Sent to the Devil Read Online Free PDF Page B

evening.
    â€œOh, Signor Poet,” he said. “I did not know you were still here.” He held the door for me. “Have a good evening, signore.”
    I paused halfway through the door and looked back at him. “Did you leave a message in my office yesterday?” I asked.
    â€œLet me think. Yes, one came for you, early in the morning. I put it on your desk.” He frowned. “Was there a problem with it, signore?”
    â€œNo, it is nothing. Do you remember who brought it?”
    He thought for a moment. “A boy. Yes. He was waiting at the door when I arrived to open up. It was early, about eight.”
    â€œA servant? What did he look like?”
    â€œHmmmm. Let me think. He wasn’t wearing any uniform, signore. No livery. I remember that.”
    â€œTall, short? Young, older?”
    He closed his eyes. “An older boy, tall—no, no, that was the one who came later in the day.”
    â€œDark hair, light?” I prompted.
    He shook his head. “I am sorry, Signor Poet. I cannot remember. It was just a boy. I take so many messages every day, I cannot remember every boy.”
    â€œI understand,” I said. “If I should receive another message, and I am here, would you please send the boy down to my office?”
    â€œI will, signore. Good night.”
    I wished him good night and left.
    *   *   *
    Wednesday passed without the arrival of another mysterious message, so I breathed easier as I made my way to work on Thursday morning. The temperature was still warm, and I left my cloak in my room and carried only my satchel, into which I had tucked a few of my poems. I planned to drop them at Alois’s office on my way to the theater.
    Dark clouds lowered over the spires of the Stephansdom as I cut across the Strobelgasse to the plaza in front of my friend’s office building. Ahead of me, a large crowd had gathered around the Capistran Chancel. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the ragged war protester near the entrance to the north tower. He placed his box at the edge of the crowd and climbed up on it.
    I approached a young man dressed in a postal uniform who was standing at the back of the crowd.
    â€œWhat is happening?” I asked.
    â€œGood morning, sir. It’s a body. Up there by the chancel.”
    â€œA drunk?” I asked.
    â€œI don’t know, sir. I cannot see from back here.”
    â€œFriends! Our men are dying from disease at the miserable camp in Semlin!” the protester shouted. The crowd, its attention focused on the old chancel, paid him no attention.
    In front of us, a washerwoman balanced a large basket on her hip. She turned around. “It’s an old man—a priest, by the looks of him. He’s dead,” she said, her cheeks ruddy with excitement.
    A wave of icy cold washed over me. I pushed my way past the washerwoman and plunged into the crowd, straining to get to the front.
    â€œHey, watch where you are going,” a merchant snarled at me.
    â€œHow many of our husbands and brothers must die to feed the empress of Russia’s greed for land?” the protester shouted.
    â€œPardon me, I must get through.” I propelled myself to the front of the crowd. My head felt light, as if I were floating. As I neared the wall of the cathedral, the throng of onlookers suddenly parted, revealing a horrible sight. An old man lay at the base of the chancel, his right arm draped over the sandstone plinth, his left hand cradled near his side. His eyes stared blankly at the sky. His mouth was frozen open in surprise, his forehead smeared with a thick reddish-brown paste. My stomach turned over as I breathed in a salty, metallic fetor. Below his head, at the collar of his cassock, snowy white tubes protruded from a mess of dark blood. I stared at them, my jaw slack with disbelief, and then my legs gave way.

 
    Three
    I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the awful sight to disappear. But when I