“Shut up!” said Frans angrily. “You brought me here and you can’t let me down now.”
Neither of them spoke for a moment. The Biker Boy had got off his scooter; he was holding it with one hand and rattling the gate with the other – it made a nasty squeaking noise. Then he turned to Frans and began singing in a mocking tone:
“Oh dear, what can the matter be?
The gate’s locked up and we don’t have a key…”
By accident – or maybe on purpose – he let go of the scooter, which fell over and banged into Frans’s ankle.
The sudden pain made Frans even angrier; he lashed out and clipped the Biker Boy on the ears.
The young man swore. “You’re going to regret that!” he said. “I’ll show you. I’ll…” He stopped.
The wind drove the dark clouds apart and the moon appeared – a ghostly white full moon.
The Biker Boy’s face was very pale in the moonlight; he wasn’t looking at Frans, but staring through the bars of the fence. Frans followed his gaze and held his breath for a moment.
Now he could see the House of Stairs very clearly: an insane house, a house out of a nightmare… all towers and turrets, with jutting angles and protrusions, with crooked chimneys and strange structures on the roofs. It looked as if it had grown rather than been built, as its silhouette was so very peculiar. And above it the sky was like a wild sea; scraps of clouds with glowing edges flapped and fluttered across the moon.
“So now you can see it…” said the Biker Boy in a slightly shaky voice. “You’ll have to…”
“Just shut up!” said Frans again. “Why don’t you clear off? You’re only confusing matters.”
“Quiet!” said the Biker Boy. “I can hear something.”
“Why should I care?” said Frans grumpily. “Go on. Get out of here!”
But still he turned his back on the House of Stairs. The sound was coming from the other direction – the rattle of wheels and the click-clacking of hoofs on the road.
Then he looked back at the Biker Boy, who was slowly picking up his scooter.
“Go on. Get out of here!” he repeated, but suddenly he felt a little unsure of himself. Which of the two was he talking to now? Had Roberto come back?
The young man was already on his scooter though and, in a gruff voice, he said, “I’m off! That old coach of yours is coming, so you don’t need me anyway.”
“Roberto…” began Frans.
But the boy had already started the engine, and soon he was riding off without looking back. He swerved onto the Seventh Way, and Frans saw the light of the scooter flashing through the trees and finally disappearing. Suddenly he regretted sending him away.
Now he was all alone in front of the closed gate, and in the distance the coach was approaching.
THAT WAS FIVE and now for Part Six
6
FRANS ENTERS THE HOUSE OF STAIRS
He becomes acquainted with Count Grisenstein
THIS IS ONE
The clouds swept across the moon again, their edges still glowing. Shadows fell across the path, and Frans could only hear the coach now. He wondered what Jan Tooreloor would say when he saw him, and he stepped to one side, so that he was standing close to the gate, almost invisible to anyone who was not looking closely.
Now he saw the coach looming out of the darkness – it was completely black; the lanterns on the sides were not lit. The coachman was driving quickly. He must know the road well. And he brought his coach to a stop just in time, right before the gate.
Frans watched as Jan Tooreloor climbed down and started fiddling with the gate. He must have had a key, as it soon swung open with a creak. The horse pawed the ground with one hoof, as if to say it wanted to continue on its way, but Tooreloor showed no sign of climbing back up. He just gave a gloomy grunt and said, “Yes, we’re here. But what should we do now?” He took off his hat, scratched his head and went on muttering to himself. Then he turned, wandered around and finally stood staring at the Seventh Way, as if he were expecting someone to appear from that direction.
Maybe he’s waiting for me, Frans suddenly thought. But it didn’t seem very wise to reveal his presence. Then he had an excellent idea: What if I hop in? Perhaps he’ll take me where I want to go…
Frans crept towards the coach, cursing his painful ankle.
The horse raised its head and snorted. Frans carefully opened the door. He had to get inside the coach before Tooreloor spotted him. After all, it was likely that the man still didn’t want to take him to the House of Stairs. So his best chance was to go along with Jan as a stowaway. Very cautiously, he struggled into the coach. Then he settled contentedly into the darkest corner – just in time, as the coachman was returning. He drove his coach through the gate, which he then locked again. Then he climbed up front and cracked his whip.
“Well, well,” said Frans to himself. “Count Grisenstein really doesn’t make it easy for people to get inside his home. Is that gate always locked? I wonder what he does about deliveries.”
Frans slid the window down so that he could look out, but he could no longer see the House of Stairs. He noticed that Jan Tooreloor was going very slowly, as if he were still in two minds about something. But they couldn’t have been moving for longer than ten minutes when they made a sweeping curve and came to a stop.
Jan Tooreloor climbed down. Frans put his head out of the window and asked, “Are we there?”
He almost laughed out loud at the coachman’s surprise. The man took a step back and gasped. “I-i-is that you?” he stammered.
“Yes, it’s me,” Frans answered in a cheerful voice. “And you should be grateful for this opportunity to make up for your mistake and to take me to the House of Stairs as agreed.”
Jan Tooreloor swore under his breath. But then he said, almost politely, “Yes, sir.” And he even helped Frans out of the coach. “However did you get here?” he asked.
“Roberto brought me as far as the gate,” Frans replied. “Along the Seventh Way. So you’re not the only one who can do that!”
“Sssh!” hissed the coachman. “Not too loud.” He cast a nervous glance at the House of Stairs.
Frans said nothing. Somewhere a window was rattling, and a cat wailed, mournful and off-key.
Now that he was standing in front of it, the House of Stairs looked less threatening, but just as strange. Even in the dark he could see just how complicated its construction was – with alcoves and extensions, and canopies and balconies, and so many windows and bays, with chimneys like turrets, and turrets like chimneys, and weathervanes on the roofs. At the front was a sweeping staircase, where two lanterns cast a dim, flickering light.
“You can go in through the back door,” said the coachman.
“Is this the back?” asked Frans, as he began to limp up the stairs.
“Yes, sir. I see you’re having trouble walking,” said the coachman. He looked as if he wanted to help Frans, but Frans pretended not to notice.
Fortunately, the first flight of steps wasn’t very long and Jan Tooreloor was soon pulling on the rope that hung beside the back door. The sound of a bell echoed through the house. The coachman tipped his cap, grunted a goodbye, and returned to his coach.
*
Frans waited; he heard footsteps but it was a while before the door opened.
A thin woman with a sour face grumpily told him to come in. Frans suddenly thought about the threshold he was crossing, but he had no time to see if any words were written on the lintel. The woman warned him to mind the step down and silently walked on ahead of him. Frans followed her through a stone hallway, up a short flight of stairs, along an oak-panelled corridor, down a narrow staircase, along another oak-panelled corridor and then up a wide flight of stairs, which opened onto a bare landing with a tiled floor. All the rooms were badly lit, most of them with gas lamps. They passed many doors; some of them were open, and Frans saw yet more staircases through them, some going up and some going down. At times he th
ought he could hear footsteps, ones that didn’t belong to him or to the silent woman – footsteps behind them and in front of them, scurrying above them and walking below. His thoughts turned briefly to Ivan, the spy who was so good at sneaking around, and he wondered where the child might be who was imprisoned in this house…
After crossing an empty landing, he had to go up nine steps – he’d started counting by that point – and then he stopped to rest. The thin woman gave him a disapproving look, pulled a red velvet curtain aside and said, “Through there. The count is waiting for you.” She turned around and disappeared.
“And now,” said Frans to himself, “I am placing myself in the power of Gr… Gr…, who is lying in wait at the centre of all these staircases, like a spider sitting among the threads of his web. And I feel like the fly who is wondering how it will ever get back out again.”
After a few steps, he stopped again and stared, with his eyes open wide.
He was in a huge room with a magnificent wooden floor. Galleries ran all around, with open wooden staircases leading up to them. This room was better lit, with long candles in tall brass stands. He saw suits of armour all lined up, standing there motionless, and a slender gentleman in grey, who came towards him and greeted him with a bow. Count Grisenstein!
He looked so different from the man Frans had imagined that, for a moment, he found it hard to believe it was really him – the Fiendish Foe, as Roberto called him.
A slim man in a finely tailored suit, with a rather bland face, blond hair and grey eyes. There was nothing mysterious or eccentric about him, and he didn’t suit this house at all – he’d have been much more at home in The Hague, among the politicians and the diplomats.
“Mr Van der Steg?” he said, with a cold, yet pleasant voice. “My name is Grisenstein. Welcome to the House of Stairs.”
Frans suddenly felt awkward and untidy, although the count was far too much of a gentleman to show any surprise about his bump and his sticking plaster.
Instead he just said that he hoped the ride to the House of Stairs had not been too unpleasant. “My coach is rather old-fashioned,” he said, “but one should travel in style, don’t you think?”
“Oh, it was an extraordinary ride,” said Frans, smiling to himself.
“I hope you mean that in a good way,” said the count.
“Of course, sir,” said Frans. “Jan Tooreloor is an exceptionally good coachman.”
“Jan Too-re-loor?” repeated the count slowly. The expression on his face was neutral. And yet something had clearly caught his attention and he needed to stop and think for a moment.
“Tooreloor?” said Count Grisenstein again. “Is that my coachman’s name? Tooreloor? And how would you know that?”
Frans remembered that Roberto had told him not to mention that name again. “Oh, actually, I’m not so sure about it now,” he replied uncomfortably. “Well, I think that’s what he said… No, it was someone else, I believe… I just thought it was such a strange name that I remembered it. But I must have heard it wrong.”
“Yes, I think you must have,” said the count, with a fleeting smile. “I don’t believe it’s a name that one would find in any parish registers.” He turned away from Frans and looked around the room.
Frans was about to add something, but then decided to keep quiet. I wish those conspirators had been a bit clearer! he thought. What would Count Grisenstein say if he knew the whole story? He’d probably raise his eyebrows and calmly ask about the location of the nearest lunatic asylum. Although… someone who lives in a house like this is probably not that easily surprised by anything… This one room is enough to make anyone’s head whirl!
Frans looked around again. On every side, wooden staircases led up to the galleries, and more wooden stairs went from those galleries to galleries above, and from there other staircases went up to even higher galleries, with more stairs leading up to arched openings in the walls. High, high up overhead, he could see the dark rafters of the roof.
“This is known as Gregorius’s Small Banqueting Hall,” said Count Grisenstein.
Frans wondered what the large banqueting hall must look like.
“The room’s been beautifully restored, don’t you think?” said the count. “But it’s not suitable for a quiet conversation. Come with me.”
As they walked across the room, he stopped for a moment and said, “All these stairs… They’re not too much for you, are they, Mr Van der Steg?”
“Oh, please don’t be concerned,” said Frans. “I just sprained my ankle a little, yesterday. That’s all.”
“I do hope it wasn’t anything serious,” said the count.
“Oh no,” Frans quickly replied. “I took a tumble down some stairs.”
He could have bitten his tongue. That was the stupidest answer he could have come up with! “But please don’t think I do it regularly,” he added quickly. “In fact, it’s the first time in my life that I’ve ever fallen downstairs.”
“And unfortunately I must ask you to climb another flight of stairs,” said the count, opening a door. “Please lead the way. It’s only twenty-two steps.”
Frans warily climbed a stone spiral staircase, which opened into a room that felt like an oasis – all blue and white and tastefully furnished in a Rococo style. A cosy fire burned in the small hearth, and when the count had closed the door, there were no stairs to be seen.
Soon the two men were sitting opposite each other in elegant chairs. A coffee pot was on the table between them, with a small candle under it to keep the coffee warm.
“I shall pour it myself,” said the count. “My housekeeper is free after eight. Climbing up and down stairs all day tires her out.”
“Your house is a most remarkable building,” said Frans.
“To be more accurate, it’s ghastly,” said the count. “A monstrosity of poor taste and improbable architecture, and most uncomfortable too, but,” he continued, “living here for a while is good for the health. In this streamlined age with its efficient buildings, the soul is often neglected. Everyone needs a little mystery – even if it comes in the form of stairs, corridors, hidden doors and revolving panels.”
“There’s some truth to that,” said Frans. Count Grisenstein seemed like a sensible man… perhaps the first reasonable person, he suddenly thought, that he’d met in a week.
“But let’s get down to business,” said the count. “You are offering your services as a tutor. The boy you’d be teaching is my great-nephew and my ward. As you’ll have read in my advertisement, he’s ten years old – he’s about to turn eleven, by the way. His name is Geert-Jan Grisenstein; he’s an orphan and I’m his only living relative.” He steepled his fingers and gave Frans a searching look. “So why,” he asked, “did you respond to my advertisement?”
“I…” began Frans. If only I knew what I wrote, he thought. “It sounded like an attractive position,” he said, “and I wanted to earn some extra money.”
He wished he hadn’t said those last words, but the count nodded in agreement and said, “Your references were particularly good, so I was a little taken aback at first that you appear to be so young.”
References! thought Frans. That magician’s thought of everything! Does that make me an accomplice to fraud?
“You teach at a nearby village school,” the count continued. “So do you have enough time to take on this position as tutor too?”
“Oh yes, sir,” said Frans. “I have every Wednesday and Saturday afternoon off, and every evening too, except for Friday.”
“I don’t think the evenings would be appropriate,” said the count. “I should mention that my nephew’s health leaves a lot to be desired, which is why he can’t go to school for the time being. And of course he has to go to bed early.”
“If his health is poor, I think it would be a very good idea not to bother him with lessons every day,” said Frans. “Wednesday and Saturday afternoons should be enough. He should also spend plenty of time playing outside in
the fresh air.”
“Geert-Jan doesn’t like fresh air,” said the count stiffly. “He prefers to play his funny little games indoors.”
“You could maybe invite some other children to visit,” began Frans. “If they play together…”
“No!” said Count Grisenstein, abruptly interrupting him. In a milder tone, he continued, “Geert-Jan is far too nervous! He needs a quiet, protective environment. I’m concerned now that you might not have the tact and wisdom to teach him…”
A vague feeling of suspicion crept over Frans. Maybe the conspirators were right after all!
“But the boy has to learn something,” he said. “I don’t know if I have much wisdom, or tact, but I am at least a schoolteacher by profession.”
Count Grisenstein gave him a friendly smile. “You seem like a sensible, level-headed kind of man,” he said. “And, as I mentioned, your references…” As he reached for the coffee pot, a large signet ring glinted on one of his fingers.
“Well then,” he said, as he poured two cups, “I’ll take you on for a trial period. Let’s say until the Christmas holiday, with no obligation on either side. If we get along, we’ll continue the arrangement. Agreed?”
“Absolutely, Count Grisenstein,” said Frans.
“So every Wednesday and Saturday for now,” the count continued. “And what about Sunday? Or do you object to working on Sundays on principle?”
“Well… I do think Sunday should be a day of rest,” said Frans hesitantly.
“You could come and play some games with Geert-Jan,” said the count. “You said yourself that playing would be good for his health. It doesn’t have to be every Sunday of course.”
They agreed that Frans would begin the following Saturday afternoon, and that he’d come and visit at least on that first Sunday too. The coach would fetch him and take him home.