Long before Maria Theresa’s death in 1780, a request appears on her son’s desk for the Austrian ennoblement of Jacob Frank, as he already has a Polish title; the request is written in the pleasant, reliable, juridical style of Thomas von Sch?nfeld. The second letter, attached by his scrupulous and loyal secretary, is a denunciation, written in that characteristic way in which denunciations tend to be written—impersonally, with unshakable certainty, and yet at the same time, almost in a whisper:
. . . should be aware that there existed in the past, and that there inevitably exists today, as well, a science not universally accessible, having to do with things that would appear to be natural, but which are rather understood as supernatural, along with a tradition of looking at whatever occurs on our planet through the lens of faith in cycles. This tradition boldly engages with something that we, god-fearing Catholics, would never dare to so much as broach—an examination of the question of the Divine Essence. It is said that such studies are contained in the Chaldean book of wisdom called the Zohar. These bits of wisdom are expressed there in an unclear manner that is exceptionally allegorical, so that someone who merely happens upon the text but who is unable to apply the numerological techniques and the Hebrew symbology cannot understand it. And this applies to Jews, as well—only a few of them are capable of understanding what is written there. Among those who can, there is among others a subject of Your Highness’s, a man named Jacob Frank who lives in Brünn. The knowledge of this kind of person is sufficient for them to carry out mysterious experiments on matter, with which they astonish the uninitiated. It is pure quackery, but it creates around such people an extraordinary atmosphere and builds false presumptions regarding them. It is said, however, that after the destruction of the Second Temple, the remains of that science were scattered all across the Orient, primarily amongst the Arab countries. The Arabs, meanwhile, passed it along to the Knights Templar . . .
The emperor gives a heavy sigh here, he would stop reading were it not for the fact that he recognizes the signatory’s name at the bottom of the letter. And so he reads further:
. . . who brought it back again to Europe, making room for the generation of many heresies. That same science, or parts of it, has become an essential cornerstone of what the Masons believe and what their central activities are—but not all of them, only those like Thomas von Sch?nfeld, aka Moses Dobrushka, one of the most important among them . . .
“My dear, can your father make gold?” the emperor asks Eva, when a few days later he has her in his bedroom in Sch?nbrunn. He calls her “meine Vogel,” or “my bird.”
“Of course,” says Eva. “Right outside our home in Brünn there is a passageway to our secret gold mines—they lead all the way to Silesia.”
“I’m serious,” says the emperor, frowning so that his immaculate forehead is marred by a vertical wrinkle. “I’ve been told that it is possible.”
At an opera premiere, Eva is approached by an elegant, tall, well-built, but no longer young man. His white wig is perfectly arranged, and his outfit is exquisite and so different from those worn here in Vienna that there can be no doubt about his having come straight from Paris.
“I know who you are, madam,” he says in French, not quite looking at her directly.
Eva is flattered that he has recognized her amongst so many important ladies, and their acquaintance might end on that high note, yet the elegant man goes on:
“You, madam, are someone like me—someone who is a stranger to this spectacle. Am I right?”
Eva starts. Now she thinks he is impertinent; she wants to go, and reflexively she seeks out her father in the crowd.
“It is evident, madam, that your nobility and beauty are of a much deeper nature, coming from a pure heart; you, madam, are like a star that has erred under these banal roofs, like a lost spark from the purest comet . . . ,” the stranger continues. Even if he is a little past his prime, he is still very handsome. His powdered face strikes Eva as impenetrable. Out of the corner of her eye she catches the curious gazes of other women.
Since the emperor isn’t interested in her that evening and quickly vanishes with his latest lover instead, Eva spends more time with her new acquaintance. He is too old for her to treat him as a suitor, too soft, too talkative—in fact, he seems to her entirely unmasculine. They go to the smoking room, and her companion offers her some fresh tobacco. He brings her champagne and—stranger still—they converse about dogs. Eva complains that her greyhounds are too delicate and seem silly to her. She misses the dog she had in her childhood. The man turns out to know a great deal about canine behavior and the mysteries of canine breeding.
“Big dogs are sickly and do not live long—greyhounds are a prime example of this, inbred to the point of complete degeneration. The same happens to people,” adds the elegant older man. She should have a little dog, but one that is also brave. A little lion. They breed dogs like that in Tibet, where apparently they’re sacred.
Who knows how and when the conversation comes around to the “work.” It is a topic that fascinates everyone, though few get very far with it; most are only after gold. But after all, alchemy is also the path to wisdom. And Giacomo Casanova explains to Eva Frank in intricate detail the meanings of the individual stages of the “work.” Now they are at nigredo.
Eva squeezes her stomach. She has dismissed Magda Golińska, who has a big mouth, and who has now returned to Brünn. Magda is marrying Szymanowski, who took her away from Goliński. Only Anusia Paw?owska knows everything, but they do not speak of it. She helps Eva wrap her hips and her rounded waist, doing it as if it were completely normal. Her touch is delicate but firm. Once Eva’s father came to Eva while she was lying in bed, sticking his confident hand under the covers. His rough, bony fingers palpated that embarrassing roundness. Eva bit her lip. Her father lay down next to her and petted her head, but then his fingers latched on to her hair, pulling her head back by it. He looked her in the eye for a long time, as if he were seeing not her, but what was about to happen. Eva was terrified. The worst-case scenario had come to pass—her father was angry. Eva panics at the thought of his anger. He did not come back to see her after that, and she did not go out, pretending she was ill.
In the end, Wittel Matuszewska came and gave Eva a lot of salt water to drink; it was mixed with something bitter and disgusting. The next day she came again, kneading Eva’s stomach until in the evening there was blood. The child was tiny and dead, the size of a cucumber, long and slender. Matuszewska and Anusia wrapped it in rags and took it somewhere. The French girl who had been teaching Eva happened to peek into the room. She was dismissed that same day.
Every variety of ash, or: Recipes for homemade gold