The Sixth Key Read Online Free PDF Page A

Ussat-les-Bains. To the delight of all, he told
stories of the guests he had served: Josephine Baker, Marlene Dietrich, even
Pabst himself. What he didn’t tell them was that he had bought the place on a
whim and had spent so much money on renovations it had sent him bankrupt.
    At the Schloss he met an enigmatic man, a
Georgian named Grigol Robakidze, a poet and playwright. Robakidze was in his
mid-fifties and wore his short hair plastered to his head with pomade. When he
looked out from under his well-shaped brows he exuded a decadent urbanity and
an evil indolence that reminded Rahn of Bela Lugosi’s Count Dracula. Later,
Gabriele would tell Rahn that rumours were always circulating about Robakidze.
Some said he was a magician, others that he was a Russian Merlin or a genteel
Rasputin. Some even went so far as to call him a spy.
    Whatever the case, in the coming months
Robakidze would prove a most congenial and interesting friend to Rahn, inviting
him to sumptuous lunches or splendid dinners, during which they would sit for
hours, locked in conversation. Whenever they met at the Schloss, the Russian
behaved as though a meal with Rahn was a sacrament. Robakidze even became
rather upset if Rahn was ever absent for the weekend.
    The last time Rahn saw him at the Schloss, Robakidze
seemed unusually subdued and suggested they abscond from the castle to a little
restaurant in the township, where they could be alone. They ate their meal in a
strange monastic silence and it was plain to Rahn that Robakidze had something
on his mind. When they were finished and the plates were cleared away, the
Russian lit a thin, Burmese cheroot and sat back, observing Rahn and saying
nothing for a time.
    ‘You must be wondering,’ he began, finally,
‘why I have taken you away from excellent food and champagne bubbles to eat
soggy strudel and to drink ordinary house wine?’
    Rahn calculated his words, sensing something
strange afoot. ‘Too much perfection can be tiresome.’
    Robakidze raised one brow very high and his
eyes narrowed. He seemed to be assessing Rahn. ‘I simply wanted a different
milieu for what I am about to tell you.’
    ‘I see,’ was all Rahn could say.
    ‘You know from our conversations that long ago
I was a pupil of Nietzsche,’ he said. ‘What you may not know is that one day I
came across Goethe’s teachings and they have since become the basis of all my
thinking, my poetry, and my prose. Goethe led to an illumination. I woke up to
a strange species of knowledge: I knew, without a doubt, that Nietzsche was
driven by a demon to write his work on the Antichrist. Yes, I can understand
why you smile, but it is true!’ He leant forwards to whisper, ‘I believe that
the very same demon has entered into German hearts.’ He sat back again and took
a long drag of his cheroot, letting this sink in. ‘Why were the German people
not inspired by Goethe?’ He shrugged. ‘Who can say? But they have made their
choice and so Germany is headed for doom. One day, perhaps sooner than you
think, you will understand. When that day comes, if you are in need of a friend,
or if you find yourself in trouble, you can call this number. It is the number
of the Black Swans.’ He took a card out of the inside pocket of his flawless
suit and gave it to Rahn. Black Swans?
    At the time Rahn couldn’t imagine what
Robakidze meant by ‘trouble’. Later, on reflection, he understood that to
continue to have any association with the Russian and these Black Swans,
whomever they were, might prove dangerous to his health, so he stopped going to
the Schloss altogether. In any event, his workload had increased so much that
he had no time for pleasant weekends away.
    It all began when he asked Weisthor for more
time in the office, so he could concentrate on reworking an old travel diary
he’d kept for some years into a book entitled Lucifer’s Court. But soon he was
overseeing a number of additional projects, including reviewing an