the shovel clanged against the back of his skull and he was conscious of grass against his face before the dark came down.

  Birdsong, ortolans flocking and singing in the trees and the morning sunlight yellow on the tall grass, bent over where Hannibal and Cesar had passed.

  Hannibal leaned against the burned-out tank with his eyes closed for about five minutes. He turned to the bathtub, and moved the vine with his finger enough to see Mischa’s remains. It was oddly comforting to him to see she had all her baby teeth—one awful vision dispelled. He plucked a bay leaf out of the tub and threw it away.

  From the jewelry on the stove he chose a brooch he remembered seeing on his mother’s breast, a line of diamonds turned into a Möbius tape. He took a ribbon from a cameo and fastened the brooch where Mischa had worn a ribbon in her hair.

  On a pleasant east-facing slope above the lodge he dug a grave and lined it with all the wildflowers he could find. He put the tub into the grave and covered it with roof tiles.

  He stood at the head of the grave. At the sound of Hannibal’s voice, Cesar raised his head from cropping.

  “Mischa, we take comfort in knowing there is no God. That you are not enslaved in a Heaven, made to kiss God’s ass forever. What you have is better than Paradise. You have blessed oblivion. I miss you every day.”

  Hannibal filled in the grave and patted down the dirt with his hands. He covered the grave with pine needles, leaves and twigs until it looked like the rest of the forest floor.

  In a small clearing at some distance from the grave, Dortlich sat gagged and bound to a tree. Hannibal and Cesar joined him.

  Settling himself on the ground, Hannibal examined the contents of Dortlich’s pack. A map and car keys, an army can opener, a sandwich in an oilskin pouch, an apple, a change of socks, and a wallet. From the wallet he took an ID card and compared it to the dog tags from the lodge.

  “Herr … Dortlich. On behalf of myself and my late family, I want to thank you for coming today. It means a great deal to us, and to me personally, having you here. I’m glad to have this chance to talk seriously with you about eating my sister.”

  He pulled out the gag and Dortlich was talking at once.

  “I am a policeman from the town, the horse was reported stolen,” Dortlich said. “That’s all I want here, just say you’ll return the horse and we’ll forget it.”

  Hannibal shook his head. “I remember your face. I have seen it many times. And your hand on us with the webs between your fingers, feeling who was fattest. Do you remember that bathtub bubbling on the stove?”

  “No. From the war I only remember being cold.”

  “Did you plan to eat me today Herr Dortlich? You have your lunch right here.” Hannibal examined the contents of the sandwich. “So much mayonnaise, Herr Dortlich!”

  “They’ll come looking for me very soon,” Dortlich said.

  “You felt our arms.” Hannibal felt Dortlich’s arm. “You felt our cheeks, Herr Dortlich,” he said, tweaking Dortlich’s cheek. “I call you ‘Herr’ but you aren’t German, are you, or Lithuanian, or Russian or anything, are you? You are your own citizen—a citizen of Dortlich. Do you know where the others are? Do you keep in touch?”

  “All dead, all dead in the war.”

  Hannibal smiled at him and untied the bundle of his own handkerchief. It was full of mushrooms. “Morels are one hundred francs a centigram in Paris, and these were growing on a stump!” He got up and went to the horse.

  Dortlich writhed in his bonds for the moment when Hannibal’s attention was elsewhere.

  There was a coil of rope on Cesar’s broad back. Hannibal attached the free end to the traces of the harness. The other end was tied in a hangman’s noose. Hannibal paid out rope and brought the noose back to Dortlich. He opened Dortlich’s sandwich and greased the rope with mayonnaise, and applied a liberal coating of mayonnaise to Dortlich’s neck.

  Flinching away from his hands, Dortlich said, “One remains alive! In Canada—Grentz—look there for his ID. I would have to testify.”

  “To what, Herr Dortlich?”

  “To what you said. I didn’t do it, but I will say I saw it.”

  Hannibal fixed the noose about Dortlich’s neck and looked into his face. “Do I seem upset with you?” He returned to the horse.

  “That’s the only one, Grentz—he got out on a refugee boat from Bremerhaven—I could give a sworn statement—”

  “Good, then you are willing to sing?”

  “Yes, I will sing.”

  “Then let us sing for Mischa, Herr Dortlich. You know this song. Mischa loved it.” He turned Cesar’s rump to Dortlich. “I don’t want you to see this,” he said into the horse’s ear, and broke into song:

  “Ein Mannlein steht im Walde ganz still und stumm …” He clicked in Cesar’s ear and walked him forward. “Sing for slack, Herr Dortlich. Es hat von lauter Purpur ein Mantlein um.”

  Dortlich turned his neck from side to side in the greasy noose, watching the rope uncoil in the grass.

  “You’re not singing, Herr Dortlich.”

  Dortlich opened his mouth and sang in a tuneless shout, “Sagt, wer mag das Mannlein sein.”

  And then they were singing together, “Das da steht im Wald allein …” The rope rose out of the grass, some belly in it, and Dortlich screamed, “Porvik! His name was Porvik! We called him Pot Watcher. Killed in the lodge. You found him.”

  Hannibal stopped the horse and walked back to Dortlich, bent over and looked into his face.

  Dortlich said, “Tie him, tie the horse, a bee might sting him.”

  “Yes, there are a lot of them in the grass.” Hannibal consulted the dog tags. “Milko?”

  “I don’t know, I don’t know. I swear.”

  “And now we come to Grutas.”

  “I don’t know, I don’t. Let me go and I will testify against Grentz. We will find him in Canada.”

  “A few more verses, Herr Dortlich.”

  Hannibal led the horse forward, dew glistened on t
he rope, almost level now.

  “Das da steht im Walde allein—”

  Dortlich’s strangled scream, “It’s Kolnas! Kolnas deals with him.”

  Hannibal patted the horse and came back to bend over Dortlich. “Where is Kolnas?”

  “Fontainebleau, near the Place Fontainebleau in France. He has a café. I leave messages. It’s the only way I can contact him.” Dortlich looked Hannibal in the eye. “I swear to God she was dead. She was dead anyway I swear it.”

  Staring into Dortlich’s face, Hannibal clicked to the horse. The rope tightened and the dew flew off it as the little hairs on the rope stood up. A strangled scream from Dortlich cut off, as Hannibal howled the song into his face.

  “Das da steht im Walde allein,

  Mit dem purporroten Mantelein.”

  A wet crunch and a pulsing arterial spray. Dortlich’s head followed the noose for about six meters and lay looking up at the sky.

  Hannibal whistled and the horse stopped, his ears turned backward.

  “Dem purporroten Mantelein, indeed.”

  Hannibal dumped the contents of Dortlich’s pack on the ground and took his car keys and ID. He made a crude spit from green sticks and patted his pockets for matches.

  While his fire was burning down to useful coals, Hannibal took Dortlich’s apple to Cesar. He took all the harness off the horse so he could not get tangled in the brush and walked him down the trail toward the castle. He hugged the horse’s neck and then slapped him on the rump. “Go home. Cesar, go home.”

  Cesar knew the way.

  44

  GROUND FOG SETTLED in the bare ripped path of the power line and Sergeant Svenka told his driver to slow the truck for fear of hitting a stump. He looked at his map and checked the number on a pylon holding up the heavy transmission line.

  “Here.”

  The tracks of Dortlich’s car continued into the distance, but here it had sat and dripped oil on the ground.

  The dogs and policemen came off the back of the truck, two big black Alsatians excited about going into the woods, and a serious hound. Sergeant Svenka gave them Dortlich’s flannel pajama top to sniff and they were off. Under the overcast sky the trees looked grey with soft-edged shadows and mist hung in the glades.

  The dogs were milling about the hunting lodge, the hound casting around the perimeter, dashing into the woods and back, when a trooper called out from back in the trees. When the others did not hear him at once, he blew his whistle.

  Dortlich’s head stood on a stump and on his head stood a raven. As the troopers approached, the raven flew, taking with it what it could carry.

  Sergeant Svenka took a deep breath and set an example for the men, walking up to Dortlich’s head. Dortlich’s cheeks were missing, excised cleanly, and his teeth were visible at the sides. His mouth was held open by his dog tag, wedged between his teeth.

  They found the fire and the spit. Sergeant Svenka felt the ashes to the bottom of the little fire pit. Cold.

  “A brochette, cheeks and morels,” he said.

  45

  INSPECTOR POPIL WALKED from police headquarters on the Quai des Orfèvres to the Place des Vosges, carrying a slender portfolio. When he stopped at a bar on the way for a fast espresso, he smelled a calvados on the service bar and wished it were already evening.

  Popil walked back and forth on the gravel, looking up at Lady Murasaki’s windows. Sheer draperies were closed. Now and then the thin cloth moved in a draft.

  The daytime concierge, an older Greek woman, recognized him.

  “Madame is expecting me,” Popil said. “Has the young man been by?”

  The concierge felt a tremor in her concierge antennae and she said the safe thing. “I haven’t seen him, sir, but I’ve had days off.” She buzzed Popil in.

  Lady Murasaki reclined in her fragrant bath. She had four gardenias floating in the water, and several oranges. Her mother’s favorite kimono was embroidered with gardenias. It was cinders now. Remembering, she made a wavelet that rearranged the blossoms. It was her mother who understood when she married Robert Lecter. Her father’s occasional letters from Japan still carried a chill. Instead of a pressed flower or fragrant herb, his most recent note contained a blackened twig from Hiroshima.

  Was that the doorbell? She smiled, thinking “Hannibal,” and reached for her kimono. But he always called or sent a note before he came, and rang before he used his key. No key in the lock now, just the bell again.

  She left the bath and wrapped herself hurriedly in the cotton robe. Her eye at the peephole. Popil. Popil in the peephole.

  Lady Murasaki had enjoyed occasional lunches with Popil. The first one, at Le Pré Catelan in the Bois de Boulogne, was rather stiff, but the others were at Chez Paul near his work and they were easier and more relaxed. He sent dinner invitations as well, always by note, one accompanied by a haiku with excessive seasonal references. She had declined the dinners, also in writing.

  She unbolted the door. Her hair was gathered up and she was gloriously barefoot.

  “Inspector.”

  “Forgive me for coming unannounced, I tried to call.”

  “I heard the telephone.”

  “From your bath, I think.”

  “Come in.”

  Following his eyes, she saw him account at once for the weapons in place before the armor: the tanto dagger, the short sword, the long sword, the war axe.

  “Hannibal?”

  “He is not here.”

  Being attractive, Lady Murasaki was a still hunter. She stood with her back to the mantle, her hands in her sleeves, and let the game come to her. Popil’s instinct was to move, to flush game.

  He stood behind a divan, touched the cloth. “I have to find him. When did you last see him?”

  “How many days is it? Five. What is wrong?”

  Popil stood near the armor. He rubbed the lacquered surface of a chest. “Do you know where he is?”

  “No.”

  “Did he indicate where he might be going?”

  Indicate. Lady Murasaki watched Popil. Now the tips of his ears were flushed. He was moving and asking and touching things. He liked alternate textures, touching something smooth, then something with a nap. She’d seen it at the table too. Rough then smooth. Like the top and bottom of the tongue. She knew she could electrify him with that image and divert blood from his brain.

  Popil went around a potted plant. When he peered at her through the foliage, she smiled at him and disrupted his rhythm.

  “He is at an outing, I am not sure where.”

  “Yes, an outing,” Popil said. “An outing hunting war criminals, I think.”

  He looked into her face. “I’m sorry, but I have to show you this.” Popil put on the tea table a fuzzy picture, still damp and curling from the Thermo-Fax at the Soviet embassy. It showed Dortlich’s head on the stump and police standing around it with two Alsatians and a hound. Another photo of Dortlich was from a Soviet police ID card. “He was found in the forest Hannibal’s family owned before the war. I know Hannibal was nearby—he crossed the Polish border the day before.”

  “Why must it be Hannibal? This man must have many enemies, you said he was a war criminal.”

  Popil pushed forward the ID photo. “This is how he looked in life.” Popil took a sketch from his portfolio, the first of a series. “This is how Hannibal drew him and put the drawing on the wall of his room.” Half the face in the sketch was dissected, the other half clearly Dortlich.

  “You were not in his room by invitation.”

  Popil was suddenly angry. “Your pet snake has killed a man. Probably not the first, as you would know better than I. Here are others,” he said, putting down sketches. “This was in his room, and this and this and this. That face is from the Nuremberg Trials, I remember it. They are fugitives and now they will kill him if they can.”

  “And the Soviet police?”

  “They are inquiring quietly in France. A Nazi like Dortlich on the People’s Police is an em
barrassment to the Soviets. They have his file now from Stasi in the GDR.”

  “If they catch Hannibal—”

  “If they catch him in the East, they’ll just shoot him. If he gets out, they might let the case wither and die if he keeps his mouth shut.”

  “Would you let it wither and die?”

  “If he strikes in France he’ll go to prison. He could lose his head.” Popil stopped moving. His shoulders slumped.

  Popil put his hands in his pockets.

  Lady Murasaki took her hands out of her sleeves.

  “You would be deported,” he said. “I would be unhappy. I like to see you.”

  “Do you live by your eyes alone, Inspector?”

  “Does Hannibal? You would do anything for him, wouldn’t you?”

  She started to say something, some qualifier to protect herself, and then she just said “Yes,” and waited.

  “Help him. Help me. Pascal.” She had never said his first name before.

  “Send him to me.”

  46

  THE RIVER ESSONNE, smooth and dark, slid past the warehouse and beneath the black houseboat moored to a quay near Vert le Petit. Its low cabins were curtained. Telephone and power lines ran to the boat. The leaves of the container garden were wet and shiny.

  The ventilators were open on the deck. A shriek came out of one of them. A woman’s face appeared at one of the lower portholes, agonized, cheek pressed against the glass, and then a thick hand pushed the face away and jerked the curtain closed. No one saw.

  A light mist made halos around the lights on the quay but directly overhead a few stars shone through. They were too weak and watery to read.

  Up on the road, a guard at the gate shined his light into the van marked Café de L’Este and, recognizing Petras Kolnas, waved him into the barbed-wire parking compound.

  Kolnas walked quickly through the warehouse, where a workman was painting out the markings on appliance crates stenciled U.S. POST EXCHANGE, NEUILLY. The warehouse was jammed with boxes and Kolnas weaved through them to come out onto the quay.