Foreword
The Author’s Preliminary Note: A Correction to the Record
Dear Readers,
I owe you an apology. The story I originally presented to you in Volume 1 of The Double Curve under the title “The Travellers” — that harmless little anecdote about a camper van, a parking ticket, and a successful escape from bureaucratic madness — was not correct. Or rather: it was a naïve coping mechanism. I wanted to believe you can simply drive away.
But reality — or whatever passes for it inside ancient walls — does not tolerate gaps in the paperwork.
This morning, an envelope lay on my doorstep. No postmark. No sender. The paper smelled faintly of cold hearth soot and damp sandstone. Inside: a copy of Form A-17, countersigned with a shaky signature, and a USB stick that was sticky, as if someone had dipped it in tar.
I reviewed the data. I was wrong. They did not drive away. The castle does not let anyone go so easily once they’ve read the small print. Forget the first version. Burn it out of your head. What follows is the only truth. This is the record of what really happened.
The Castle
He wheezed onto the last step, dragged his wife up behind him, and called out, “Ten minutes until the tour — we’re still on schedule!”
She didn’t answer. Her look at the castle said everything. The drive up had been one of those adventures she could have done without: hairpin bends tight as needle eyes, and a car park at the gate about as practical as an elephant in a phone booth. So back down into the valley. There they finally found a space — wide, empty, perfect. Except for the machine, which only ate coins. Their loose change covered the tour to the minute. The coffee break was cancelled.
Above them the castle sat enthroned, cut straight out of a picture book: a needle-point keep, leaded windows, a drawbridge.
At the ticket desk came the first let-down. Instead of history, there were dust-catchers: plastic swords, tacky mugs, and entire legions of little castle models.
“Who buys this stuff?” he muttered.
She nudged him gently and pointed at a sign: Raffle to restore the castle. He frowned, but she was already smiling, scribbling their names onto the entry card.
Then she appeared: the tour guide.
The stride of a drill sergeant, the voice of a jackhammer. Dates, names, and deaths rained down on the group in clipped bursts. The children escaped mentally to the playground, the elderly clawed for air, and he kept angling his body toward the exit.
At the gate tower, the guide stopped dead. “Right then, ladies and gentlemen — keep your eyes peeled.” She pointed to tiny holes in the masonry. “From here they’d look down — and pour hot pitch. If you happened to be standing below, well… tough luck. Literally.”
A dutiful murmur went up, and then came the next marching order.
In the hall it continued: “Patron, width, height, year of construction!” And immediately the next lesson, delivered like a verdict: “You see this table? After meals, they used to remove the tabletop. That’s why people still talk about ‘clearing the table’ — we just do it without trestles and planks.”
One visitor tried to be clever. “And if they wanted things to move faster, I suppose they’d just… add a gear in the kitchen?”
She pivoted on her heel, eyes flashing. “Ah, you mean the gear rack in a car. Nice attempt. Only — no car has ever stood in this castle.” The would-be jester collapsed in on himself like a soufflé that never deserved the oven.
Bedrooms followed — modernised for the last castle warden — then the view, then a secret door. “The old count vanished through here once, without a trace. Since then, we’ve been arguing about ownership. But don’t worry: the castle belongs to our municipality!” Then the bathroom: “Ever heard ‘to have to mop it up’? That’s the idea — dealing with the mess after someone else has had their fun.” The canopy room: “And this is where things were put up on the high shelf — meaning: safely out of reach, and conveniently forgotten.” The audience nodded weakly while the children fell asleep upright.
For the finale, she produced an ornate vessel. “The raffle draw for the grand prize: a piece of castle history!”
A child reached in, pulled out a capsule. “Blue twelve!”
They held the ticket. He froze. She smiled, uncertain. The guide gave a strict nod.
“Congratulations. You are the new owners.”
“We wanted a model,” he protested, faintly.
But she was thinking only one thing: at least no more parking stress.
Less than ten minutes later they were sitting in a cool vaulted room that, disconcertingly, looked like an office. The tour guide had become a notary, complete with briefcase and horn-rimmed glasses.
With a thunderous thud, three binders landed on the table. Then two more. Then a stack of forms.
“We’ll begin with Form A-17: Transfer of walls in natural-stone quality. After that, fire-safety documentation, pitch-drip liability, bat maintenance. The usual.”
He swallowed. “Pitch-drip liability?!”
She nodded without looking up. “Of course. If the pitch drips, the attackers can sue you. Occupational safety regulations.”
While he stared at the binders, his wife felt a strange tingling — as if the castle were luring her with some ancient secret.
Another sheet slid in front of her: Winter service at the castle gate — yes/no. Beneath it: On-call duty for visitor groups after 10 p.m. Her hand shook as she signed. He had sunk to a low, continuous grumble.
Then came the fattest binder of all. “Owner contribution for the roof of the bower — subsection 4c. Very affordable, EU-funded. Instalments possible.” She flipped on. “And here — the grant application: EU Cultural Heritage Rescue-Plus. Processed through Brussels, Subdivision Medieval Building Fabric, Department Battlements. Processing time: eighteen months. Requirement: proof of a three-year castle-lord certification.”
She waved a flyer. “Course begins Monday. Online module: Pitch-Boiling for Beginners.”
He shot to his feet. “You’re insane!” He swept part of the paperwork off the table.
“Then donate,” she replied calmly, producing a gleaming card reader, “and we’ll forget your ownership claim. Contactless? With a monthly subscription. Friends-of-the-Castle association included.”
A beep — a receipt. And as a bonus: a USB stick labelled Password Bower1421.
With ceremonial solemnity, she pressed the stick into his hand. “If you forget access, send a fax. And we’ll just need a photo for the file.”
Click — the flash blinded them. “Wonderful. That seals everything.”
Outside, the two of them collapsed onto a bench in the tower’s shadow. He wiped sweat from his forehead.
“We should go before it gets dark.”
She stayed silent, looking up at the massive walls. No more parking stress. No searching. A roof over their heads, even if it leaked.
She turned to him, suddenly bright-eyed. “Or we stay. Imagine — us, as castle lords.”
He opened his mouth to object. At that moment, a metallic screech cut through the courtyard.
The drawbridge began to rise. Chains rattled. Slowly, inexorably, the gate swung shut.
A dull thud — then silence.
He tried to scream, but a cold gust swept across the yard. Very softly, barely more than breath, came a chuckle — an old, throaty laugh that seemed to come from the stones themselves.
She placed her hand calmly on his arm.
“Well,” she whispered, “now we really belong.”