The Memorist

Chapter 41

The virtues we acquire, which develop slowly within us, are the invisible links that bind each one of our existences to the others-existences which the spirit alone remembers, for Matter has no memory for spiritual things.

– Honoré de Balzac

Vienna, Austria

Tuesday, April 29^th-9:20 a.m.

Across the street from the Riding School, the Hofburg’s complex of high baroque imperial court buildings dwarfed the nondescript fourteenth-century church where they were headed. The line was very short; only about ten people were waiting for the crypt to open its doors to the public at 10:00 a.m.

Meer and Malachai, who’d walked over together from the hotel, bypassed the queue and continued toward Jeremy, who stood with Sebastian just outside the front door. It was strange that Sebastian kept showing up, even though her father had said he’d ask him to come.

Spotting them, her father waved. He’d arranged for a private tour before the church opened and now that they were all there, ushered them inside.

The Gothic structure’s exterior didn’t prepare Meer for the elegant interior. Light streamed down from immense brass chandeliers, illuminating the enormous hallway, naves and aisles, and a tiny monk who was slowly approaching. Jeremy introduced Brother Francis, explaining that the monk didn’t speak English.

Following the brown-robed figure, the group crossed the church and entered the Loreto Chapel, a diminutive whitewashed space. The ceilings here were arched but lower, the altar simpler and unadorned. The light-toned pews looked more inviting than the darker ones in the main sanctuary and Meer thought that if she were someone who prayed, it would be easier to reach out to God in this intimate space.

To the right of the miniature altar was a seven-foot skeleton painted on a darkened wall who appeared to be guarding two iron doors decorated with crowns and swans. Brother Francis waited beside this grillwork for the group to assemble. As Meer stepped up an invasion of cold air blew around her. Through the bars she saw two shelves lined with dozens of silver chalices and urns shimmering in the light flooding through the windows. The heart crypt.

Brother Francis fit a black key into the lock, and then had to force it to turn as if the entryway was reluctant to allow anyone through. Finally, with a sweep of his arm, he gestured for them to enter as he doled out facts about what they were seeing.

Jeremy translated: “There are fifty-four hearts here. All from the Imperial Family…”

The urns shone brightly, glints of silver refracting off their rounded bodies, mesmerizing her. Everything else in the room was unimportant; these urns were what she had come to see. Her father had just told them all how many there were but Meer started to count them again. Not sure why.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine.

The ninth urn appeared to shine more brightly than all the others, she thought, as she stared at it and stopped hearing anything her father was saying. She had to figure out how to get closer to it, even though she didn’t have any idea why or what she was looking for.

“Do you speak any English?” she asked the monk-although her father had told her otherwise.

“English? Not good, no,” he said in a heavy accent.

Meer nodded. She needed to be sure. “No English?”

Brother Francis shook his head.

Meer walked to her father and pointed to a plaque on the far right of the top shelf while she whispered a question, low enough not to interrupt the monk’s continued recitation. When Brother Francis finished talking, so did Meer.

Jeremy was a few seconds late in translating but somehow had managed to hear what both the monk and his daughter had said. “The first heart here belongs to King Ferdinand IV of the Romans. It was placed here on July 19th in 1654. The last heart belonged to Franz Karl of Austria, and it was placed here on the 8th of March in 1878.”

Moving as close as she could to the shelf, Meer counted once more to be sure, from right to left, stopping again at the ninth urn and straining to read the inscription carved into a small brass plaque beneath it. In German, all she could make out were the words Marie Theresa and the date 1696.

The diminutive silver urn sat on ball feet. Around its rim were three rows of hearts, the point of one fitting in the space where the two halves met on the one below. Hearts all around. The object was slightly lopsided and in some places there were faint dents. The ninth urn. The deck of cards she’d had time to examine from the gaming box had two nines of hearts in it. An extra nine of hearts. What did it mean? Did all the decks have double cards? Would she ever be able to find out?

“Do you think they got the idea to do this from the Egyptians?” Meer asked her father. Her voice sounded a false note but she hoped no one noticed. Jeremy began answering and then his voice faltered. He stopped speaking. And then he fell to the stone floor.

“Dad?” Meer dropped down to her knees next to him, grabbing his wrist to take his pulse. “He needs a doctor,” she cried.

“Dringlichkeit, dringlichkeit,” Sebastian shouted, and the monk rushed off.