Deadly Communion

36

In due course I worked for several undertakers; however, it wasn’t until I secured a position at the Erste Wiener Leichenbestattungs-Anstalt Enterprise des Pompes Funebres that I was permitted to assist Doctor Traugott Stohl — the embalmer. I had always been interested in embalming and considered myself fortunate to have this opportunity to study the procedures involved. Of course, I had seen embalmers at work before but, as you will appreciate, embalming is not common and observations conducted at a distance are no substitute for participation. I have no idea why embalming isn’t more popular in Vienna, a city which has always appreciated the beauty of a corpse in eternal repose. The aristocracy are fond of laying out their dead — as are certain members of the bourgeoisie, such as composers and politicians. But other than among these elements of society, embalming is largely restricted to instances in which the deceased must be transported over a long distance to a final resting place. Indeed, in such cases where the transfer will take a week or longer, embalming is compulsory, as decreed by the Minister of the Interior on the third of May 1875. You see? My enthusiasm knows no bounds. Even the legislation surrounding death has a peculiar fascination for me. But again, I digress.

Herr Doctor Stohl — God rest his soul — was a remarkable man. He died some five years ago from a brain disease and is buried in the Zentralfriedhof. I often visit his grave — a modest peaked slab engraved with his name, dates, and a quotation from the Bible.

Seek him that maketh the seven stars and Orion, and turneth the shadow of death into the morning, and maketh the day dark with night: that calleth for the waters of the sea, and poureth them out upon the face of the earth.

Amos, 5:8

Before he died, the good doctor was very insistent that this quotation — and no other — should be his epitaph. To this day, I am not entirely sure of its meaning.

Doctor Stohl must have been in his sixties when we met. He was a sagacious old fellow who never troubled to open his mouth unless he had something to say. Private, guarded, and occasionally brusque, but never rude or uncivil, it was his habit to quote Ecclesiasticus: Let thy speech be short, comprehending much in few words; be as one that knoweth and yet holdeth his tongue. He earned my respect immediately and I flatter myself that he recognised something of his own character in me. Doctor Stohl was dedicated to the advancement of his discipline, which he approached with the earnest disposition of a scholar. He had studied the preservative methods employed by the Egyptians and knew much about the procedures favoured in the medieval world. (The Crusades, you see. The bodies of the Christian Knights had to be embalmed before they were carried home.) He once showed me a preservative ‘recipe’ consisting of honey, red wine, and a mixture of rare herbs that he had found in a book written by a thirteenth-century monk and subsequently sent me out to purchase a hare from the butcher’s shop in order to test the formula’s efficacy. It worked rather well.

In passing, you might be interested to learn that the dye I use on my hair — a mixture of lead oxide and slaked lime — was first used in ancient Egypt. I discovered the method of preparation in one of the good doctor’s books.

Stohl had a small laboratory in one of the outbuildings, where he experimented with various substances in order to discover a chemical compound capable of suspending the disintegration of human flesh indefinitely. The notion of perfect preservation had acquired for him some of the glamour that past generations have afforded the Philosopher’s Stone or the Sangrail.

Herr Doctor Stohl was not a man whom one could get close to. He was always distant, monastic. Yet I know that we shared a certain affinity, a common bond. He had very particular views concerning education. If you have a question, he would say, do not ask me. Just watch — and learn. He taught by example, eschewing words in favour of demonstrations and surprisingly eloquent lacunae.

I remember with what great care he went about his work. He took such pains to do things properly, making sure that every crevice and crease was cleaned with disinfectant — eyes, mouth, and all other orifices: the way he trimmed beards, or shaved off stubble, never leaving the tiniest nick. Did you know that eyeballs have a tendency to sink down into their sockets after death? Doctor Stohl devised invisible supports to ensure that this would not happen. He taught me to tilt the head slightly so that mourners could see more easily the face of their loved one. Under his benevolent tutelage I was even inspired to learn a little Latin and Greek.

You have been wondering about my erotic life.

Did the stillness of the bodies arouse me?

I will be honest: Yes.

And did I succumb to the obvious temptation of their proximity?

The first time it happened was not long after I started my first job. The daughter of an American financier fell down some stairs and broke her neck. She was removed to the undertaker’s within a few hours of her death. As soon as I saw her I felt an electrical excitement that raised the hairs on the back of my neck. Her body was aglow with a faint purplish light. My Angel was close by.

I was supposed to lock up the premises after the others had left and then leave myself. I locked the door, but I did not leave, choosing instead to remain with the American heiress.

What was it like?

I must remind you that I am disadvantaged by language. There are no words that can express what I have experienced — and continue to experience. How can I expect you to understand? You, for whom this world is a sealed container, for whom the horizon and the sky are an absolute boundary.

Yes, there was satisfaction. But it was a communion once removed.

How can I explain?

It was like being intimate with a woman whom one does not love but who has recently brushed against the woman with whom one is infatuated. You detect a hint of the beloved’s perfume on her skin — and it is maddening.

Are you familiar with Faust? Get me a kerchief from her breast, A garter that her knee has pressed.

The poet’s words describe me well: a man discharging into a void while clutching a garter!

Yet I could not stop myself. When opportunities arose, I took them. Such was my desire for Her.

You cannot imagine how I suffered. The anguish and agony. Lying there upon the mortuary table: yearning, wanting, desiring. The inadequate comfort of a cold embrace — my virility reduced to a shrivelled nothing in a dry mouth. The fading violet of Her presence, teasing, tantalising.

It was never going to be enough. I knew that even then.

Two months ago I travelled to Paris. The western facade of the great Cathedral of Notre Dame has three portals, one of which depicts Mary as the Bride of Christ. The Virgin in Majesty is transformed from Mother to Empress.

I don’t know why I have written this …

You said that I should write down whatever came into my mind — without any attempt to censor thoughts and memories. Well, there it is. Notre Dame. What of it?

No, there is a connection. I see it now.

I was at my lowest ebb. I thought that I could not endure separation from Her a moment longer and resolved to end my suffering. It would be easy enough. A sleep followed by eternal, blissful consummation.

On returning to Vienna I prepared a lethal tincture of opium. But I did not drink it.

As I sat in my bedroom, glass in hand, I began to doubt the wisdom of my actions. To everything there is a season — a time to be born and a time to die. Perhaps I was being impatient. I might become the instrument of someone else’s fate, but I should not wrestle my own destiny from the gods. Such presumption reminded me of so many Greek heroes, whose over-reaching ambition was ill-judged. It occurred to me: I did not need to die in order to summon Her. Someone else’s death would do just as well.