Excerpts from the novel.
Translated from the Macedonian by the author
**
A Short Introduction to the novel “Who Killed Edgar Allan Poe” :
It is a 458 pages novel, published in 2024 (by Ili-Ili, Skopje). It explores Poe’s mysterious death and the possibility of uncovering his killer hidden among us in the 21st century. Felix Reynolds, the protagonist and at the same time a writer, uses the power of magic realism to see the past and to communicate with the American author, Poe. His psychiatrist Grumi works in a magical Castle where key moments of Felix’s life unfold. The novel delves into societal struggles, highlighting the “Kafkavians,” existentialists who control fates. It questions justice, as the misunderstood are condemned while real wrongdoers remain free. The story intertwines imagination, reality and philosophy with black humor, leaving readers to judge if justice is served.
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Chapter 38.
In My Grandfather’s Secret World
During my next visit to Grumi’s psychiatric office, I stood by the window. Despite the fog, there was a beautiful view of the city from the Castle. I already knew the forecast: heavy rain was expected. Still, I hoped there might be a chance for the clouds to break and a little sunlight to shine through. Unfortunately, the sky grew darker and the wind stronger.
“We’re in for very bad weather,” Grumi said, standing beside me. “The climate in these parts is definitely changing for the worse.”
“Probably it will spread globally,” I guessed.
“They’re predicting weeks of rain,” Grumi shook his head, looking dejected.
“Floods aren’t excluded. This time they even threaten the city center,” I recalled an article I had read the night before.
“Better we continue with the session,” Grumi gestured toward the couch and sat in his armchair.
“I’ll tell you something more about my grandmother,” I began. “She never hid how much she valued my company, especially after my grandfather’s death, when she became bedridden and spent most of her time in bed. She was never tired of my antics, unlike my mother, who often couldn’t stand me. My mother sighed with relief whenever I ran off to my grandmother.”
Grumi began taking notes.
“Besides the stories from her own life, she told me many things about myself and my earliest childhood,” I continued.
“Did you ever find out what your grandfather did?”
“That especially interested me,” I said. “I wanted to discover what he was involved in, and who Max Brod and Franz Kafka were — the people in his head, as he used to say while alive. I longed to examine the books in his library, to sit in the leather armchair, and peek into the drawers of his desk.”
I closed my eyes, carrying myself back into that time.
***
Grandmother always found ways to avoid speaking about my grandfather, especially after his death. So, I resolved to secretly take the keys to his locked study. I had already discovered they were hidden beneath her pillow. The plan was simple, but nearly impossible — until one night I realized the best chance was to steal them while she slept.
I curled up in bed pretending to sleep, waiting for the sound of her snoring from the next room. I didn’t wait long. She fell asleep quickly, and snored even faster when lying on her back. On tiptoe I crept in and easily slid the keys from under her pillow. Within ten minutes I had unlocked the study door without a sound. I held my breath until I found and switched on the small lamp at the end of the desk. Quietly I sat in the comfortable leather armchair. At last, I could breathe.
I was thrilled at my success, though it took time to calm my racing heart. Everything felt so strange. Around me were countless things that teased my childish curiosity. I didn’t know where to begin. The shelves were filled with books, most quite old, their covers worn. My grandfather was not orderly; left to himself, the room would have been chaos—books scattered, covered in dust. My grandmother kept it clean, dusting at least once a week. My grandfather always felt as if she were rummaging through his insides when she did.
I tried to leave no trace, so she wouldn’t notice. From the doorway she could spot the slightest change.
“Something’s not in its place!” she would say, and I’d be in trouble before I could blink.
What caught my eye most was a black suitcase, neatly fitted into a recess beneath the desk — as if the space had been made for it. Since I didn’t know when I might return, I decided to open it first. As expected, it was locked. Luckily, the smallest key fit. It turned smoothly twice in the tiny lock, and the suitcase opened. I had imagined precious objects, strange devices, mysterious instruments. Instead, inside were only a gilded fountain pen clipped to a notebook with black leather covers, a pile of old papers, and a thick yellowed envelope. What drew my attention was a note describing the suitcase’s contents, left in my grandfather’s care. It said the case contained novels in manuscript, poetry, letters, photographs, and stories written by Kafka.
“Kafka must be one of those people in Grandfather’s head,” I thought.
At the bottom was a signature. From what I read, I guessed it was Max Brod’s. Then I wondered if Max and Kafka had not only lived in my grandfather’s imagination, but once truly existed in the world—and perhaps Kafka himself had stepped off a train at the underground station of the Castle.
***
The end of the session came unexpectedly. I had to stop because Grumi complained of a headache.
“I feel like my head will burst,” he said, massaging his temples.
Worried, I asked how I could help.
“There’s nothing you can do. I probably just need rest,” he replied and swallowed two tablets against the growing pain, though he confided that medicine didn’t always help.
“It will be better if I keep my eyes closed for a while. Let’s stop here,” he asked. “Next time we’ll continue where we left off.”
As I left, I quietly closed the door behind me.
***
Chapter 39.
When Everything Is So Unexpected
I left Grumi’s office worried about his health. I hoped it was just an ordinary headache, but at the same time I feared he wanted to spare me the details. Perhaps it was something more serious, although Grumi assured me he was hiding nothing from me. In the end, I had no choice but to trust him.
Walking down the corridor toward reception, I was so deep in thought that I almost stepped on a large raven lying lifeless. I was shocked. For a moment I feared it was Grumi’s white raven. The bird lay curled on the floor. Looking closer, I saw it wasn’t Grumi’s pet. It was a black raven, and I could say with certainty that it was the same raven who had once helped me find my way through the labyrinth of corridors in the Castle. I couldn’t determine what had killed it. There were no visible injuries on its body or head. I carefully picked it up and carried it to reception.
“Look at him, poor thing. I found him fallen on the floor. I hope he didn’t suffer much,” I said to Shurman, the receptionist.
I expected him to accept the dead bird, giving it the attention and respect it deserved, but Shurman refused even to look at it. He preferred to continue questioning me about my novel; the dead raven had clearly disrupted his plan.
“Keep it away from me! It could carry some disease. Or worse — it might be a contagious virus. Do you want us to be struck by a pandemic? Get out of here! Both of you, as far away as possible!” He was visibly agitated.
He kept his distance from me and the dead bird.
“I don’t understand you. Yesterday this bird was your assistant,” I reminded him. “Have you forgotten? You yourself asked the raven to help me find my way in the Castle. Your assistant impressed me with his abilities and immediately showed me the path.”
“Assistant? Such a sinister bird? Are you dreaming? Ravens are symbols of darkness and death itself!” Shurman was adamant. “In fact, if I’m honest, I noticed that in your novel there are many ravens, and while reading those parts I wondered why you give these gloomy birds a symbolism they don’t deserve — portraying them as symbols of wisdom, hope, even love! Are you playing again with your so-called artistic freedom?”
“I think ravens are unfairly burdened with the darkest traits and symbols,” I defended them. “They are intelligent, wise birds. In recent times they’ve been undeservedly maligned. People forget that in ancient times ravens were symbols of fidelity in love.”
“Please, stop. You won’t convince me otherwise! How could you connect such winged shadows with wisdom or love?” He was already furious.
I tried to calm him. “Mr. Shurman, do you remember when I first came here? As if it were yesterday, I recall it well. You yourself asked the raven to show me the way to my psychiatrist’s office,” I reminded him again.
“Enough! Let’s not start from the beginning. I don’t want to argue further. I’ve never had such a ghastly assistant, period!” Shurman insisted I had invented the incident or hallucinated when I first sought Grumi’s office.
“Why would I invent it? Show a little respect,” I pleaded.
“Respect? Respect for whom? For you, or for this damned dead bird that deserves nothing more than to be thrown into the garbage container!”
“Garbage container?”
“You heard me clearly!” He would not relent.
I couldn’t believe such inhumanity had gathered in Shurman.
“That’s the most I can do for the bird. As for you—if I didn’t know you were a writer and hadn’t known you since school days, I would have reported you already for harassment with such fabrications,” he now openly threatened me.
At last, I decided not to argue further. I took the dead raven with me and left the Castle. I intended to bury it in some bush in the nearby park. It took me a whole hour to find a suitable place. Strong wind and heavy drops of rain made it difficult to push through the park. I didn’t want to bury it in the first bush near the path. I had to hide from the curious eyes of some children who surely thought I had come to bury something valuable. Today’s youth seemed to have nothing better to do. I also had to escape the long gaze of two elderly women who probably found me suspicious.
“Pervert,” I heard one whisper to the other.
I hurried through the bushes, stumbling and nearly falling several times over roots hidden in the leaves. I never let go of the dead raven. Finally, I found the place I was seeking. It wasn’t perfect, but it was good enough for a dignified burial. Without wasting time, I began digging a hole in the soft earth behind a larger bush.
I hadn’t expected that burying the dead bird would be as emotional an experience as the recent funeral of the pianist Verona. Soon, several ravens gathered on the surrounding branches. It was astonishing how quickly they sensed my intention and responded with long, mournful cries.
“As if they’re crying,” I thought. “Perhaps they are family members of the dead bird or close friends.”
Many ravens landed around me. I was surrounded by a black cloud of birds. Everything that followed resembled a real funeral.
“A burial worthy of someone who lost his life working diligently in the Castle,” I whispered.
The ravens croaked, as if in agreement.
“I didn’t know him personally, but I think he was a good raven,” I addressed the grieving birds and told them the story of how the deceased, while working at the Castle’s reception, had once helped me find my way through its labyrinth of corridors.
“Then your friend was full of energy. And now? Here he is, dead. I feel as if I’m burying someone close. Before death we are all the same,” I said before laying the raven in the dug hole.
“Everything is so unexpected,” it seemed to me I heard from one of the beaked friends of the deceased.
Then, from somewhere, came the voice of the pianist.
“Verona?” I couldn’t believe it.
Someone or something was singing with the same voice of Verona I remembered. As I buried the raven, I heard this song:
“This land is ever emptier,
filled with ever emptier people,
with empty lives and empty heads,
with empty values,
with an empty future
and empty art.
Even the stones
are becoming emptier.
Empty is my grave too,
for I am no longer there.
Open it if you don’t believe me.
I have gone
somewhere far,
farther,
farthest,
to the afterlife’s exile.
Into the void beyond,
from where perhaps someday
I will see my
rebirth.
Until then only the wind
will howl in vain
for some better time.”
The wind truly began to howl, but not for a better time—it was heralding a new storm. It blew ever stronger. The singing voice was lost in the whirl of leaves and broken branches.
Weariness overcame me.
“Surely all this is just my imagination,” I told myself.
I worried I might get lost or remain forever in the park if I didn’t immediately find the way home. Behind me I heard many familiar voices as I searched for the path back. I feared they belonged to people no longer among the living. Even more I feared to think whose voice it was that repeatedly whispered: “You suffer so much. I am so sorry for you.”
I didn’t turn around.
I was afraid death was following me.
I walked faster.
I ran.
About the Author
In his novels Vlado Janevski explores the complexity of the roles that people play in their lives, emphasizing the unpredictability of life. Janevski is a Macedonian writer and painter. He is a member of the Writer’s Association of Macedonia and works in the following genres: fiction, poetry and children’s books. His is the author of the following novels: “Who Killed Edgar Allan Poe”, “Death Is Not the End”, “The Dead Know Best”, “A Miracle Around the Corner”, “Under Another Hat”, and “Made in Jabana”. He has also published the award-winning short story collection “No Return” and the awarded poetry collections “On the Back of No Return” and “Silent-word”. His works have earned numerous awards, including “Pegaz” for best novel, “Antev’s Gold” and “Stojan Hristov” for best poetry, Script Fest (for best feature film screenplay), plus honors for Best Short Story, Best Contemporary Fairy Tales, and the “Macedonian Roots” award for literary and artistic achievements.
