Geijerstam said: “Are you sure?” He sank into the armchair. Fallada waited. “There is an interesting phrase in the Count’s journal: ‘He who would drink the blood of his enemies and obtain faithful servants. . .’ What servants?”
Carlsen said: “Demons?”
“Possibly. But there is no mention of demons or devils in any of the records. All we know is that when the Count came back from his Black Pilgrimage, he was a changed man. . . and his handwriting had also changed. You saw it yourself. Now, I have encountered five cases of multiple personality — the Jekyll and Hyde syndrome. And in some of them, the handwriting changed as they changed personality. Yet it was always basically the same handwriting — it merely changed a few characteristics, becoming stronger or weaker. In this case, there is the handwriting of a completely different person.”
Carlsen leaned forward. “In other words, Magnus was possessed by something?”
“I.think the evidence points in that direction.” He smiled at Fallada. “If, of course, you believe that a disembodied entity could invade someone else’s body.”
Carlsen said: “And then there’s the octopus. . .” None of them spoke for several minutes; the only sound in the room was the burning of the logs.
Fallada said finally: “I wish I could see where this was leading us.”
The clock in the hall struck the hour. Carlsen emptied his brandy glass. Geijerstam said: “Perhaps we should all sleep on it. We have talked enough for one day. And I think Commander Carlsen is tired.”
Carlsen had suppressed a yawn, and the effort made his eyes water. Geijerstam said: “Selma, would you show the Commander to his room? I shall stay here for a few more minutes, and perhaps have another small brandy. Will you join me, Doctor?”
Fallada said: “Well, perhaps just a small one. . .” Carlsen said good night and followed Selma Bengtsson upstairs. The heavy carpet was yielding under his feet. The heat of the fire had induced a pleasant drowsiness. She led him to a room on the second floor. The door stood open, and his pyjamas had been laid out on the bed. It was a warm and comfortable room; the panelling on the walls was a lighter colour than downstairs. As Carlsen sat on the bed, he felt the tiredness flowing through his body. From his bag, he took a framed photograph of his wife and children, and placed it on the bedside table; this had become a habit when he was travelling. Then he went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. He was cleaning his teeth when there was a knock on the door. He called: “Come in.” He came out of the bathroom drying his hands. It was Selma Bengtsson. He said: “I thought it was Fallada.”
“Could I just say a few words to you before you go to sleep?”
“Of course.” He pulled on his dressing gown. “You don’t mind if I get into bed?”
She stood by the bed, looking down at him. “I want to ask you something.” Her manner was matter-of-fact, with no touch of sexuality. She leaned forward and looked into his eyes. “Did you know you are a vampire?”
“What?” He stared at her, trying to gauge her seriousness.
“Do you think I am joking?”
He shook his head. “No, I don’t think you’re joking. But I think you’re probably mistaken,”
She said, with a touch of impatience: “Look, I have been in this house for nearly a year. I know what it means to give a little energy every day. And I can tell you one thing — you have been taking energy from me.”
“I don’t disbelieve you. At the same time, I find it hard to accept.”
She sat down on the chair beside the bed. “The others felt it too. We talked about it when you went out. They were feeling so tired that they went to bed. I decided I had to talk to you.”
“Yes, but. . . you gave me energy earlier this evening.”
“Quite. And that should have been enough to last you the rest of the night. Yet within an hour — when you were sitting next to me at dinner — I felt you were taking energy.”
“I don’t feel as if I’ve been taking energy. I feel worn out. Are you sure you’re not mistaken?”
She shrugged. “There is an easy way to find out. Lie down and close your eyes.”
“Very well.” He sank back on to the pillow, still aware of the powerful desire to sink into sleep. He felt her undoing the top button of his pyjama coat, and a moment later, felt both her hands laid flat against the upper part of his chest. He stiffened, there was a momentary sensation as if walking under a spray of cold water. He lay with his eyes closed, listening to a rumbling that came from his stomach. The tension vanished, and he again felt himself floating down gently into sleep. This lasted for perhaps thirty seconds. Then he became aware that he was feeling less tired. A pleasant glow was flowing through his body. He said drowsily: “You’re giving energy to me.”
“Yes, I am giving it to you.”
So far he had been totally passive, as if he were a child being breast-fed. Now he observed another sensation, the transition, he was totally awake, aware of a curious and violent hunger. He heard her say: “Now you are taking it.” Her voice was oddly strained. He opened his eyes and looked up at her. Her face looked pale.
He said: “Then take your hands away.”
As he said it, he knew she would not respond. He was aware of something inside him reaching out, holding her. He was also aware that her resistance was low. She had no desire to withdraw now. There was an element of fear in her response, and he could feel, this flowing through her fingertips, a sensation he found himself comparing to the smell of petrol. He was also aware of a duality inside himself; part of him observed what was taking place without being involved; he even felt that he could have interfered and broken the spell. The other part was pure desire, moving on smoothly like a surfer on the waves.
He reached up and grasped her wrists, pulling them away. She sank forward onto him; he could feel the warmth of her body through the thin, silky material of the dress. He kicked back the bedclothes and pulled her down beside him. She lay there with closed eyes, her lips slightly parted. It was an intolerable temptation to lean forward and press his mouth against hers; at the same time, he was aware that the door was unlocked, and that Fallada might stop by to say good night. He slipped out of bed and locked the door, then turned off the light. There was enough moonlight in the room to show him her outline on the bed. Even with his back to her, he was aware of her, and of his will holding her down in the bed. He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her dress up above her waist. She turned on her side, allowing him access to the buttons down the back of the dress. Carlsen was usually clumsy with buttons; now he found himself undoing them with quiet economy of movement. He undipped the brassiere with a single movement, then peeled it off, over her head, with the dress. She was wearing only black briefs; he drew them down over her feet. As he moved onto her, he caught a glimpse of Jelka’s face looking out of the photograph; she seemed a stranger. He let the pyjama top fall to the floor, then bent his head to find the partly opened mouth. As his lips touched her, the sweetness made him dizzy. Energy flowed from her in a smooth surge, sending eddies of delight through his bloodstream like tiny whirlpools. As he moved between her thighs, she moaned. The glowing warmth that flowed from her was like a drink; it produced an effect not unlike alcohol, but more exquisite than any drink he had ever tasted. At the same time, he was aware that they were not alone in their lovemaking. There was a third: the woman from the derelict. She was across the sea, but also in the bed, giving herself to him. Her lips were also slightly parted, and she was drinking the energy that flowed through him. Selma Bengtsson was not aware of her; she was only aware of her total surrender. Carlsen thought suddenly: So that’s what it’s about?
The first violent craving subsided. He kept his mouth pressed tight against hers, afraid that her moans might be heard. The esctasy rose in her, and he was aware that it was all she could bear, close to pain. At the same time, he was aware of the desire of the other woman. She wanted him to go on. Her urgent need had also slackened, but she still wanted more. She was lying underneath him, her body convulsing; she was angry that Selma Bengtsson was satisfied. For a moment, there was sharp conflict; but he refused to obey. She was urging him to take a little more. The girl was lying beside him, sinking into a sleep of exhaustion; it would have been easy to take more energy from her. At the same time, Carlsen was aware of how much he had already taken, and was appalled. He had drained off most of her vital reserves. Under normal circumstances, she could soon replace it; but in the meantime, it left her terribly vulnerable. Any sudden stress or catastrophe could thrust her into a limbo of fear and depression.