This whole diary was pure farce. Presumably Theodor Marot had just scribbled any random letters to lend a touch of mystery to what he was writing. The way it looked right now, the book threatened to become a slushy romance, anyway. Vows of love carved in the trunk of a linden tree! It was the opposite of what Steven had hoped for from the diary. Romantic confessions of an academic late bloomer.
The linden tree . . .
In his fury the bookseller had marched on without looking right or left, and now he faced the mighty tree. Its leaves rustled gently in the wind. He looked up at the tall trunk and tried to imagine Marot eating there with the king more than a hundred years ago, meeting Maria, and finally carving her name in the bark of the tree.
A glimmer of an idea surfaced in his mind. Could the name possibly still be there? Or had Marot simply invented the whole love story? Steven went closer to the tree trunk. The floodlights from the marquee were so bright that they cast a faint light on the tree, far away from them as it was. The bookseller walked around the linden tree, brushing away a few cobwebs and a handful of dry leaves clinging to the bark. Suddenly, at chest height, his fingers passed over notches forming separate letters and figures. They were weatherworn and had grown together, but even after nearly three human lifespans they were still legible.
MARIA 10.9.1885
The sudden realization struck Steven like a blow.
SARA WATCHED STEVEN disappear into the dark of the terraced garden and shook her head.
Men could be so touchy. She had often irritated the opposite sex with her remarks. Usually her occasional lovers couldn’t cope with the fact that she had a quicker mind and wasn’t going to do as they said. It had been like that with her last boyfriend, David. The relationship had lasted just six months; then she had found his empty phrases increasingly getting on her nerves—and he himself, in a brief moment of acumen, had correctly interpreted her silence, her tight smile, and her raised eyebrows, and had disappeared from her life. By now David was probably drifting around some London club or other, making eyes at silly floozies and playing house music.
Steven was different. He was clever, well-read, and obviously didn’t feel it was a problem if she took the lead now and then. But she felt as if he came from another planet. Even more: if women were from Venus and men were from Mars, then Steven came from Pluto, if not from the faraway Horsehead Nebula.
Which made him very interesting.
Smiling, she turned away and went back to the castle. The unworldly bookseller would soon calm down again. Meanwhile, she could look around on her own for once without his company. Sara looked at her watch. The aria sung by the famous tenor, who must surely be wickedly expensive to hire, would be over by now. So it couldn’t hurt to pay the Grotto of Venus a visit.
She took off her mask and her high-heeled shoes, which were already giving her blisters, and, carrying them, set off on the way to the upper part of the park. As soon as she rounded the corner of the castle, she was completely alone. A carpet of violet and blood-red flowers spread out around her, while ahead a stern statue of Neptune with his trident looked down at her. He stood in the middle of a fountain fed by a splashing waterfall that cascaded down from the slope above. To the right and left of the waterfall, pathways roofed by foliage led up to the Grotto of Venus.
Sara took the left-hand path, which had a shimmering white statue of a woman watching over it. Immediately it was pitch-dark all around her. She was briefly tempted to turn back and look for an easier path. But then she decided to trust her other four senses and simply go on. She heard gravel crunching beneath her feet. There was a last hint of summer in the air. After a while, her eyes became accustomed enough to the darkness for her to make out at least outlines close at hand. Leaves brushed her face; faint moonlight shone through the branches.
It must already have looked like this here more than a hundred years ago, she thought with sudden nostalgia. I could almost expect to see the king himself turning the next corner.
Suddenly Sara heard footsteps on the gravel behind her.
“Is there anyone there?” she asked hesitantly, but there was no reply.
She waited for a minute but sensed nothing unusual. When she finally went on, all was peaceful at first. But then she heard the crunch of footsteps again.
“Herr Lukas!” Sara called. “This isn’t funny! I really would have expected better from you. Just because I said you were getting on in years, you don’t have to sulk like a little kid. So just you listen to . . .”
Sara stopped as the footsteps behind her suddenly sped up. They were coming up the leafy path straight toward her. Now she could make out a gigantic figure about sixteen feet away. Even blacker than the surrounding darkness, the figure was a bear of a man, with broad shoulders and a long coat, from which he now produced something that looked like a small piece of cloth.