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As the hour nears midnight, Rudolf sits, waiting, in his room. He knows what will soon happen. He has argued with his parents, he has angered his father’s advisors, and he is quite certain that his mother would not recognize him if he were to stand in front of her as her mirror. Now, only Death needs to call for him, with his blue blanket and cold hands.
It is the same charade, just as they have played it every night. Rudolf has died, every night, for the past one hundred and twenty-five years. And yet, each morning he wakes from his death to find that he remains in this purgatory, this place-between-the-places, never to ascend to heaven or descend to hell. His entire family is here, save for the woman who started it all, his mother, Elisabeth.
Rudolf hears the call, silent but insistent, of his one constant friend throughout these dark years, and he runs to the carriage, just as he has done for one hundred and twenty-five years. But just as he sees his friend, Death, he stops. Death turns his head at him, imploring him to run to him, as always.
Rudolf instead walks calmly over to him, sitting beside him rather than cowering in his lap as usual.
“Rudolf?” Death asks.
Rudolf looks out at the spectators (there is always an audience to this pantomime of life and death) who have come to see them dance, these people who love his mother despite ever facing her cold eyes.
“Do you realize that tonight will be one hundred and twenty-five years since I shot myself at Mayerling?”
“Yes, it is,” Death says. “But first we must set the stage for your demise – the clock must strike twelve.”
“But aren’t you tired of it, this little charade to pardon the Italian anarchist who murdered my mother? She has been dead for so long; he has been dead for so long. Can we not move on?”
“It is not so easy, Rudolf, to forget the past and forgive a murderer. We must stick to our lines and our directions.”
“But why can we not change the story? Even just for tonight?” Rudolf asks.
“If only we could,” Death replies. “I too am bound by heavenly laws, my dear Rudolf, and they require me to perform this little play.”
“Or what?” Rudolf asks. “It is not as if they could kill you.”
“Even an unknown consequence could still be fearful, and there are beings more powerful than I am. But I am not scared; do not think that I am. I do not mind playing this part.” Death smiles. “It is nice to see her again, if only for a few hours.”
“I just do not understand it,” Rudolf says. He moves to lean against Death, his head resting on his friend’s shoulder. “Why does she get to go to heaven while the rest of us, her entire family, has to stay here?”
Death wraps his arm around Rudolf, drawing him closer. As much as they resist, the show must go on. “Because you are not free,” he replies. “You have not yet learned to let go of life, society, your hopes, your dreams. She is free from all of that – she exists unto herself. I too still hold on, and that is why I am stuck in this role, playing at my true purpose. The ties are hard to break.”
“You still hold on? To her?” Rudolf asks. Death nuzzles his cheek and he turns his head, baring his neck. He does not mind this part of their dance, the seduction. Even Death can be a lover.
“To my Elisabeth,” Death breathes against his ear. “I hold on to her, to the old, beautiful world. I want those times to never end, even as the world changes and shifts around us.” He sighs, and Rudolf can feel his impossible breath, an unnecessary exhalation, on his cheek. “This new world is disillusioned, bloody, and corrupt.”
Rudolf laughs, a staccato of noise. “See, I thought that our world was disillusioned, bloody, and corrupt. The world is different now. The people are no longer afraid to stand up. The kings are dead and the people rule. It is beautiful.”
Death chuckles now, and Rudolf feels his smile against his cheek, and he knows his teeth are bared. “So you would have preferred to never have been born, o future-Kaiser-Rudolf?”
“I do not mourn the death of outdate, worn, immoral kings.”
He feels a kiss on his chin, and he knows what will happen soon. He will die, just as he has always died.
“Perhaps this is an issue on which we must agree to disagree,” Death says, and he is no longer smiling. “The clock has struck twelve. It is nearly time for you to die, dear Rudolf.”
Rudolf turns to face him, and he looks into those impossibly blue eyes, just as he has done for years.
“Well, then,” Rudolf says, grasping Death’s arm as they stand. “Why are you still here? Do you not have to go put on your dress, Fraulein Vetsera?”
“Oh,” Death says. “Perhaps I shall try a different look this time. We may not be able to change our roles, but I daresay they will not mind a change of outfit. It is just one scene, after all.”
Rudolf figures that he should be bothered by Death’s trivialization of his (assisted) suicide, but he lets it pass. Even though Death appears not to be the highest power in the universe, he still holds dominion over Rudolf, and it would not be wise to anger Death. So he says nothing, and he is thrown to the ground as Death makes his exit, but he is used to that by now.
He pleads with his mother, and he can practically feel the sympathy of the audience wash over him. But he knows that they will forget him by the end in favor of sympathy for his mother; they usually do. He used to mind, but then again, it has been one hundred and twenty-five years.
Rudolf takes center stage, his coat askew and his emotions running wild. Nothing has changed, nothing will change, and eternity is vast and helpless and he knows that now. Not even Death can change his afterlife.
“And so,” he says. “Even you have failed me.”