The Stranger: The Labyrinths of Echo, Part One

by Max Frei

  “What I want to know is something I’ll figure out for myself. Give me more details.”

  “There’s nothing in particular to tell. Right afterward I felt I was in tip-top shape. My mood was good. Even too good. I felt cheerful, without any grounds for it, as though someone were tickling me. I wanted to laugh apropos of nothing. So I wandered around the house giggling like an idiot—children would say ‘I was feeling punchy.’”

  “And that’s all?”

  “Well, yes. Isn’t that enough?”

  “Because of you, Sir Max, I have to be surprised so often it’s almost indecent,” said Juffin.

  I couldn’t quite tell whether he was praising me or mocking me.

  “So what happened? Tell me now—I’m on pins and needles!”

  “Well, sit for a while without the pins and needles, and I’ll chew my food,” Sir Juffin snapped, biting off nearly half of the Glutton Pie, specialty of the house, which had just arrived.

  He was really as eager to talk as I was to hear, and he began talking with his mouth full.

  “The First and Last Lady of the Secret Investigative Force, Melamori, decided to test whether you were indeed worthy of her adoration.”

  “I know one good way to test it,” I murmured. “If she doubts whether I am at her service any time of day or night, let her try me. You can tell her that.”

  “Oh, Max, come on. Lady Melamori is a very serious woman. She has her methods. That’s why our cruel huntress has decided to shadow you.”

  “What! Has she lost her mind?”

  “No, I wouldn’t put it that way. She’s always been like that.”

  “Are you sure that she’s on my trail? I feel absolutely fine.”

  “Exactly. You feel wonderful. How did you put it—you feel ‘punchy’?”

  I didn’t know what to think anymore. Lady Melamori on my trail! Unbelievable. But what usually happens to people in such cases? Deep depression at the very least. That’s the job of the Master of Pursuit—that’s why she’s hired. But I’m a rare bird. The queen of my heart is hot on my trail, and I feel nothing at all. Just a bit giddy. I’m a callous, insensitive pig. A monster. I hate myself.

  There was another reason for my distress.

  “And I thought she was asking because she was really worried. That she thought I was sick, since I wasn’t at work. And that she couldn’t wait until I turned up at the House by the Bridge again. But it was just her idea of an experiment. How humiliating.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Juffin. “The old gal was interrogating you with the best of intentions—according to her own lights. If you had betrayed any sign of suffering, she would immediately have stopped. And she would have been completely happy. You see, for Melamori, her dangerous gift is a question of honor and fate. It’s the only thing she really has. Don’t worry. All our boys have had to undergo the same torments. Even I did—at the very start of my career, the lady decided to find out what kind of fish or fowl it was ordering her around.”

  “I can only imagine the blow she got.”

  “No, it wasn’t so bad. For her benefit I demonstrated my ‘Primary Shield’—though I could really have lost my temper. I have to hand it to her—the girl came to her senses in under an hour. She’s a fine damsel, that Melamori.”

  “What is this ‘Primary Shield’?” I asked. “Is it something you can teach me?”

  “The ‘Primary Shield’ is a poetic name for my own kind of Secret Weapon, Max. ‘Primary’ means it’s the least dangerous for my opponent. What can I teach you? You’ve got stronger shields than any person in this World. Stronger than I dared hope. And you’ll gradually learn to use them, but only through experience. Don’t sell yourself short. You just lack the terminology.”

  “What a formidable character that Lady Melamori has turned out to be,” I sighed, pouring myself a comforting portion of kamra. “Such potent gifts at her disposal, yet she behaves like a little child.”

  “Are you angry with her, Max? Don’t be. It’s not worth it. The poor thing is already moping around as it is.”

  “No, I’m not mad. Just bemoaning my broken heart.”

  “I warned you from the start that choosing her as a sweetheart wasn’t a very wise move. Does it never occur to you to listen to your elders, Sir Max?”

  I sighed and cut myself a second slice of the Glutton Pie. I’m a callous human being. No broken heart can spoil my appetite—it’s been proven time and again.

  “You don’t have anything to add regarding this incident except the sad story of your broken heart?” Juffin asked when we had polished off the pie.

  “I don’t know. Actually, I should be asking you. How can it be that I don’t feel anything? Strange things are afoot.It seems that if I commit some crime, I can just calmly flee the scene. I’m a dangerous guy.”

  “Yes, much more dangerous than many,” Juffin observed with a satisfied air. He looked like an artist whose hands had just put the finishing touches on a masterpiece.

  “It’s all so strange. When I lived at home, I didn’t notice any miraculous inclinations in myself at all. I was as ordinary as the next person. I had peculiar dreams, but that was a personal matter. Maybe others dream the same way, but they just don’t talk about it? But as soon as I end up here, some novelty or other surfaces every day. Maybe you should just cut me in half to find out what’s inside!”

  “Excellent idea, Sir Max. But you aren’t as invulnerable as all that. You’ve got your limits. Remember what happened to you in the Old Thorn?”

  “The place that funny lanky fellow runs? What’s his name—Chemparkaroke.” I smiled, feeling a bit sheepish.

  What happened there wasn’t an achievement I wanted to recall. Juffin had taken me to the Old Thorn when I was still waiting for my appointment to the service. He decided that I just had to try the Soup of Repose, a dish favored by all citizens of the Unified Kingdom.

  As far as I understood it, this soup had a light narcotic effect, so harmless and pleasant that the whole family was accustomed to partaking of it, even the littlest tykes.

  For that reason I plunged into the psychedelic adventure with no trepidation at all, although my whole life I had felt a cowardly antipathy toward drugs and drug users. My smattering of experience in this area was acquired, of course, in the last years of high school, and was so unsuccessful that rather than developing a habit, I developed a phobia.

  I really fell face-first into the Soup of Repose. All my foreignness, which I simply forget about from time to time, came to the surface as soon as I had finished slurping up the first serving. Juffin suddenly found himself in the company of a blithering idiot, giggling over his empty bowl in a fit of hilarity. For me it wasn’t the most pleasant experience, either. In an instant I had become a hallucinating nutcase with compromised coordination. The respectable habitués of the Old Thorn, I imagine, were shocked by my behavior.

  After this incident followed twenty-four hours of agony, as though I had stopped taking drugs after twenty years of rampant indulgence—and that despite the qualified medical help of Sir Juffin Hully. But even his healing arts were in vain. I had to endure it.

  After I recovered, I vowed to make an enormous detour—of at least twelve blocks—around the Old Thorn.

  Juffin approved of my decision and solemnly vowed not to indulge in Soup of Repose in my presence.

  “Just don’t tell anyone that I can come undone merely by eating that soup. Someone might pour some into my kamra just to see the effect it has on me.”

  “What are you saying, Max! That’s an attempt to poison a high-ranking government official—exactly the sort of crime that falls under our jurisdiction. Anyway, I think I’ll go home. And you try to be kind to Lady Melamori tomorrow. Our Lady is quite beside herself. After this little drama I think she’ll have to refrain from working for a few days. In our line of work, self-confidence is as necessary as the air we breathe, and every setback can mean the loss of one’s gift.”

  “You don
’t have to ask, Juffin. I’ll be nice to her. And not because . . . but because . . . well, never mind. Just don’t worry about a thing. If I had known what was happening, I could have complained to her about being in a bad mood right off—I wouldn’t have minded. And everything would have turned out fine.” “Don’t grieve, Max. Just think about how many wonderful things there are in the World! That’s an assignment. See you tomorrow.”

  And Sir Juffin hurried out, to where the faithful Kimpa was already waiting for him in the amobiler.

  The chief was absolutely right. The World is full of wonderful things. It was best to acknowledge the wisdom of what Sir Juffin Hully said. It was best to relax, stop sniveling, and start a new life—with a visit to the Quarter of Trysts.

  This, by the way, is what the majority of lonely ladies and gentlemen do in Echo. And there is no shortage of them. Marriage in the Unified Kingdom is something people embark upon in their mature years—and not everyone decides to get married even then. It isn’t customary here to consider a family to be an unmitigated boon, and a lonely old age synonymous with failure in life. No one tries to claim the contrary either, though. Public opinion is simply silent on the matter, allowing everyone to arrange one’s affairs as one sees fit.

  I had quite recently received a detailed briefing about the Quarter of Trysts from Melifaro, who fairly took me to task for being so ill-informed. You may be a barbarian, he said, but that doesn’t excuse you from knowing something so basic.

  This aspect of local custom was completely unexpected for me. Despite my almost panicky desire to embark on some sort of “private life” I wasn’t sure I was ready to visit the Quarter of Trysts.

  Let me explain. When you are returning home from a party in the company of a girl you don’t know very well, and you both realize where things are headed—well, it doesn’t always look like the Great Amorous Adventure that you dreamed of in childhood, but the scenario is simple and predictable. Everything happens by mutual consent. Two grown people make a more or less conscious decision. For one night, or longer—the ensuing sexual experiences of a new combinations of bodies will show.

  In Echo, however, chance encounters are another matter altogether.

  Visitors to the Quarter of Trysts fall into two categories: the Seekers and the Waiters. Every person decides for herself or himself which category to join that day. On one side of the Quarter one finds houses of male Seekers and female Waiters; on the other side are female Seekers and male Waiters. There are no signboards. Everyone knows where to go and why.

  Upon entering the appropriate house, every Seeker must take part in a curious kind of lottery and pull a token out of a vase. By the way, there are also blank tokens. They signify that on that particular day fate is preventing you from having an amorous encounter with anyone whatsoever. In that event there is nothing to do but turn around and go home. Theoretically, the unlucky person may proceed to the neighboring house and repeat the process, but this is considered to be a sign of blatant disregard for one’s own fate, and there are not many who would want to challenge it.

  Once the Seeker gets a token he goes into the living room, where the Waiters are to be found, and starts counting each person in turn—one, two, three, etc.—until he reaches the number that appears on the token. That Waiter is, so to speak, waiting for him or her.

  I hasten to add that there is no one there to supervise the activities, so there is nothing to prevent cheating. But Melifaro himself said he couldn’t understand how such an idea could even enter anyone’s head. He couldn’t imagine anything more outrageous. Upon witnessing his reaction I concluded that no one in the Quarter of Trysts engages in such fraud. Here it is taken for granted that Lady Fortune is quick to take offense, and it’s best not to play pranks on her.

  The newly fledged lovers then leave the Quarter of Trysts, set out for home or a hotel, and try to extract as much pleasure as possible from this arrangement of fate. In the morning, they must part forever. That’s a mandatory condition.

  As far as I understand it, no one is there to enforce this unwritten contract down to the last point and to punish violations. Nonetheless, the rule is considered sacrosanct, and my suggestion that it would be easy to cheat fate met with a grimace of disgust, as though I had undertaken to expound on the charms of necrozoophilia and had warmly urged Melifaro to accompany me to the nearest pet cemetery. “Please, no more jokes of that kind,” he advised me grimly. “Especially around people you don’t know. And not around people you do know, either.”

  So I never was able to understand the real reason for my friend’s offended sensibilities. I dismissed his prejudices and soon came up with my own high-minded explanation: the mutual agreement of the lovers, that separation for all time was inevitable, was not the worst means of lending an aura of romance to “intimate relations with a chance partner.” (I think this is how such phenomena are described in cold officialese.)

  After recalling the above information, I realized sadly that it was still too early for me to make my way over to the Quarter of Trysts. My knees would shake, my tongue would twist into knots, my armpits would become small inverted lakes—and afterward in bed I would hardly show my most flattering side. The manner of acquaintance was too abrupt and unconventional. And what if “my fate” delivered me into the arms of an ancient, toothless giantess with elephantine legs? How, I asked myself, would I survive till morning? No. Better to place my bets on a more conservative approach to courtship, since it isn’t prohibited by local tradition.

  After reaching this decision, I looked around in search of a way to kill time. The only possible conversation partner, our buriwok Kurush, was dozing, head tucked away under one wing. I reached for a book that Sir Juffin Hully had left lying on his armchair. The title was The Philosophy of Time; the author, one Sir Sobox Xes. Sinning Magicians! What people won’t read.

  All in all, I had a rather distressing night. Thumb-twiddling boredom, fruitless deliberations about the Quarter of Trysts, and philosophical literature can plunge one into a funk much faster than the magical shenanigans of our incomparable Master of Pursuit.

  The morning brought with it some favorable changes. Sir Kofa Yox amused me with a few risque jokes. Juffin decided to stay home until lunchtime, but he sent me a good-morning call. At the same time he asked me to wait for Melifaro, so that the Secret Investigative wouldn’t be without someone in charge. I didn’t object, since I was-n’t planning to leave anyway until I saw Melamori. She most likely felt guilty, and I’d be a fool not to use such a chain of coincidences to my advantage.

  The lady finally made an appearance. She slunk around the Hall of Common Labor, unsure of whether to approach me. The door to the office was open a crack, so I had the opportunity to overhear a series of bitter sighs, too loud to be spontaneous.

  After enjoying the concert, I sent a call to the Glutton and ordered kamra for two and a lot of cookies. The order arrived in a matter of minutes. When the courier opened the door, Melamori flitted to the far corner of the hall, fearful of remaining in my field of vision. She seemed to be listening to the clatter of dishes with bated breath.

  When the messenger had left, I asked loudly through my wide-open door:

  “If I have a tray with two jugs of kamra and two mugs delivered to my room, do you think it’s because I suffer from a split personality? I need help—there are no two ways about it.”

  “Is that for me, Max?” came the plaintive squeak.

  “It’s for my late great-grandmother, but as she’s in no condition to join us—well, I’m not angry, and the kamra’s getting cold.”

  Melamori appeared at the door. Two expressions struggled for mastery on her face: a guilty one, and a satisfied one.

  “Did Juffin tattle on me? He might have saved himself the trouble, since I’m so ashamed as it is,” she muttered.

  “There’s no need to feel ashamed, Melamori. I’m just made a bit differently, that’s all. Don’t worry your head over it. My wise Mamma said that if
I ate a lot of horse dung every morning, I would grow up strong and handsome, and no one would be able to shadow me. As you can see, she was right.”

  My heart ordered me to be magnanimous, but it would be wrong not to admit that I hoped for a little reward. After all, her admiration (albeit treacherous) was a rather pleasant sensation; far better, it seemed to me, than polite indifference. Polite indifference, which I had experienced more than once, was something I didn’t even want to contemplate.

  As a result of my carefully planned operation, I seemed at last to have charmed the First Lady of the Secret Investigative Force. Sipping her kamra, she exuded ingenuous cheer. Our fingers touched accidentally a few times over the cookie platter, and she didn’t cringe from my touch by any means. Suddenly emboldened, I suggested that we stroll through Echo in the evening. The lady admitted honestly that she was afraid, but she promised to be brave—not today or tomorrow, but very soon. No later than a few days from now. We just had to fix the date for accomplishing this feat. It was a serious victory. I hadn’t counted on it.

  I went home ecstatic. For two hours or so I tossed and turned, unwilling to forfeit my happy excitement to the oblivion of sleep. Finally I dozed off, lulled by the purring of Armstrong and Ella curled up at my feet. I wasn’t able to sleep for long, though.

  At midday I was awoken by a terrible noise. My head still fuzzy with sleep, I decided that a public execution (not customary in Echo) was underway beneath my window, or that there was an itinerant circus in progress (which does happen here from time to time). Insofar as it was impossible to regain slumber in the midst of that hubbub, I went to see what was going on. When I opened the door, I suddenly felt that I had either lost my mind, or that I wasn’t really awake yet.

  On the street in front of my house, an orchestra made up of a dozen musicians had taken up its position. The musicians were trying desperately to coax some mournful melody out of their instruments. The magnificent Lonli-Lokli stood in front of them, wailing at the top of his lungs a sad song about a little house in the steppe at the top of his lungs.