translated from the French by Justin Brumby
I
The guardsmen stood in two lines, halberds in hand,
in baggy knee breeches, noses in the air,
while the rabble and the street kids booed and called
for vengeance on the whore. Inside the town hall
last night’s slain were laid out on stretchers,
one of them with twenty deep cuts in his doublet
caked with black blood. In the market square
threatening murmurs surged.
Soldiers were posted by the stalls to keep order.
From the balconies of the surrounding houses
peered the fat disapproving faces
of middle class mothers, who pointed to the home
of the lovely culprit with its red threshold
and gilded door. They clenched their fists
because justice was too slow. Suddenly the men
took off their hats. Ascending the steps
to the town hall: Lorelei in her veils
and high conical hat, allowing a glimpse
of her red hair sparkling like a goldsmith’s work.
It was as though a sudden sun had risen
in the evening shadows.
Lorelei approached, slow and sweet as honey,
her dress was a riot of green arabesques
on a sky-colored ground. No one remembered
the slaughter when they saw her wide blue-green eyes,
the shell-white of her face and her delicate hands.
Hearts beat harder to see her baffled innocence.
The hangman seemed troubled, tears glimmered
in the eyes of the guardsmen who (for all their scars
and beards) were abashed before their task.
The crowd followed close, elbowing each other,
treading heels, till at last they arrived
before the town hall where the merchants came
to pay their taxes, register their holdings,
and have their rights confirmed. The town council stood
without, the entranceway was draped
with cloth of gold, as for a visit from the king.
At the entrance stood an old man, impassive,
though his eyes were red from weeping. The Mayor.
His only son had fallen in the last night’s fracas.
Early that morning his wife, a fury,
made him swear to avenge their child
with whom their family name now ended.
And here was the woman who was to blame . . .
“Punish me, my lord,” said the guilty girl,
“The earth, it seems, gapes open at my feet,
a chasm into which I am falling, helpless,
taking with me those who love me,
down to death and hell.
Strike me down, strike me dead as my friends
whose bodies still bleed there inside.
I know my doom won’t bring them back,
but at least all will see that, without them,
I didn’t wish to live. Only remember
I’m just a young woman, too young to bear
long torture. Good my master,
give the order for my death,
but in the name of love, make it rapid.”
She crawled imploring towards him,
around her, on the flagstones, trailed her long red hair.
He shook her clasping hands from his knees,
took his seat and asked, “Was anyone here,
noble, bourgeois or peasant, a witness to this crime?
Come forward boldly, describe the deed,
the time, the place. I’m listening.”
No response. The elder thought,
“These cursèd stupid people,
these animals go soft in the head
at the sight of a pretty girl in velvet and pearls.”
Thrice he called for witnesses, finally
an old German mercenary emerged
from the crowd, awkward, with distressed expression.
“I tried to intervene in the brawl
for the honor of my calling.
The wine jugs had been emptied, the party was over,
they rolled dice to decide which one would spend the night
with this lady. That started it, with no help from her.
It isn’t her fault she looks as she does
and men get jealous. Voices were raised,
someone threw a punch. The slut got scared.
They went to settle things outside.
Ten of them, swords drawn, before her door.
God’s blood, what a crash of steel!
Even I felt fear, and the girl was half dead
with terror, screaming ‘Murder, help!’
A lot of good that did. Their pages and valets
were upstairs demolishing the leftovers,
licking the plates, not about to drop those
and run to their deaths. She blames herself—
well, if she has admirers she keeps it discreet,
lives quiet, doesn’t show herself on the street
except on public holidays. Is she a man-crazy flirt,
like the townsfolk say? So far as I know
she’s a game girl, no prim miss,
but she’d never so much as hurt another’s feelings.
In the present climate of ill-will towards her
I may as well add my complaint to the rest.
If she really is such a loose woman,
I don’t see why she wasn’t such with me.”
The crowd around Lorelei burst into laughter
and applause at the soldier’s tale.
“Traitor!” hissed the mayor between his teeth,
then turning to the woman crouched at his feet,
“Hear that, daughter of shame?”
(He spit the words in her frightened face.)
“This village of idiots absolves you of blame.
Go home. Your crimes aren’t in the jurisdiction
of decent people, witch! To atone for your deeds
you ought to walk barefoot to Rome,
there to receive your deserts in a dungeon
or else on an inquisition pyre.
Go, you’ve groveled long enough
on my floor.” With flashing eye he went inside
and left her there alone. The soldiers were dismissed.
She struggled to her feet, with no defense now
against the baffled bloodthirsty crowd
circling round her. Wordless, staring, stupefied,
she heard the cries and curses rise,
threats of damnation, promises of death,
such as people shout when they rise against their masters.
They seized her, dragged her through the square,
the open-air market, street after street,
passed before her as in a dream.
She was carried like a wisp of straw
in an angry flood. She couldn’t breathe,
she shut her eyes. Suddenly she stood
before the cathedral’s dark portal,
from the choir deep within came the cry of an organ
sonorous, austere, wailing its high crescendo.
Within, a man enthroned by the altar
beneath a velvet canopy. A bishop.
Below him acolytes swung their censers
in slow rhythm. The church was full
from its portals all the way to the gilded screen
at the end of the nave. Beyond it, beneath the apse,
were the choir, the sanctuary, tombs
of the distinguished dead. The crowd, mostly women,
pressed forward to see. In the space before the altar
were trestles erected to receive ten coffins,
darkly draped in funerary finery.
Lorelei was brought to the altar;
behind her, the grieving female mob
all in black. Her red mane hung down,
her teeth nearly chattered with fear, her eyes
were stunned wide, she looked like she was drunk
on the blood shed for her. She gave a cry
that seemed to shake the high stained glass windows,
she fell at the feet of the astonished mitred man,
“Condemn me, father, beat me, I have sinned.
The hidden crime that was my life
has been dragged into daylight. I’m an evil creature,
my kisses have drained the blood of your sons.
Coffins, candles, keening—these are my works.
I tremble at the sight of the cross, I dread
the sound of prayers. I am a vampire.
The people’s fear’s well placed. Flee me,
I am plague!”
The priest descended in alarm,
the acolytes let their censers dangle
then climbed the seats of the choir to see.
The bishop leaned close to study the face
of the beautiful girl with the red-gold hair.
“She’s mad. Where are her parents?”
“Father, she has no family.
This is Lorelei.” The priest shuddered
at the name. Never before had he seen her,
this pale courtesan.