They lacked eyes. It was the closed eyelids that irritated at first. Unlocked but admittedly, but with no chance to read in the faces. Eery somehow. Ingeniously staged. “They could think of everything now, God, children, slit their bodies, fuck them.” Thomas Gregorian chuckled. He liked what he saw. Waiting for anyone. Anything. He studied the picture more closely. Probably a spiritist meeting, estimated to have been painted in the 30’s. The young woman, who had climbed to the old mansion’s storage room with him, grimaced in disgust: “That’s horrible, that makes me goosebump.” Thomas Gregorian grinned. “Intent, I suppose.” He had freed Edgar Gregorian’s image of dust and cobwebs and now kept it at eye level. Gregorian must have painted it shortly before his death. A brother of his grandfather, who had died in a bizarre way. He and his wife had been found with severed throats in front of the brick fireplace on the ground floor. The murderer was never caught, nor had he stolen anything, but had just walked in to see blood spurting, pretty fountains of white necks lost on the stone floor. Thomas stared at the picture and was impressed. Strange bland scene. Nevertheless, he felt invited to participate in something that seemed important. What had been so damn important? To dream together, to hear, to fuck together? Who with whom? The picture had something, no doubt. All five were elegantly dressed and perfectly styled, the beautiful blonde in red velvet, velvet came, the brunette in mossy taffeta. Maybe silk. The men wore their hair tightly combed back, presumably soaking wet and sticking to too much pomade, but that was the only way it worked. They did not look up, did not look at each other. They kept their eyelids closed as in silent prayer. Her eyes, whose color was probably meaningless to the artist, were blanked in emptiness. Empty for the one who did not know better. Could know. Thomas tucked the picture under his right arm, rummaged with his left hand the top drawer of the dresser on which it had been lying. He fingered out a brownish writing pad decorated with dark red roses, put the picture back, leafed through it hastily, read a few lines, neatly dated. Eleventh October 1936. That was the last entry. Basically logical. On the twelfth Edith and Edgar Gregorian were slaughtered by a madman in front of the fireplace. Of course nothing happened after that. Thomas was excited. “I do not believe it, look at that, Lisa, that belonged to my great-aunt.” Lisa Thoessen, feeling increasingly uncomfortable in the dark store, crossed her arms over her chest. “And?” “What and?” He sounded annoyed. “That’s family, man, my damned family, Cosa nostra, you understand, I’ll take that with me.” He turned around. Talked to the wall obviously, twisted his eyes wryly, reached back to the picture, stuck the notebook cumbersome in the waistband of his jeans. Lisa was already on the descent, cautiously groping herself down with her feet in impractical high-heeled sandals. ” felt nonsensical panic rise in itself. Great God, WHAT was that? Did he really say that? No, do not say so. Not said. Thought. He had thought: The bitch is not long. He needed air urgently. Everything here smelled of the dead. Moder and otherwise. Disgusting. Did the little adorable bitch witt that too? He grinned again, could not help himself, shook himself, climbed down. felt nonsensical panic rise in itself. Great God, WHAT was that? Did he really say that? No, do not say so. Not said. Thought. He had thought: The bitch is not long. He needed air urgently. Everything here smelled of the dead. Moder and otherwise. Disgusting. Did the little adorable bitch witt that too? He grinned again, could not help himself, shook himself, climbed down.
At about ten o’clock, the day of his divine discovery, in the storehouse of his grandparents Friedelgund and Herbert Gregorian’s old mansion, Thomas Gregorian’s sweet blonde friend was dead. Her delicate young face was divided into two halves by an ax, each pretty pretty, but unable to carry on. She was right. What did she have to interfere?
Thomas sat with his eyes closed in front of the fireplace and had the cozy patter of the fire in his ear. Gorgeous! The picture hung above the heavy desk where his laptop looked like an exotic plant in a sea of daisies. Daisies, as already picked by a little Edith, a little Edgar, proudly, with bright red cheeks, given to the mother who knew nothing to do with it, and still happy to put them in a glass of water, place it on the kitchen table to watch, how they died slowly. Edith Gregorian’s diary was on his knees, he had read it twice, it was not difficult, she had written in block letters, for whatever reason.
November 10, 1933: Despite the Bedrohnis that I feel everywhere, I suspect that bad things will happen because everything is so deceptively good. Inhale. Happy. I gave birth three days ago. Engelbert Siegfried is my gift from God. Edgar is overjoyed (…)
December 17, 1933: Edgar introduced me to Valentin von Fetzow. Tall, very slim. Extremely well read. A fascinating man, quite. He keeps looking at me with his gray eyes. His eyelashes are too long and too black for a man. Too beautiful. He is scary to me (…)
December 28, 1933: Will ask Edgar not to invite Valentin von Fetzow. He scares me. He wants Edgar to paint him. He says it’s a fountain of youth for him. How can a picture be like that? He speaks of Tantalus, I know this story, sweet fruits, refreshing water, never reachable, agonizing, abominable. He says it will not happen to him, nobody could do that to him, no god, no devil. He irritates me (…)
January 15, 1934: Edgar ignores my request. Valentin von Fetzow wrote something for me in my poetry album, I am a silly romantic, and he was amused because I was embarrassed. He wanted to see it, Edgar was amused, he called me “my stupid sweet mistress”. I got it, probably red with shame, probably also from the wine that Valentin von Fetzow had brought us. A dusty, old bottle with a cork too tight to fit into our century. “… and banish yourself with oil on linen, and taste their spirit, and drink you, then live forever.” I do not understand that. Why is he writing so cruelly? (…)
February 27, 1934: Valentin von Fetzow has traveled to Italy. Maybe he will not come back. I’ll tell Edgar that I do not want to see him again. God forgive my impure thoughts (…)
April 25, 1934: I have sinned, I should tear out the eyeballs, cut the curls, short, ugly, I deserve it. He was here. Alone. My breasts, so hard, so good, belonged to him. My lap. So wet, full of joy. I tasted it, my lips sucked it. The hell. God, have mercy. Be strict. Edgar is staying in Bad Oeynhausen, the good, the expensive one. Do not learn anything, do not know anything. And yet. If he kills me, it should be so (…)
May 15, 1934: My heart is screaming for him. Edgar suspects nothing. He will come back. In the autumn. Edgar wants to paint him. I want him. Want him. Sinful meat. I can not change it (…)
July 11, 1934: Valentin was with me. In me. I feel it, still smell it, do not want to wash me. Not yet. Edgar lay to bed, feverish, only taking tea and dry biscuits. I’ll take care of it. When he was sleeping, I showed Valentin my breasts. He wanted to drink from my warts. I shiver when I think of his bites. (…)
September 19, 1934: Valentin, sweet Valentine. He has changed. Bring a book. Konstantin von Fetzow. 1862. Found it in a Roman antiquarian bookshop. A hideous book with a demon’s face. He says it’s a signpost. He does not say more. Just showed it. Not more. Will not be painted yet. Says it must be fine. Must be later. Edgar does not know how restless I am. Does he feel it? Let me die better, God (…)
October 8, 1934: It is growing. Valentine’s son. I know it’s a boy. I pray the Ave Maria, I’m grown with the dirt under my shoes. Edgar is happy. I vomit, do not keep anything in my place, wipe my mouth and smile at him. Poor Edgar. Valentin is cool to me. He looks at my stomach and looks at me seriously. He knows it. I know it. He seems blase. He is not honest. I feel cold when his breath touches my face. I want him to touch me. He does not want it anymore. He got what he wanted. Cruel, he is cruel. Feel soiled. I’m dirty. I’m filthy. At night I scream with pleasure, but stay silent, touch me immoral, while Edgar, the good one, dreams next to me. What is he dreaming of? Do I want to know? (…)
November 19, 1934: Valentin wrote. A letter just for me. I burned him. He does not want my love. Only my fruit. Even that is worthless, he says. He has to wait. Feel trapped in evil. I want to slit my body. Wanna sleep. To forget. Can not. Fear God’s wrath. Fear Edgar (…)
January 11, 1935: My son is at home. Have called him Constantine, do not know why. Wanted to call him Herbert, after my godfather. Do not know why. Constantine. He has gray eyes. Valentine’s dimples in the chin. Edgar, the gate. Looks nothing. Better this way (…)
March 17, 1935: Valentin does not love him. He is unclean, he says. “The neighbor who comes, it will be.” He says and shakes me off, does not want to be hugged, not caressed. Feel terrible. I’m ugly. Will die and yet not. Why the next? There will be no child left with Valentin. He rejects me. My breasts shake. Roar for him. He does not say a word (…)
May 25, 1935: Feel no heat. As if he is not my child. He does not want my breast. I sing him to sleep and cry. I have the feeling that he is not in this world for his own sake. Do not know why. His eyes are dead. Will love him. Can not. Constantine should not be. I know it was wrong. What will happen? Shiver. Fear me (…)
July 24, 1935: Dreams of Valentin. Listen to his breath. He pulls up my nightgown and strokes my wet thighs, drives higher, bites my lips bloody, make no sound from me (…)