Velichka Nastradinova
	MISS WITCH
	Even now, I can't help thinking that nothing of what
happened to me would have happened if it hadn't been for my very
long silence. Not that I could help my silence, either. I am a
musician, you see, a violinist. And playing the violin seven
hours a day, seven days a week, as I did, doesn't leave you much
time for talking. The silent ones have an easier time of it -
and, after all, silence is something you can get used to, but not
in my case. You see, my head is swarming with thoughts, so many
that if I don't get them out and share them with someone, they
start squeezing against each other until my poor skull is like a
pomegranate with thousands of seeds squashed within their
deformed cells. The finest touch can then break the taut cell
membranes, and the delicate structure will collapse into jam. And
is that the recipe for madness, I wonder.
	One day, as I was playing some sonatas by Vivaldi, Corelli,
Tartini, and other pieces by Baroque composers, a thought came
up, and lingered in my mind, a strange thought that not everyone
will understand. I saw myself, quite clearly, walking the
corridors of a castle, with an old type of musical instrument, a
lute I think it was, on my shoulder; and they were taking me to
the King's daughter - she was on her deathbed, and she had wanted
me to play for her. And no one knew, but I did, that she was
dying out of love for me. I was led into a large dim room, and
she was there, propped up with pillows, half-lying on the tall
four-poster bed, and her eyes were waiting for me. I played, and
gazed at her, imbibing every feature of her form, trying to lock
her in under my eyelids - for she was beautiful. Her silver-blond
tresses streamed over the pillows and reached the floor, and her
cheerless eyes and the bitter turn of her blue lips spoke of
ineffable beauty.
	I wanted to delight her in her hour of death, I played songs
that no human soul had ever heard, and through a mist of tears I
saw words hovering on her lips, but I could make out only one of
them. Was it a word of affection, or was it my name - I could not
tell, but I knew that Death was near, and I played.
	Sometimes this vision appeared during a concert - the
applause would cut short my reverie, and I would feel disgusted
at that vulgar intrusion of reality. It was on one of those
occasions, I think, that I first got the slight involuntary
twitch that now sometimes pulls at my left cheek.
	I wanted something more from my life, although, on the face
of it, I had everything one could dream of: I was famous, I was
rich, I had a glamorous girl-friend for whom everyone envied me.
Come to think of it, that's probably why she fancied herself so
much for the things she thought she was - I for one, haven't got
the slightest idea what those were, and, God, what made her think
she was better than everybody else? And was she motherly! - I
can't think of a more humiliating situation than to be treated by
a girl-friend like she was your mother, rushing backstage during
the intervals - have a glass of fruit juice, dear, - you are not
sweating, are you, dear - and does your tail-coat fit well? Why
the hell did she need to know if my tail-coat fitted well or not?
	I knew I was missing something, and after a concert, when
people came to thank me, and said that my performance had moved
them to tears, I still felt profoundly sad and kept thinking how
one day I'd be dead and forgotten, and no one would know that I
never attained that something and how I suffered, and no one
would drop a tear of pity. The funny thing is I hate pity. I
would feel deeply insulted if someone pitied me. In fact, my
situation was rather weird: I didn't want to be pitied during my
lifetime, but I longed for pity after death, and that a detached
sort of pity centuries after I died. Like the way I feel sorry
for Pergolese because he died so young, or for Mozart because
love broke his heart.
	And that wasn't all. Listening to Richard Strauss' Don Juan,
I felt like I was galloping towards a world of adventure,
climbing silken ladders into the private chambers of unknown
beauties, wallowing in their rustling lacy embraces. Some
paintings had an even stronger effect on my mind: I was tormented
by the thought that I could never have a talk with Cardinal
Hippolyto dei Medici, or kiss Lucinda Bermudez, or dive into one
of Aivazovski's seas.
	I suppose you'll agree that this state of mind was far from
normal, and one day I made up my mind to see a doctor but no
sooner had that salutary thought occurred to me than some strange
music reached my ears from a great distance. I knew at once,
without a moment's doubt, that it was a marche funebre, but why
that sneering sound? A lament and a sneer - at death, and sorrow,
and every sacred thing on earth. It was a distant sound, barely
audible, but it had such an extraordinary power of compulsion
that before I knew it, or could explain it, my feet were taking
me in its direction as if I was walking in my dream.
	When I walked down the street, the music drifted away from
me. Then, suddenly, it was hovering all around me. I stopped, and
knew not what to do next, when I finally saw the procession
coming from the far end of the street. The coffin had been left
uncovered, and, far from me as it was, I could see (my sight is
quite good) that the dead woman, who was lying in it, had a black
band over her eyes. When the procession drew nearer, I saw that
she was young and very beautiful. And when the bier came level
with me, I recognized the dream in her face - the King's daughter
who was dying out of love for me. I must have gone pale and lost
my balance for a second because a man, who was passing by, took
my arm and asked:
	 "I presume the gentleman knew the deceased?"
	 "No. Who is she?"
	 "Well, I've heard it's a rather odd story. I don't know if
I ought to..."
	 "Please, continue!"
	 "It is hard to believe, I'm afraid. You see, that young and
beautiful woman was a doctor of biochemistry and a professor of
psychiatry. Extraordinary, isn't it? Rumor has it that she did
experiments no other scientist would dare even dream of, and that
her work was detrimental to the human race. It seems she got
killed during her last experiment - a clear proof that she was up
to something evil. Her eyelids remained open though, and she
looked so alive that nothing was done on the body for a few days.
Then they performed an autopsy but that gleam of life in her eyes
remained."
	He probably said something more, but I had heard more than I
wanted. Hell's deepest recess had closed in on me. A thousand
times had I longed for that woman in my imagination, and now I
had woken to see my dream dead and buried in flowers and on her
way to the graveyard. I think I looked around for something I
could use to kill myself.
	And then, I saw her again, this time walking behind the
procession. No doubt of it at all!. She was there! Alive! The
mourning veil barely disguised a fiendish little smile lingering
on her lips. She looked at me, and I felt that what she said was:
"Don't you ever believe a word of that mumbo-jumbo - it's me, I
am alive, and I'm laughing my head off at the sight of those long
faces."
	The first thought that flashed in my head, was: a twin
sister! It's her grief that has probably distorted her features
into a smile, or maybe she hates her dead sister. It can happen
between twins, you know. Anyhow, I felt alive again, and no
longer gave a damn about Death's vulgar eccentricities. I had
been saved.
	I started to follow the procession. No, not the procession!
Her! Now and again she would look back over her shoulder, as if
to make sure that I was following her, or to support my courage,
and that smile never disappeared from her face. I was trying to
catch a glimpse of it through the flying mourning veil, and
wondering about the reason of her jauntiness, when I suddenly
realized that she had a beard, but a moment after, that fleeting
impression was replaced by another - that she was wearing a red
Indian nose-ring, and my eyes had again deceived me.
	The procession moved into the graveyard. There must have
been some high-flown sermonizing, but I can't say for sure, for I
was deaf and blind to everything but her. The coffin was lowered
into the grave. Like many others, she dropped a handful of earth
on it, and walked away. I followed. She walked slowly, but no
matter how much I tried, I couldn't catch up with her. We had
gone out of town. I felt that some mysterious noose was
tightening around me, that something, I knew not what, was
pulling me on towards the great unknown.
	Then we were there: high walls, a tall gate with tight-
fitting wings. The gate opened by itself. That didn't surprise me
- there's no end to what a good mechanic can think of. She went
in first, then turned around, and beckoned a welcome to me. I
stepped into a roofless corridor between the outside wall and a
second one: no doubt, the privacy of what lay beyond was
completely assured. And what lay beyond was a vast garden. I
didn't notice anything unusual at first, but then I gave a start
as I suddenly realized that the trees were monstrously deformed,
or belonged to some unearthly species, or were simply ...
artificial. Flower-beds ran behind the trees. But the flowers in
them ... were crystals - a riot of colors and configurations
undreamt of.
	I must have been completely awestruck, for it was much later
that I noticed the mansion. And it could surely beat the wildest
imagination. Because ... why, because there wasn't a single right
angle in it. It was a mind-boggling array of arcs and crescents,
and spheres, and hemispheres, and forms that were like bird's
feet, or like the tusks of an elephant, or had the outline, if
any, of a jelly-fish. It wasn't a house - it was the raving
vision of a lunatic, a surrealist painting come true. I stood
there, paralysed with astonishment, but she gave me a nod of
encouragement and I stepped in without another moment of
hesitation.
	The entrance opened into a spacious hall, and I had barely
set foot in it when the floor became alive with movement. It felt
like walking on quicksand, and I never quite knew what it was - a
very soft carpet, or some unusual floor-tiles - for each time I
went through that room, I was taken aback by the new forms and
colors that appeared on it and streaked past one another, and
melted into one another, as if ruled by some feverish mind. In
the center of that hall, a pool shimmered like a huge
phosphorescent eye, and the water there acted in a strange manner
- its surface was convex. Buy that?
	The lady in black pointed to something that might have been
a sofa if it wasn't exactly like an octopus. I made a few
gingerly steps forward. Before I knew it, the nearest tentacle
coiled around me and I was already sitting in the easiest chair I
could imagine, soft, springy, and pliable. It willingly obeyed my
slightest movement, my thoughts even, and I could, in a smooth
sequence of mutations, make a couch of it, then a hammock, then a
rocking-chair, anything at all, you name it. The eye of the
octopus was a color display and the most fantastic pageant of
images floated on it, but even their fascinating singularity was
weak, compared to what I could see on the walls - an
inconceivable, and yet a wistfully compelling mixture of ancient
Maya and Aztec with contemporary art. I could see no lamps
around, and what light there was in the room came from those
murals.
	First thing, after I'd regained my wits, I thought: "Where
am I? And who's that woman in the color of death?"
	She smiled at me, and said: "This is my home. And I'm a
witch, call me Miss Witch."
	My thoughts darted: "Gosh, she can read my mind! That's
horrible!"
	"Nothing to worry about." She said. "You will even find it
convenient. No need to clothe your thoughts in words."
	"But that'll always make me feel stark naked!" Thought I.
"Surely, one must be granted some privacy in one's mind, at
least."
	"Humans," she said, "use to hide their thoughts for fear
that their fellow-humans might find out how ugly some of their
thoughts are. But me you need not be afraid or ashamed of. I have
experienced all sorts of human thought and believe me, thinking
per se can redeem the most shameless of them. Matter, begetting
thought, is such a sublime miracle of Creation that even the
ugliest of its offsprings are worthy of admiration."
	"But," thought I, "thoughts can be ghastly and loathsome!"
	"Even those deserve admiration," said she, "for they have
sprouted from something vastly more despicable than they are -
matter."
	I thought back: "Trust a witch to pull that kind of shit!"
	"I love it!" She exclaimed. "See how easily the name rolls
off your tongue, er... mind, already? And what is so bad about
being a witch? I can even say I am proud to be that. Some claim
that 'witch' comes from 'wicked' and means sinful. But if I have
sinned, my sin is that of Adam and Eve, the Sin of Knowledge
which I have carried to a perfection far outreaching any that
humans can ever dream of. They spurned God's command, but knew
not why, and clung to their guilt-complex as a simple and
unfailing frame of reference for redemption and
self-righteousness. Witches refused to plead guilty. They
accepted the challenge of Chaos, and shattered the saintly
simplicity of established ideas - and were burnt at the stake.
People hate to be pushed out of their complacent slothfulness.
Whenever someone tried to grasp the rudiments of anatomy, and
dissected the body of a still-born child, it was the stake.
Another sought to discover the formula of a new drug, gathered
herbs in the fields, and did experiments with them, and was
doomed to the stake. Quacks, scholars, and prophets alike - on
the stake, always the stake, forever the stake! But progress,
human progress, is the proudest achievement of witches and
wizards, those unrepentant sinners against what is brazenly held
as the virtue of ignorance, against the retrograde sanctity of
the here and now. For humans do learn, after all: today, no one
would contemplate legal proceedings against the doctor who has
performed an autopsy on a still-born child, or against the
student of chemistry who performs routine experiments. Today,
such things are acceptable. But it is that fierce insistence on
what is generally accepted that unleashes the witchhunt as soon
as someone dares to challenge its justice. And a howl is raised
in defence of 'humanitarian values' and for 'the prevention of
cruelty to animals'. As if their birdbrains and half-hearts could
tell compassion from cruelty. Them judge me! Wasn't it hilarious,
the trick I played on them! I got hold of a stray corpse and
exercised my craft on it to turn it into my own spitting image,
then left it lying in my laboratory, which I had personally
turned upside down, looking every bit the casualty of some
experiment that had got out of hand. And did they bury me! Lost
no second! And how they triumphed, trying hard to look
inconsolable! And I, a witch if there ever was one, followed the
procession, and in its wake the scum of their wretched thoughts
engulfed me. And I choked with laughter at that sordid discharge
of their diligent, educated, well-behaved minds. You I took with
me, because your thoughts are beautiful. I have known you a long
time, been to your concerts, experienced the uncanny appeal of
those ancient musical images which you raised from the dead to
the utmost vigour of life with the touch of your magic bow. Yet,
I am certain that you don't know your own self. It's time you
stopped resuscitating the thoughts of others, it's time you gave
the light of day to those that slumber in your own overcrowded
head. Here, this device (she indicated the eye of the octopus)
could, if you wish, record your thoughts."
	"So that's what it was, she wanted me for a guinea-pig!"
	"Why not? It surely can't be that the status of a guinea-pig
stands anywhere beneath your dignity, or does it? Really, there's
no end to how conceited the Genus Homo animal can be. They can
somehow accept the expediency of torturing living creatures for
their own advancement, but would insist on 'moral' objections
whenever an experiment is proposed on representatives of their
own species. Can anybody, please, tell me why?"
	"So she does use humans for her experiments!"
	"Yes, of course. Including my own self. And in the best
interests of Man. I am convinced that the well-being of millions
is worth the sacrifice of ten. Why are those trigger-happy
generals given a free hand to do experiments with their men (for
military manoeuvres are nothing short of that), and a prior
allowance is made for 2 per cent casualties, while scientists are
forbidden to use humans even when no risk at all for the subject
is involved? What is more beneficial for humankind: combat drills
for the seizure of some balding hill, or science aspiring towards
the unreachable heights of universal human perfection? Frankly,
this is what I've been trying to achieve all along: to improve
Man's thinking. I dream of the time when the highly organized
brain matter will no longer be capable of producing intellectual
scrap. But I can see that you are tired now, and can't follow my
reasoning any more; besides, this interior design probably
oppresses your nerves. Allow me to offer you some rest in a room
specially designed to suit your present state of mind."
	Obeying her will, a wall slid open, and a view of a lake
sleeping under a moonlit sky appeared. A pair of huge white swans
were floating on its surface amidst waterlilies and duckweeds,
and the slender drooping branches of weeping willows which
surrounded the lake. The witch began to move across the lake. I
followed her and the water's surface supported my feet - it was
just another floor. The pair of swans turned out to be a
luxurious bed. Slowly, the moonlight grew dim.
	I woke up with the pleasant feeling of having slept in a
boat amidst the blissful serenity of that lake, and saw that the
swans had drifted away from their original position - they had
indeed rocked me to sleep on their backs. A wall slid open again
and I walked into the garden where, on a huge chanterelle
mushroom under the trees, breakfast had been served: fruits,
honey, milk, knobs of butter... I had just started eating when a
satin-black tomcat came up to the table, nodded politely (at
least, that's how I interpreted his gesture), smoothed his
whiskers, and settled on the chair next to mine.
	"Well," thought I, "no witch is complete without her black
tomcat. I wonder where her broomstick is."
	"It's on your right." Miss Witch's voice came from
somewhere.
	There it was, indeed, propped up against a tree, a tattered
old broom on a long stick. I laughed, and so did the voice.
	"It's just a prop, you see. But the tomcat is a perfect
gentleman, and could keep you company."
	I offered him the cabbage leaf on which the butter had been
served. He took a knob and started licking it off his paw the way
a child would lick a scoop of ice-cream. It was curious and funny
to watch.
	I finished my breakfast.
	"What am I going to do now?" I wondered.
	The voice said: "Excuse me, but today is going to be a busy
day for me, so I won't be able to keep you company, but I am
going to introduce you to a lady whom you have long wanted to
meet. Follow the cat."
	It showed me into a room furnished with old period-pieces.
Paintings hung on the walls and I was looking at them when, my
goodness! - in comes in Lucinda Bermudez. The Lucinda Bermudez,
right off Goya's portrait! I stood there tongue-tied - what had I
possibly got to say to that Lucinda whose portrait had so often
looked down at me with inscrutable irony? However, exquisitely,
and almost imperceptibly, she led me into conversation, so that
after a few hours I had learnt from her more about Goya than some
art historians learn in a lifetime of research. And when I
remembered that I had once wildly desired to kiss that mysterious
lady, my desire appeared to me as something so utterly irrelevant
that it had to be buried in the past and safely forgotten.
	We had lunch together. The table was laid in old Spanish
style and the etherial cook had used old Spanish recipes to
prepare the rich spicy dishes.
	When Lucinda Bermudez retired for the siesta, all I wanted,
as soon as possible, was to take to the outdoor air.
	A graceful spiral of steps wound upwards and around the
highest tree in the garden, and ended at an observation platform
in its crown. I climbed up and looked down from that platform
where the witch's mansion gave the impression of extreme non
finito which discouraged any attempt at coherent interpretation.
In fact, I was quite sure that not even from an aircraft, flying
low over it, could one perceive it as a distinct artefact.
	It was much later on that I asked Miss Witch why she had
chosen to build such a crazy house for herself.
	"Nothing crazy in it." She answered. "It's a simple
imitation of Nature, and Nature is the wisest of all architects.
It does not tolerate straight lines and right angles, and takes
much less time to destroy them than the time she needs to destroy
her own creations. Thus, in terms of architecture, a hen's foot
far exceeds in perfection the finest Ionic column, and the humble
ear of wheat has a greater claim to that fervor of worship which
is bestowed on the loftiest structures erected by Man."
	Among the branches of the tree I saw the white roof of a
marble pavilion which stood at the far end of the garden. I went
there. Inside the pavilion, sitting by a small fountain, was
Leonardo's Cecilia with the ermine in her arms - just like the
portrait. That lady, too, used to excite my curiosity and it
passed through my mind that the witch would be hard put if she
tried to introduce me to all the beauties, dead and gone, whom I
had once admired. It also passed through my mind that if I were
in for another discourse on art history, this time on Leonardo da
Vinci, I had better choose a title for my Ph.D. thesis. But
Cecilia said:
	"I didn't know him well. The work was commissioned to him by
my beloved whose servants were always present at the sittings,
and I didn't feel enough at ease to talk with him while they were
there and listened. But one of those servants..."
	And she went on to tell me the sad and fascinating story of
that servant, who was in fact an incognito nobleman and member of
the St. Vem brotherhood. The members of that brotherhood used to
punish criminals who had escaped the hand of the law.
	It was all very interesting, but when the sun set she
reminded me that I was probably already awaited by my hostess,
and I took leave of her, feeling as if I had walked out of a
museum. I made for the mansion with quick steps, thinking to
myself: "I hope I don't suddenly look up from my plate at dinner
tonight to see El Greco's Inquisitor-General sitting across the
table from me."
	"Don't worry, I won't let anything so terrible happen to
you." Miss Witch said with a smile, as she rose from her
tentacled sofa to meet me. She had dressed up as Cinderella's
stepmother from the Walt Disney film. But you haven't seen the
film, have you? Well, the stepmother there was dressed from head
to foot in black velvet which produced a stark contrast with her
white face and golden diadem.
	She went on:
	"You didn't quite like your promenade in the distant past,
and that oversentimental landscape in your room probably
disagrees with your natural disposition. Men feel at home only in
the present where they belong, and we, poor witches, have our
homes in the future."
	"Do you always have to remind me that you're a witch?"
Thought I.
	"But that was in line with your thoughts." Said she. "You
had been living in the past before you met me. And now that
you've actually seen the past, you don't seem to like it so much
anymore."
	"But from where on earth did you get those portrait ladies,
or were they mere figments invented by you?"
	"No, I didn't invent them. They are real - in that measure
of reality which could be attributed to restored icons. I restore
people, you see. All I need is a good portrait: watching people's
faces, you can read their minds like a book. And if you get their
message wrong, it's not the book you should blame, but your
inexperience. I absolutely disagree with descriptions like 'the
face of an angel - the heart of a devil'. The simple truth in
such cases is that the observer has been deluded by the correct
proportions of that face, and has failed to grasp those ugly
thoughts that might be lurking in a fold around the eye, or in
the contemptuous curve of the lips, or in the ears' deformity
barely visible beneath a lock of golden hair. So, what I do is: I
take a person, who is not exactly worthy of being what is loftily
meant by 'human', and I engrave onto that person's mind the
thoughts of, say, Pericles - and that person's face gradually
assumes Pericles' outward features."
	"Thus, I wouldn't see anything wrong in it if I were to
reproduce Giovanni Boccaccio onto some wretched criminal, whom
they had sentenced to death, and if that new Boccaccio gave the
world his Decameron. Thinking about it, they should all be
grateful to me, both the criminal and the jury. This may not be,
however. And it turns out that everyone of them, even the
unworthiest, the most reprobate rejects of society, insist on
remaining what they are. They wouldn't be Shakespeare or
Einstein, nor would they be Hera or Hercules by Lysippus - they
would be their own wretched selves instead. So, what else could I
do but act against their will? The record of every science
includes a casualty list. And the casualties I inflict are not
many; besides, when the experiment is over, I sometimes restore
my guinea-pigs to their former selves. Even that, however, isn't
good enough for my jealous opponents, who won't forgive me my
talents, and so, they are doing their best to try and bind me
with all sorts of humanitarian rules - and that is a century
which has seen wiseasses like themselves help a deranged
politician recycle millions of men and women into bars of soap.
It follows that to make soap from people like Harry Borr is
perfectly all right, and to make a new Jacob or Job from a
criminal is inhuman. Isn't that a paradox? I can't deny that my
guinea-pigs may not have long to live after the experiment, but I
am absolutely convinced that a year in Emil Fischer's shoes is
worth twenty of a gaolbird's or a milkman's life."
	At that point I managed to put a thought in edgeways:
	"Very disheartening, all this. Wonder who she is going to
turn me into."
	"Don't be afraid." She came back immediately. "You need no
reworking. I can settle for what your thoughts are already.
Besides, you won't deny that even a witch needs someone who has
beautiful thoughts, if only to give her fresh confidence that
humanity is worth her while, after all."
	I must say at this point that I don't trust myself to have
given a word-for-word account of what she said. No one can
possibly keep up with the mind of a self-proclaimed witch. What I
am recording here is my personal arrangement of her thoughts, and
I can't ever hope to be able to imitate those stunning
somersaults of her reasoning whose magic nature occurred to me
only as a much belated afterthought. I had to ponder over what
she said if I was to make any head or tail of it at all.
	My bedroom that night had a different outdoor look: three
larger than life dandelions past full bloom that nestled
comfortably against a tall hedge formed a set of bed and chairs,
while a fourth one, just blossomed, could be used as a table. The
ground was strewn with freshly-mown grass.
	"I'll feel like that dwarf that made himself a dandelion
bed."
	"But remember, you used to envy that dwarf in your
childhood." She said.
	"I'll be damned! She knows even that!"
	"Every thought carves its mark in one's face." She insisted.
	"And what you do is erase those marks from your guinea-pigs'
faces! Don't you think that, in the process, you may throw
something unique out with the dishwater? Surely, even the most
hopeless ruffian could come up with something exceptional for
once."
	"You may have a point there, but anyway, I take great pains
to choose people for my experiments who have never conceived
anything unconventional, or those who already have a foot in the
grave. The one I used for Cecilia was a faded prostitute on the
verge of suicide. I took possession of her walking corpse and
redeemed it from the worms, and that's what I call a humane
attitude."
	"What about Lucinda?"
	"She had cancer and the doctors had given her up."
	"You don't mean to say that a change of mind could buy you
life!"
	"But that's what it does - if I change your mind, that is.
The original Lucinda never had cancer. I picked up a dying body
and made of it a new vessel for Lucinda's mind, and it evicted
the disease as essentially irrelevant."
	"But that's a miracle! Why don't you share it with
humanity?"
	"Oh, them! My methods are too inhuman for their liking. Good
night!"
	The smell of mown grass lulled me to sleep. It probably was
one of the witch's home-brewed perfumes, and I'll tell you some
more about them a bit later.
	I woke up because someone was tickling my nose with a straw.
And that someone was a miniskirted chick - hair falling loose on
her shoulders, and bare feet in sandals. A good rubbing of my
eyes finally convinced me that it was none else but the Witch.
	"Get up!" She commanded cheerfully. "I am not working today
and we are going for a walk."
	That day proved to be the jolliest in my life. We roamed
through woods, swam in rivers, ate in village inns. She laughed,
swung her sandals in the air, and raised clouds of dust with her
bare feet, making fun all the time of my alleged life-style.
	"Yours is an absolutely stunning biography!" she went on
teasing me. "Your parents dragged you along on their endless
concert tours around the world, and locked you up in hotel rooms
so you couldn't play the truant from your violin lessons. Then,
you started your endless tours: hotels, concerts, contracts,
short respites, the same old thing over and over again. Your
parents died, you made no friends, and her ladyship that hung
around your neck in the capacity of your official paramour was
playing her little game of auctioning your talents behind your
back. And she got quite a deal anytime she talked you into
accepting a short-notice engagement. You had the reputation of an
absent-minded fool that knew nothing outside his music. But I
know, and you do, that music falls short of what you are. During
a performance, other musicians are preoccupied with things like
getting a difficult passage right, rounding a phrase off, or
fingering - for those that have less experience. But you are
different. For you music is just a vehicle on which you are
carried away by your insatiable thirst for new sensations. Its
like opium and you're an addict. Your untamable imagination
breaks the boundaries of conventional music-making, and you
people the score with hosts of images; you are intoxicated by
music and become the creator of fabulous worlds - but they vanish
with the strings' last fading vibration. I want them to survive
and live forever."
	"So she is going to rework me after all!"
	"Oh, don't be so suspicious! I want you to fulfil your own
self. And then, you're wrong if you imagine that I can convert
just anyone into anyone else. A burly butcher will never do for
Aesop: the difference in bone-mass is too big."
	"Bone-mass!!!"
	She giggled:
	"Take that dumb look off your face! I bet you imagined a
witch's cauldron with some ghastly stew simmering in it before
it's cast into new moulds. How corny! You can do better than
that. It's much simpler as a matter of fact: I put the wretches
to sleep amidst my rich perfumes, and in a couple of days... Of
course, those are one-off experiments for the time being, but
half of what is already rumored about them is enough to set the
witchhounds on. And then, quite a lot of governments would like
to have me in safekeeping. Still, we can enjoy the calm of this
place for ten more days, I think."
	A secret door, flush with the stone wall, clicked open and
we were back in the garden.
	The sound of music was in the air: Chopin's Ballad No.1. I
stopped to listen. A superb performance. The kind I had only
dreamt of.
	"Who was playing that?"
	I started, for the sounds had died away.
	She laughed:
	"Which living pianist could play Chopin like that?"
	"Some electronic device?" I ventured.
	"Wrong! It was you - your idea of Chopin. Materialized. You
aren't a pianist, of course, but remember how you hated pianists
for their plodding interpretations of Chopin? And yes, you always
heard the right interpretation in your mind, but could not play
it on the piano. I used my machines to record your ideas and here
they are now, worthy of undivided admiration!"
	She played the whole record. I listened and tears came to my
eyes. Those were my dreams, my brainchildren, speaking to me with
the voices of unfamiliar instruments. When the sublime tapestry
of sounds had melted in the air, she said:
	"This is your music, broken loose from your lethargic mind -
from under the tedious burden of music not your own. Today, you
are born again - a creator! Happy birthday to you!
	Once again, some magic walls slid open to let us enter into
a big hall, a spacious vault carved into the slope of a crystal
mountain. The place was flooded with light which hit the icicles
on the ceiling and then the snow covered floor, and burst into
flames of crimson and gold. Crystal statues stood in the most
unlikely places and chimed softly to produce the most angelic
harmony. Low tables were scattered everywhere and at them in
graceful semirecumbent postures some twenty men and four women,
all clad in white like Roman patricians, were having a sumptuous
feast. Two of the women I already knew: Lucinda and Cecilia. The
other two were not as beautiful but the men seemed to be paying
greater respect to them. The men were of different ages and
obviously came from different times, for the white Roman garments
of each betrayed touches of particular historical authenticity.
Their faces were strangely familiar but where and when had I seen
them before I could not remember.
	"You've only seen their portraits!" Miss Witch smiled at my
thoughts (in the mean time she had managed to put on a white
silvery robe herself), and went on to address the party:
	"Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce - and she spoke
my name - whose birth as a creator we have gathered to celebrate
tonight."
	At that point the gentlemen shouted a cheer, and the ladies
gave me nods of polite appreciation.
	That night I felt like the honored guest of an enchanted
kingdom: what a gift of refined conversation they all had, what
clever spirituality, what dainty food and wine - what shades of
flavour behind all shades of white, and snowflakes dancing in
midair without ever melting, and dances that swept me off my feet
in whirls of heavenly happiness! And oh, that whiteness, that
blessed whiteness of a newborn soul!
	Then it was dawn again and the banquet was over. Miss Witch
came up to me, and asked:
	"Well, how did you like my resurrected genie?"
	I tossed my head as if to shake off the sudden staggering
realization: only then did it occur to me that I had probably
shared a table with Roentgen, or danced with madame Curie. Their
replicas rather, yes, but for all that no common observer
could've told the difference. You know how it is with famous
originals, even art experts can't do without their gadgetry if
they want to identify a fake - and Miss Witch's creations were
immeasurably more than just fakes. I was suddenly seized with an
uncontrollable fear: Had the portrait of some dead genius already
grown on my face?
	"Have a look at yourself in the mirror." The Witch snapped
impatiently. "You do remember what you look like, I hope."
	It was my face all right, but I had learnt to disbelieve
everything I saw in that spellbound palace, and could not
suppress another misgiving:
	"It may be that this mirror reflects what I once was but am
no more."
	"Come on! You can use the pool or the lake in the garden if
you wish."
	The lake was like a cradle gently rocking the moon's
reflection. Aeolian harps were sighing somewhere around. I looked
at my face in the water. It was my face, somewhat changed
perhaps, but you would expect that in the moonlight. I was still
looking at it - now distorted and now set off by splashes of
silver, when I felt a sudden change in the musical background.
The Aeolian harps were playing Der Tod und das Madchen by
Schubert. That simply could not be! In case you don't know what
those harps are, they are taut strings that respond to the
slightest gust of wind. They are played by the wind! So, no such
harp could possibly play Schubert, and yet, that's what those
harps were playing: Schubert, Der Tod und das Madchen, Second
Movement, Andante con moto. Impossible! My eyes looked for an
explanation from the Witch. She was lying on the marble parapet,
which surrounded the lake, and her hair was streaming over it
like a waterfall. She looked dead. I ran up to her and touched
her hand. It was cold. I started shouting and gripped her in my
arms. And then, I felt her warmth again. She slowly raised her
arms and embraced me.
	From that moment on, the world ceased to exist for me. Was
it a single night, or was it ten nights? - I cannot say, I don't
remember. I only know that I heaved with hatred for the light of
day, and could not wait to see the dusk set in before I rushed
into the garden looking for her. I ran in and almost stumbled
against her lying in the weeds by the garden wall, or I would
have to swim across the lake to join her in the swan-boat, or
take her down from one of those monstrous trees. I was dazed. Yet
I sobered up at once, when, kissing her one night and admiring
the silver sheen of her moonlit hair, I saw a sparkling ornament
on her forehead - a small lizard - turn alive and disappear among
the leaves of grass.
	She smiled:
	"Why, what is so strange about a witch adorning herself with
lizards?"
	"Strange? It's disgusting!"
	"Oh, come on, a lizard is part of nature, as natural as I
am. For all I know, it may be disgusted with me. We humans don't
reckon with what other animals and everything else that surrounds
us might think of us. I am but a grain of sand in this gigantic
endless Universe and how could I loath anything that is as much a
part of it as I am - lizards, or galaxies, or hawthorns in the
field, or the meanest cad, for that matter?"
	"Why try to change that meanest cad then?"
	"It's just another rule of nature, you know. Those species
that are stronger and more sophisticated have always stimulated
the development of those that are inferior. If the hare didn't
have to run for its life, it would never have become such a
superior runner; and if antelopes were slow and stupid, the lion
wouldn't have to learn how to lie in ambush. As a matter of fact,
the improvement of a species is always reciprocated by the
improvement of another. Then, the evolution of some species runs
faster until it reaches the point of extinction, but hosts of
other species follow behind those leaders. The way of all flesh,
you know: it rises, reaches a climax, and then climbs downhill
into darkness. Dead stars collapse and give birth to new ones.
Life sprouts and withers, and feeds new life. And all species and
all worlds are equal in the final reckoning: made of the same
cosmic stuff."
	"Then why," I insisted, "do you have to make people better
and more intelligent?"
	"It is my contribution to the improvement of their species."
	"But I am one of them! So, you are going to use me for the
reproduction of some dead genius!"
	"Must you be that silly? You surely don't think that I can
use Copernicus as raw material for Hugo! Remember this once and
for all: what I do is recycle waste into genie."
	"But how can I be sure that I am still myself? You may have
obliterated my memory, replaced my own thoughts with somebody
else's ... anything! How can I trust you with my own self?"
	"All right." (Was she getting fed up with me?) "That will
involve a great deal of risk for me, but if you must be
convinced, so will you be: we're going back to the town. Your
safe-deposit box at the bank can be opened at the touch of your
fingers and none else's. If anything is authentic, that
skin-pattern is: nobody can tamper with it I can't either. So,
you finally regain your identity, present your compositions and
get recognized for that as well, and in the meantime, I'll be
able to do some work perhaps."
	So, off we went. On foot. We stopped to rest at the side of
a brook. I lay my head on her lap, and fell asleep. I woke up in
the same position, but the scene had changed to a richly
furnished room with drawn curtains.
	"End of journey!" She said. "It's now 11 o'clock, and your
Professor has classes at the Conservatoire until 12. I suggest
you call on him."
	The Professor welcomed me with open arms:
	"Where the hell have you been all this time? Eccentricity is
O.K. with me, but yours is an extreme case, I see. The police
have started an investigation."
	I laughed, and discovered how cunning and worldly-wise I had
become, for instead of being lost for an answer, I said:
	"A charming lady, you know. True love at last. And complete
rest, I needed that."
	"Well, thank Goodness!" Exclaimed the Professor. "You've
finally got rid of that leech. She has started a lawsuit, you
know, claiming property rights on your estate. Imagine her face
when she gets the news that you're alive and well! Let's go to
the police."
	The police treated me like their favorite spoiled child back
home from his latest mischief. Kindly asked me to let them know
next time I decided to go into hiding. They wouldn't spill the
beans, promise!
	The Professor invited me to lunch. At his place, I
remembered the leather bag I had been carrying around without
knowing what was in it. I opened the bag: the scores of two
symphonies, four sonatas for a solo violin, a string quartet, and
a big work for a male and boys choir, alto and orchestra with
some novel instruments.
	I showed the scores to the Professor. The poor old man went
rampant with rapture and good-natured abuse about the trickster I
was, to have kept that musical genius hidden for so long. Then he
grabbed the telephone, made a hundred calls or so, and gathered
the musical elite. The most celebrated conductors were jumping at
each other's throats over who was to take the orchestral scores.
The violin sonatas were somewhat undervalued, but then even
Tchaikovsky composed the odd piece of rubbish or two.
	In the meantime the journalists had got wind of the news,
and launched their attack on me. The evening papers carried
front-page headlines like: "Missing Virtuoso Comes Back a
Composer".
	Then I went to the bank, drew out a large sum, and took from
my safe-deposit box (which acknowledged my fingerprints all
right) a priceless old Indian ring. I left the bank, and started
to go home. But where was my home? What with all that excitement
I had simply forgotten. Was that another of her tricks? Using me
for a plaything and then simply letting me be? The thought drove
me mad - I wasn't to be walked out on just like that!
	"Good evening Doubting Thomas!"
	A taxi pulled up in front of me. She came out of it and I
embraced her as if we had met after years of separation. Then I
put the ring on her finger and we went home. It was a house
behind a tall fence on the outskirts of the town. The Witch was
in deep mourning again. When we were alone, she cast the long
mourning veil off her face.
	"Who is it you are mourning this time?" I asked.
	"I forgot to give you instructions." She said. "I am now
your fiancee, and I'm in mourning for my sister, expecting her
body to arrive from South America so that I can bury her in our
native land. You see, it's too dangerous for me to show my face
in public, so I need this story to excuse my black veil."
	"Why, couldn't you just change your face?"
	"That would mean changing my thoughts."
	"No, I meant plastic surgery."
	"Oh, that! I don't see much difference between a surgeon and
a butcher, and both disgust me; besides, I don't think I need a
facelift at all! What about your face? I suppose you checked your
identity against all the mirrors that came your way today."
	"Well, frankly, yes. And I think my looks have improved! I
look the same, that is, but more handsome. And I wasn't the only
one who noticed that!"
	"The ladies too, hey? Beware, Mr. Ladykiller, I can be
jealous!"
	"You must be joking! You are the most important thing that's
happened to me in my whole life. That will ever happen, for you
are my life. And if you go away, I'll be finished!"
	"Even if I have to go." She said earnestly. "And when I do
go, remember that you are mine and wait until the time comes for
me to call you. Do not despair but wait! I shall come for you -
across the Universe, across a world of hatred, across the realm
of Death."
	I was overwhelmed with happiness. What had I known until now
of fame and love and of fulfillment? And now Fortune, that fickle
goddess, was heaping happiness upon my head and crowning me with
laurel leaves. Wherever I went I treaded on roses, and looks of
adoration lingered behind my back like a trail. Or was it
adoration mixed with envy? I didn't know, neither did I care. All
they wanted to know was who the woman was that had transformed me
almost beyond recognition. I had been shy and sullen,
absent-minded, irritable, unpleasant - or so they told me; and
now I had friends, I was clever, kind, and selfless. Invitation
cards were pouring from every quarter, and I accepted most of
them but never stayed long, for I wanted to save every minute for
my witch. She never appeared in public and many lost their sleep
speculating on who she might be.
	Did I sleep at all? I wonder. I don't think I did. I was
almost afraid that if I fell asleep, she would vanish like a
dream.
	She didn't sleep either. Because she probably knew what was
going to happen, and didn't want to be taken by surprise.
	I asked her:
	"Why are you so wary? Who could threaten you, or do you any
harm? You're almost omnipotent. And if you don't think so, I
could hire body-guards."
	"That would be useless." She insisted. "No body-guards could
protect me from those that lust for worldly power through my
discoveries."
	"But who are they? Gangsters, agents ... who?"
	"Both, including government-run intelligence services. And
nothing can be done - they're too powerful and too many. We must
leave here. The body has arrived from Latin America."
	"Why can't we stay another week?" I pleaded. "On Wednesday,
I'll attend the performance of my first symphony, and we shall
leave on Thursday."
	"Too late, my love!" She said. "Listen!"
	I could hear the sound of steps sneaking into the hall
downstairs.
	"It's them." She said. "Have no fear. Pull the cover over
your head and pretend to be asleep. And remember, I'll somehow
give you a sign. Whatever happens, remember and wait! Don't ever
believe your eyes, just wait!"
	She kissed me, and quietly left the room.
	After a while, I heard gunshots from downstairs. Somehow I
managed to dial the emergency police number. To my surprise the
attackers had not disconnected the phone. The police arrived
immediately. They found eight bullet holes in the body and the
footprints of four men on the floor. Their endless interrogations
followed. I am not a good liar, so I gave them the whole truth
and nothing but the truth, and they left me to your tender
mercies, distinguished psychiatrists. No, of course I don't mind,
go ahead please, examine my mental condition! I don't feel
humiliated. I would do the same if I were you: no one in his
right mind could claim to have gone through such incredible
things. I do hope, however, that you will soon find how perfectly
normal I am. Too soon in fact. Listen, doesn't that funeral music
sound rather odd? What is it? - Der Tod und das Madchen plus
Prokofiev's Cello Concerto, and all that arranged as a marche
funebre and played by a brass band! And that touch of parody!
What is Death to Her? Why, She's laughing at it! And there's the
funeral procession. Have a look out of the window! The show is
meant for you too. There, distinguished professors and doctors,
see the face of the deceased? And that elegant lady walking
behind the procession? And the ring that shines under her
mourning veil? That's Her! Miss Witch attending another of her
own funerals. And the next time they try to kill her, she will do
the same. For she's immortal, most honorable servants of
Aesculapius, like the Universe she is part of, like the witch she
is. Oh, to be sure, she is wicked, she is a sinner - being
abnormal is her sin. And you are the pillars of normality.
Psychiatrists should be that, I suppose, but if we're all normal
today, there may well remain none who is normal tomorrow. You
see, those crazy people have a knack of rising from their graves,
if you know what I mean. The Duke of Alba drowned the Dutch
Revolution in its blood, but was that the end of it? And what
about Cervet and John Huss, and Giordano Bruno, and Vesalius? You
can't bury the human quest. You can't quench a torch by throwing
it into the fire. Now wait! Professors, where are you going? Oh,
trying to get hold of Miss Witch? Of course, there's no love lost
between you! But look here, gentlemen, it's useless: you'll never
catch up with her, no simple mortal can ever catch up with a
genius no matter how slowly that genius may be walking. Its a
matter of stride, gentlemen!
	I take it I can go now, can't I?
	Respectfully yours, gentlemen, your faithful servant! I wish
you all the best and the utmost success in your noble endeavors,
and a pinch of madness, gentlemen.
	It helps, you know!