the sixth key by adriana koulias sample chapter
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Copyright Adriana Koulias 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmittedin any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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A Bantam book
Published by Random House Australia Pty Ltd
Level 3, 100 Pacifc Highway, North Sydney NSW 2060www.randomhouse.com.au
First published by Bantam in 2011
Copyright Adriana Koulias 2011
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by
any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any formor by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying (except
under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968),recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without
the prior written permission of Random House Australia.
Addresses for companies within the Random House Group can be found at
www.randomhouse.com.au/offces
National Library of AustraliaCataloguing-in-Publication Entry
Koulias, Adriana.
The Sixth Key/Adriana Koulias.
ISBN 978 1 86325 685 8 (pbk.)
A823.4
Cover illustration and design by Christabella Designs
Internal design by and typeset by Xou Creative, www.xou.com.au
Printed and bound by Griffn Press, an accredited ISO/NZS 14001:2004Environmental Management System printer
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
The paper this book is printed on is certifed against theForest Stewardship CouncilStandards. Griffn Press holds
FSC chain of custody certifcation SGS-COC-005088. FSCpromotes environmentally responsible, socially benefcial
and economically viable management of the worlds forests.
Copyright Adriana Koulias 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmittedin any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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1
The Writer
of Letters
What then shall I ask?
You must begin at the beginning.
The beginning! But where is the beginning?
Edgar Allan Poe, Mesmeric Revelation
Venice, November 2012
I had fallen asleep on the bench waiting for the vaporetto andwoke with a dry mouth and a crick in the neck as the boat pulled
up at the Fondamente Nuove. Once we were chugging lazily over
the dusk-coloured lagoon, I dared to ask the boatman where he
was taking me. Luckily he spoke some English and pointed to
an island in the distance, saying, San Michele. The Island of the
Dead . . . the cemetery of Venice.
Well, I thought to myself. Why not a cemetery in the middle
of a lagoon? It all made a crazy sort of sense it was something
the Writer of Letters, as I liked to call him, would do.
Copyright Adriana Koulias 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmittedin any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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It was in character.
My publisher had forwarded his last letter, as always, typed
on the same watermarked paper as the others. It contained these
words:
Perhaps it is time we meet? Together, I am certain that we can fndthe solution to the riddle that is perplexing you:
HOC EST SEPULCHRUM
INTUS CADAVER NON HABENS
HOC EST CADAVER SEPULCHRUM
EXTRA NON HABENS
SED CADAVER IDEM EST
ET SEPULCHRUM SIBI
This time, along with the letter there was also an air ticket to
Venice and instructions on what to do when I arrived.
Counting this one, I had received six letters in all. At frst I
had thought them mildly amusing; after all, what author of mys-
teries doesnt receive letters from shopkeepers, housewives, or
even convicted criminals, offering interesting information? ButI only realised how different these letters were when the fourth
arrived. Thats when I began to wonder who this person was.
At the time I had just fnished a novel and my editor discov-
ered that a Latin word, a word integral to the plot, was gram-
matically incorrect. This unfortunate realisation occurred just
as the book was headed for the printing press and I quickly got
on the phone to several Latin professors. I needed a Latin word
composed of seven letters no more and no less that meant
becoming. I was on the phone to the printers trying to delay
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them when the fourth letter arrived. A coincidence, you might
ask? No, Ive come to know there are no coincidences. Inside the
letter I found the Latin word I had been looking for Fiesque.
Similarly, the ffth letter arrived when I was unable to source
important details about an underground passage in an obscure
castle on the border of Austria and Hungary. Once again, in
that ffth letter I found a miracle an essay written in the early
nineteenth century by a Knight of Malta, containing the veryinformation I needed. This was a mystery that could well have
been written by Edgar Allan Poe!
So, you see, I wasnt surprised when I received the sixth letter
containing a Latin riddle that had been confounding me for
months. The riddle was found on a sixteenth-century tombstone
in Bologna. It was entitled To the Gods of the Deadand trans-
lated it read:
This is a tomb that has no body in it.This is a body that has no tomb round it.But body and tomb are the same.
I had long been certain that it held the solution to one of themost important mysteries of our time the mystery of life and
death and I had resolved to make the solution to this riddle the
pivotal theme of my next novel. When it proved more than diff-
cult to solve, I took comfort in knowing that it had obsessed and
exercised the wits of better minds than mine: men like Carlo
Cesare Malvasia, Jung and the French writer Gerard Nerval had
also wrestled with it. But as time dragged on, and the dead-
line for delivery of the manuscript loomed, I began to wonder
what had made me imagine myself capable of solving it. The
Copyright Adriana Koulias 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmittedin any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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timely arrival of that sixth letter was compelling evidence that
its writer was either intuiting my thoughts, or indeed, perhaps
even inspiring them. Of course I had to accept his invitation.
How could I refuse? By coming to Venice I would be solving two
mysteries the identity of theWriter of Letters and the solution
to the inscription.
Now, as I looked out from the vaporetto towards that cold
island overhung with Cyprus spears, I marvelled at the ingenu-ity of the creator of those letters. He had orchestrated a scene
straight out of the Egyptian Book of the Dead: I was travel-
ling on the boat of Isis, sailing over the river of souls to the
Underworld. It was brilliant!
When the boat came to the landing stage on the northwest
corner of the island I climbed out, paid the man what I owed
him and watched him pull his vessel away into the foggy even-
ing. Above on the upper landing I saw a light moving in the
darkness it was a monk carrying a lamp. The monk turned
out to be a rather pleasant Irishman. He made animated conver-
sation as he led me through dark arches and cloisters, beyond
which lay a world suspended in a mercurial solution of fog and
Carrara marble.Will you be staying the night? he asked.
Actually, Im not certain, I said, feeling ridiculous.
Well, its good youve come before the Day of the Dead.
Thats in three days time? I hadnt thought about the Day of
the Dead, an important holiday for Venetians, and so appropri-
ate I couldnt help but smile.
Yes, the vaporetto is free all day for those who want to visit
the graves of their relatives. The cemetery ends up full ofowers
and aswarm with people. He leant in. The defnition of bedlam
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perfect with only the slightest accent, perhaps Swiss or German.
I told him that it was good to put a face to his letters and
thanked him for his invaluable help over the years.
Please. He gestured to one of the winged chairs. I hope your
journey was bearable.
First class is as good as it gets, thank you. Perhaps we should
exchange names? I ventured to say.
He hesitated and I felt that Id made a faux pas.Names get in the way, was all he said.
There didnt seem to be room for argument and I decided to
let it go for now. Do you live here at the monastery?
I am not sure if you could call it my home, was his ambigu-
ous answer.
Before I could say anything in response the Irish monk entered
the library again, carrying a tray of coffee and pastries, which
he set down before us.
When he was gone, the Writer of Letters poured me a cup and
offered the sugar. I declined, smiling to myself.
He settled back in his chair. So, what do you think of my
library?
I glanced about, taking in the many bookshelves. Itsremarkable.
This monastery once housed a famous scriptorium as well as a
school for theology and philosophy, but that was before Napoleon.
In those days it held as many as forty thousand volumes. After
the invasion of course, there was little left, everything was looted
. . . War is not a friend of books, you see. At any rate, they say
Napoleon was looking for something and when he didnt fnd it he
punished the monks by converting the whole place into a prison.
And now its a cemetery.
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He looked at me with those hooded eyes. It guards corpses.
A book is a corpse in a way, wouldnt you say?
I sipped at the coffee. Thats an interesting way to look at it.
He raised one brow. The gesture made me uncomfortable.
When the Franciscans became the caretakers of the cem-
etery, he continued, they opened the library again and began
making careful acquisitions here and there, slowly flling the
shelves again. Im happy to say that now there are over twentythousand volumes here, many of them frst editions or very rare
copies. From reading your books I can tell that you are not only
fascinated with libraries and labyrinths but also with puzzles.
Puzzles are my living, I told him.
He leant in to poke at the fre a moment. Have you read Jorge
Luis Borges?
Yes . . . but that was years ago.
He sat back again and crossed his legs, elegant and cool, as
far from my image of a Franciscan monk as you could get.
Borges Library of Babel is one of my favourite short sto-
ries, he said. I love his idea of a universe that consists of endless
interlocking galleries, in which are kept all the books ever writ-
ten, and even those likely to be written. Books whose contentand order is random and meaningless.
I thought about it a moment. Do you think Borges was trying
to convey the opposing ideas of chaos and order, or the futility
of accumulating knowledge?
He smiled. Perhaps both, perhaps neither? It might just be
the learned Arab coming out in him.
But I thought he was Argentinian?
There was an awkward silence.
I am speaking of one of his previous lives.
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My disquiet must have been palpable. I realised he was playing
a game and that everything he was saying had been calculated
to make me feel slightly uncomfortable. I decided that I wasnt
going to give him the satisfaction.
I see.
He wasnt put off. Take The Book of Sand, for instance,
he said. An infnite book that changes every time you look
into it. Then again, there is The Garden of Forking Paths,where one confronts several alternatives and these create several
possible futures, which are again full of alternatives, and these
proliferate and fork to make more futures, endlessly. He sat
forwards. Do you think Borges understood the idea of karma
and destiny?
I dont know.
Well, he certainly managed to illustrate, quite perfectly, the
experience of crossing the threshold.
What threshold do you mean?
The threshold that separates life from death, time from
space; where the past and the future converge in the present;
where the dead exist.
My smile must have looked increasingly foolish. I supposeyou are going to tell me how one crosses the threshold? Is that
the solution to the riddle initiation?
He looked at me without humour, clearly annoyed. To taste
a good brandy one must sip slowly, savouring the complex a-
vours on the tongue! A man who drinks it down in one gulp
tastes nothing and burns his throat. Isnt that so?
I nodded pensively. He was right I was being precipitous.
Still, his tone had been harsh.
He looked a little repentant. I do apologise. Ive been away
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from society for too long, Im afraid. I dont mean to be ill-man-
nered. He paused, thinking a moment, or perhaps he was just
giving me time to forgive his shortness. Yes, all initiations are
a form of death. Ones consciousness of the world dies and one
enters the realm of the spirit, the realm of the dead, as you have
intimated. But do you know this: that every time one goes to
sleep one also enters the realm of the dead, leaving behind ones
personality to enter a labyrinth, a hall of mirrors, a universe ofgalleries, wherein lies a record of all the personalities that one
has been through the aeons? He watched me, measuring the
effect of his words. Tell me, what do you think has brought you
here?
You invited me.
No, he said with a curt tone that once again caught me by
surprise. You invited yourself!
If this were so, then it would mean that I am you.
He considered it. Do you fnd me familiar?
I looked at him. Are you asking me if I feel a sense of dj
vu?
Not as its understood in the usual sense. Do you think that
my sitting here and your sitting there, thef
re, the lagoon, thisevening, this old monastery, this library, this moment, could
have been created by you?
I didnt know what to say.
Think of how meticulous you are in creating the milieu of
your books, down to the smallest detail. Now imagine you
could do the same thing in the realm of death; that you could
create what would surround you in your next life; this would
make you the writer of your own story.
Youre referring to reincarnation?
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Yes. You are here at this point because centuries ago you did
something which made this moment possible, and this moment
will lead to another moment, and so on. Like the Garden of
Forking Paths every decision creates a fork in the path of
your futures.
He paused, giving me time to digest his philosophy. Think of
it in ordinary terms: suppose someone calls you and this makes
you late and you miss a train that catches fre, in which manypeople are killed. What do you do?
I would thank the caller for saving my life.
Ah, but perhaps you wouldnt have been killed at all? Perhaps
during the course of events you would have met someone of
great importance, someone who would have led you to a differ-
ent fork in your path, a fork that would have led to another and
another? In any event, imagine that because you did not take
that train you are now crossing the road at the exact time that a
cars brakes fail and it ploughs into you, killing you. Karma was
the caller but the choice was yours to take the call. Freedom
lives in that choice. One cant imagine how many choices one
makes in the course of a day, choices that affect not only ones
future, but the collective future of all humanity. No, you arehere because you have made a choice to be here.
I looked at him, trying to see where he was going with this,
but his face betrayed nothing. But what about you you also
made a choice when you invited me to come here?
Did I? he said.
Arent you also free to create your own forking paths?
Sometimes we do things not out of our own need, but out of
a desire to further the evolution of the world.
A sacrifce, you mean?
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He nodded. Take the sniper who had Hitler in his sights and
who decided, at the last moment, to let him live. Imagine how
different the world would be now: how many writers, artists,
poets, musicians, scientists, mothers, fathers and children would
have contributed to the world had it not been for one mans
poor choice. Perhaps when that sniper died he had to relive that
moment over and over again, until he realised that his own per-
sonal goodness was a puny concern, in comparison to the manylives he could have saved.
I sat forwards and set down my cup. You are saying that
if the sniper had pulled the trigger and killed Hitler, he could
have secured a different destiny for the world, even if it meant
sacrifcing his own personal karma?
Precisely. That soldier was there to kill Hitler, that was his
karma, you see? He chose not to follow it.
I had to smile. This strange man intrigued me.
You fnd this interesting?
Yes, I do.
The moment that lies between what drives us from the past
and what pulls us towards the future is the one moment in which
we are completely free, completely conscious and completelyalive. So, imagine we are in this moment. If this were a novel as
yet to be written by you, and I were your character, poised in
that moment, what would you have me do?
I would have you tell me why Im here.
Touch! He was pleased. I would say youre here because
you want to know how it begins.
How whatbegins?
Your new novel.
And how does it begin?
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It begins with a telegram, an invitation to meet someone
mysterious. Now, lets say your character guesses the invitation
must be from a fan of his work, because the telegram offers the
prospect of a patronage. Lets assume that the message could not
have arrived at a better time. His last book isnt selling well, and
he needs funds to research another book. Lets imagine that in
the meantime, he is surviving by the barest margin, living hand-
to-mouth. So when the offer comes to meet a generous benefac-tor in an apartment in Berlin, well, he does the only logical thing
a man in those circumstances could have done he fnds himself
in Prinz Albrechstrasse.
The street has changed little since his childhood, except these
days it houses the Gestapo and the headquarters of the SS, and
everywhere on shop front doors and on walls two words are
written: Juden Unerwnscht Jews Unwelcome.
When your protagonist arrives at the fashionable apartment
building, he checks the address against the telegram and the
time against his pocket watch and looks up. The sky is steel blue
and the sun is cold. He stands like that, in his rather shabby
double-breasted suit that does little to keep off the swift breeze,
trying to resist the impulse to turn around. But where could hego? The fnancial embarrassment that led to his rather hasty
expulsion from France meant he couldnt return. At least not
until his circumstances had improved enough for him to pay
his creditors. Its no wonder the poor are all Communists! He
sighs, looking again at the telegram.
YOUR BOOK SUPERIOR WORK STOP
A THOUSAND MARKS A MONTH FOR SECOND STOP
FURTHER SUM TO SETTLE AFFAIRS STOP
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BERLIN FEB 18 15:00
7 PRINZ ALBRECHTSTRASSE STOP
Shortly after receiving this telegram, a small fortune in deutsch-
marks was wired to him and a letter followed, containing a frst-
class train ticket from Paris to Berlin. How could he resist such a
generous offer? It was a balm to know that someone appreciated
his work enough to pay for it. Still, he was full of misgivings.Why had the publisher or benefactor not given his name? Why
did he want to meet in an apartment? Could he be one of those
Jewish publishers that had been shut down by the Nazis?
Perhaps I should say something about the state of Germany
at that time. Your character had arrived back in his homeland
when there was a general feeling of enthusiasm for the prom-
ise of a new life and for the return of German pride. After all,
the re-arming of Germany had been achieved without conict,
and the endless political wrangling of Weimar was over. These
events were like the herald of a new age.
The supposed Nazi vision of cultural rebirth should have
ftted quite nicely with your characters own idealistic views,
had he been a man of his times. But he was not a man of histimes. If you were to ask him about the war against the Cathars,
or something concerning Spanish politics at the time of the
Reconquista, he would have expounded clear and concise views
that were based on genuine insights; if you had asked him about
Don Quixote, or Parzifal, or even Sherlock Holmes, he would
have had you listening for hours! You see, when it came to the
happenings of his day, he could tell you about the latest Georg
Wilhelm Pabst flm, or the most recent jazz recordings by Django
Reinhardt and not much else. The truth is, talk of politics sent
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his mind into a fog and for this reason he was not in the least bit
interested in Hitler. This confounded his friends and irritated his
family. They argued that Hitler had united the nation by erasing
ination and reducing unemployment and poverty; they even
pointed out to him the language of symbolism used by Hitler,
as a way of raising his interest, but your character was simply
not convinced. He felt there was something rather sinister about
the way the little moustached man used the ideal of onenessthat all Germans longed for, and the symbols that they only
half-understood, to gain power over them. These things your
character sensed, in the same way a deer senses the presence of a
hunter. It was an instinctive disquiet. For the ruthlessness of the
new leaders had not yet become outwardly apparent except for
the issue with the Jews.
In his view, Hebrews were as well educated, as polite, astute,
sensitive and cultured as any other race. In fact, quite a few of
them were exceedingly talented in diverse felds and were, for
the most part, possessed of impeccable ethics and moral disposi-
tions. He couldnt understand Hitlers obsession with blaming
them for everything, from the stab in the back, to bad weather.
On top of that there was the regimes stern attitude towardshomosexuals, Communists and artists. In France he had grown
rather fond of bohemians and, he had to admit, since his return
to Germany he had found it rather bland. He was starved for
good conversation! Where were the intellectuals? Where were
the poets, artists and philosophers?
Right now, standing before that apartment, he weighs the
risks. Who would believe him should it turn out to be a Jewish
publisher, or an enemy of the Reich, or a homosexual, or a lib-
eral, or a Communist waiting for him in that apartment? On
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the other hand, he knows he cant continue his research into
the Cathar treasure without money. After all, there are only so
many radio interviews he can do and only so many times he
can recount his exciting experiences potholing in the caves of
southern France looking for the Grail without feeling like a
parrot. Moreover, his scripts for the flmmaker Pabst have come
to nothing, and hes had enough of traipsing about the country
working on flm sets for a pittance. No, this interview is his lastresort and he resolves that should he not like the look of the
publisher, he will thank him politely and simply walk out. He
need never see the man again. After all, no one is going to hold
a gun to his head!
He knocks on the door. There is no answer. This is the fork
in the road, so to speak.
What does he do? I said, watching the fre.
The Writer of Letters allowed a little silence to pass. If he
had done differently, perhaps you wouldnt be here? Perhaps
there would be no need for you to write this book at all? No, he
knocks again and when he hears nothing, a sudden relief washes
over him. Providence has saved him, he thinks but from what?
The truth is, had he left one minute earlier he would never know,but his hesitation on descending those steps now means that he
is visible to the man who has, by now, unlocked the door behind
him. When he turns, he recognises the uniform. Who in Berlin
wouldnt have?