by Pavel Kornev
But as soon as I started for the door, the salesman called out to me.
"Sir!" he shuddered. "Your old suit!"
"Throw it out!" I ordered, and went outside. I stood on the sidewalk for a bit, enjoying the slight breeze. Taking out my tin, I popped a powdered sugar drop in my mouth.
My rescuers were sitting at a table on the street. I didn't walk up to them, though, and slipped into the pawn shop with its barred windows where, among the jewelry out for sale, there were a number of pocket pistols and revolvers. After evaluating the pricing on the golden baubles, I decided not to even try to sell my cuff-links, and took off my timepiece.
"How much?"
The gloomy appraiser took the watch and immediately weighed it. After that, he looked at the stamp through an ocular he placed in his eye. He opened the back lid, immediately closed it and announced dogmatically:
"Thirty francs."
"How much?!" I figured I must have misheard.
"Thirty."
"What do you mean?! Its case is made of gold, and so is the band! It's pure gold – forty grams of it! Even if you sold the metal at half price that would be sixty or seventy francs!"
The appraiser set the timepiece on the counter and repeated:
"Thirty francs."
"It's a wristwatch! A timer! A calendar! We cannot possibly speak of an amount lower than fifty!" I objected. "I mean, if I don't sell it, someone might well rip it off my arm for a hundred and fifty!"
The man picked between his uneven teeth with a sharpened matchstick, then laughed:
"I'm starting to think you might have bought it. Thirty francs."
"I did buy it!" I wanted to bellow out, but held back. I was tall and strong with a characteristic haircut and cheap suit. And my colorless eyes played no role. It wasn't as if there was a dearth of scallywags among the illustrious. Looking like this, where I’d gotten the watch was a foregone conclusion.
And though this morning I could have easily pawned the timepiece for a hundred francs, my ceiling had been lowered to a pitiful thirty.
Curses! I was counting on that! When I’d bought the watch, my idea was to keep a bit of gold on me for the very worst of times, but all it's gotten me is laughed at.
After returning the watch to my wrist, I clicked the bracelet closed and pulled out my wallet. I slid a two-franc coin from it and slammed it down on the counter in annoyance.
"If you'd be so kind," I said, pointing at a pair of glasses among the baubles with round black lenses, reminiscent of those for the blind.
"Here you go."
The glasses clipped onto my nose, I walked over to the window and took a look outside. The lenses were very dark, and the bright sunlight no longer cut into my vision.
"I'll take them!" I decided.
"Yes, please," the fence answered back with a clink of his cash register.
I left the pawn-shop and headed back to my new acquaintances. Ivan Prokhorovich, to my surprise, had ordered coffee instead of wine; before him, there was an empty cup and a dish with the crumbs left over from a croissant. Yemelyan Nikiforovich was sitting back deeply in his chair, poking through a paper and smoking.
Sokolov was first to remark on my changed appearance and melted into a broad smile.
"That's a new one!" he said, his arms split wide. "I was intending to recommend you buy a hat, but, I see that you've solved the problem on your own and in fantastic fashion. Why, you’ve split the Gordian knot! Your middle name wouldn't happen to be Alexander, would it?"
"Come off it," Yemelyan Nikiforovich asked from behind his paper. "When you talk like that, you get totally lost in names and confuse me."
"Shall we have lunch?" I suggested, taking in air with my nose.
"Well, not here!" Sokolov gasped and got up from the table. "Come on, Yemelyan Nikiforovich, let's go!"
"I'm coming, I'm coming," he called out, pressing his papirosa cigarette out in the ashtray and starting to fold up his paper.
"Throw that filth out!" Ivan Prokhorovich suggested, smoothing over his skipper's beard. "What are you doing reading press for? Trying to spoil your appetite?"
"I have an interest in what's going on in the world!" Yemelyan Nikiforovich objected. "It's not like I'm reading the society pages!"
"And what's on the first pages of the paper? What grand events?"
"Nothing out of the ordinary." Krasin buttoned on his boater's hat, throwing his cloak over his folded elbow. "War with the Aztecs, skirmishes in the Sea of Judea. There’s also the bubonic plague and unrest in India. A full set."
"They haven't rounded up the thugees yet?" I laughed. "Astonishing."
In recent time, the Kali Stranglers had been a constant feature on the front pages of newspapers the world over. The sect of devotees to the goddess of death, destroyed in the last century by the English, had arisen from nonexistence much to everyone's great surprise. And now, the fanatical killers were dispatching imperial civil servants, soldiers in the colonial armies and clerks of the All-India Company with dispiriting regularity. And no one was even counting how many Indians had been killed and buried in their shallow ritual graves.
Ivan Prokhorovich was clearly displeased with my observation.
"Caught?" He threw up his hands. "What are you talking about, Count? If Colonel Slimane with his authority unbound by rights or morals never managed to cauterize that infection once and for all, what chance do his successors have? Not even the ghost of one!"
"Well, India and the stranglers are far away! Where we will be eating is what I'm interested in now!" I replied, hurrying to distract my companions from discussing recent news and change the topic to something more relevant to me.
"What do you mean where? Terem, naturally!" Ivan Prokhorovich laughed.
"Terem?"
"Never heard of it? It's a Russian restaurant. All our countrymen gather there."
"If you say so."
We walked down the street and Sokolov did not fail to return to the previous topic.
"Yemelyan Nikiforovich, answer me this: does everyone in progressive society still demand the Indians be given independence?" he asked none-too-politely, elbowing his comrade in the side.
"Nothing less," Krasin confirmed.
"I don't understand a thing in this life!" Ivan Prokhorovich shook his head. "Who are those people? In the last war, they sent telegrams of congratulations to the Emperor of the Celestial Kingdom. Now, they're on the side of the Stranglers. How can they do such things?"
"First of all, they struggle to remain objective. They're calling for us not to repeat the errors of our past and lump everyone into one box," Yemelyan Nikiforovich noted judiciously. "Just because someone is Hindoo, that doesn't necessarily make them a Strangler. The presumption of innocence, and all that..."
"Come off it!" Sokolov waved. "Hindoos are like cockroaches. They're everywhere! And they’re clever enough to powder the brains of civilized people with their mystical nonsense. Now, some Englishmen have even begun to worship Kali! English, French, Dutch! Can you imagine?"
I could, but didn't want to. I wanted to eat. So, I looked around and asked in confusion:
"How do you find your way around in this town?"
"Come now, Count! Getting lost in this city is impossible!" Sokolov assured me. "It's totally surrounded by the electric streetcar line and cut into neighborhoods by radial boulevards, like a Neapolitan round pie..."
"Pizza, surely," Krasin hinted.
My stomach gave a grumble.
"Pizza, that's right! All the radial roads lead to Maxwell Square," Ivan Prokhorovich confirmed and waved his hand. "It's over there. You can't miss it."
I looked where he was pointing and saw a dirigible hovering above the city.
"Has some well-heeled vacationer flown here?" I joked, rubbing my freshly shaved head in confusion.
"What?" Sokolov asked, following my gaze. "No, that belongs to some noveau-riche from the New World. He’s taken it upon himself to reconstruct the amphitheater.
It'll be open soon, then the rent prices will grow like a proofing dough ball."
The news left me ambivalent, in that I wasn't planning to stay in town anyway. I'd eat to somewhat reduce the searing pain in my stomach, and then head straight to the train station.
"Not noveau-riche, he’s a millionaire philanthropist," Yemelyan Nikiforovich reproached his comrade. "Believe you me, the reconstruction of the amphitheater set him back a pretty penny!"
"No, believe you me!" Sokolov flared up. "He'll get it all back with interest! Such people never let themselves stay in the red. Capitalists..."
"Let's not fight," Krasin looked gloomily in reply. "By the way, we're here."
And in fact: on the facade of the two-story manor, there was a bright painted banner reading: "Terem." Before the high granite stoop, there were several open carriages awaiting clients and, at the exit, guests were greeted by a servant wearing a long-waisted blue coat, a vest and a pair of trousers tucked into well-blackened boots.
The servant knew my companions and hurriedly threw open the door before us. Yemelyan Nikiforovich stayed back to hand him some pocket change.
Inside, it was noisy. The spacious room, with palm trees in planters along the walls and a huge chandelier under the ceiling, was filled with droning voices; music was playing, someone was trying to do a poetry reading. A number of open tables met the eye, but Ivan Prokhorovich led us to the second floor. It was just as busy up there.
"France is just a nightmare, gentlemen!" a stately young man with a poufy hairdo announced to his drinking buddies in a crisp voice. "Filth! Physically and, all the more horribly, morally!"
We walked past to a free table, and then Sokolov threw out carelessly:
"Trash!"
I turned and looked at the gentleman who he had characterized so straightforwardly.
"As in 'trash can,' I hope?" I asked Ivan Prokhorovich. "Surely, that isn’t what you think of the entertainment?"
My companions laughed.
"Nothing gets past you, Count!" Sokolov shook his head. "You'd cut the soles out of my shoes while I walk!"
The waiter came up and read out the menu in Russian.
"What can I get for you, gentlemen?" he inquired.
Over the last year, I had done a fair job improving my language proficiency, so I didn't get confused in the Cyrillic menu. I ordered a bowl of ukha, a black tea and a big skillet of fried potatoes. I could have wiped out a whole suckling pig in one sitting, apples and all, but I was constrained by limited funds.
Sokolov decided to order Siberian pelmeni and pickled vegetables. He asked a decanter of vodka be brought out with them.
"But make sure it's cold," he warned. "Not like last time. That junk was undrinkable."
"I’ll bring one fresh from the ice-house, sir," the lackey assured him.
Krasin, panting heavily, wiped his reddened face with a kerchief and pointed his plump finger at a line showing a cream soup.
"Pickled watermelon and a basket of bread?" the waiter clarified.
"That’s right," Yemelyan Nikiforovich waved his hand and turned to me: "Lev Borisovich, would you mind enlightening us as to how you earn your keep in life? Forgive me for the insolence, it just seems like the best way to start a conversation."
"I don't earn, I spend," I smiled neutrally. "I'm spending my inheritance from my mother, traveling the world, seeing new countries and getting to know new people..."
"That's something," Sokolov nodded in approval. "Well, Yemelyan Nikiforovich and I have to earn our daily bread with the sweat of our brow."
"Well, the sweat of my brow," Krasin objected. "But you, Ivan Prokhorovich, like a leaping grasshopper, just flit from place to place."
"Sure, I do sweat less than you," Sokolov said, stroking his dirty blond beard. "But I have to stay on the move. It's just the kind of work I do. But like a wolf, I make a living with my legs." He turned to me and announced in an official tone: "Ivan Prokhorovich Sokolov, special correspondent for a number of leading Russian newspapers and magazines. Outside of that, I publish feuilletons under the pseudonym 'The Naked King.'"
"Ah, I get it. Like the Russian phrase 'naked as a hawk,' 'gol kak sokol?' Is that from your last name?" I guessed and rubbed my chin. "As for the king part, I'm not so sure. Does that refer to John (translator’s note: Ivan is the Russian equivalent of John) of Patmos and Domitian?"
"Cut from the same cloth, you two," Yemelyan Nikiforovich snorted. "The pair of you would never be bored together."
"And what fates brought you here?" I wondered politely. "Just a detox?"
"I wish!" Sokolov sighed tristfully. "I'm here for work!" He took the cork from the freshly delivered decanter, poured himself a shot of vodka, then splashed a bit in his tea saucer for some reason and inquired: "Lev Borisovich, would you like a bit?"
"Thank you, I'll refrain," I refused, observing Krasin's manipulations with unhidden surprise. He placed the end piece of his white bread in the saucer of vodka. "It's hot today."
"It's always hot here," Ivan Prokhorovich assured me. "It's hot and crowded with famous figures. The whole beau monde is here for the opening of the amphitheater. They even expect Her Imperial Highness to attend. Have you heard?"
"No," I answered, giving a nervous shudder. Crossing paths with my crown-bearing relative, and more importantly her guard, was the last thing I needed.
I'll eat lunch – and straight to the train station. Without delay.
But will they be waiting for me there? Or maybe not even me, but the dead steward? After all, without a doubt, he had planned the timing of the fire so he could parachute down near Montecalida and roll out from there on the train. They might just be expecting him.
I immersed myself in strained thought and nearly missed Sokolov's story about the reason for his visit to the resort town.
"I've been sent here as a society commentator," Ivan Prokhorovich announced, "and my daily allowance is next to nothing. Believe you me, I'll soon start begging for charity."
"Your good friend will never get used to that," Yemelyan Nikiforovich noted grumpily, turning his bread over. "Many think it completely normal to sling mud at someone in the newspaper, then ask that same man to borrow a silver ruble for vodka."
A vein popped out on Sokolov's temple, but he held back.
"Who else can I borrow from?" the reporter asked with a crooked smirk. "Creative folk are always without a kopeck. You know that better than me."
"I do," Krasin confirmed and turned to me: "Lev Borisovich, I'm a literary scout in a certain way."
"A slave-owner," Sokolov injected. "He buys up poets and writers by the lot and sells them off. Some poor guy loses it all on cards, but here comes Yemelyan Nikiforovich with a cannibalistic offer. How can he refuse?"
"Don't exaggerate," Krasin waved it off, took the vodka-soaked bread end, broke it in two and stuffed it down his throat. "To your health..."
"To yours!" Ivan Prokhorovich saluted him with the shot glass and drank it down.
I finished my tea.
"Lev Borisovich, I can see an unasked question in your eyes," Yemelyan Nikiforovich smirked. "You see, I am somewhat afraid of water."
"Rabid," Sokolov laughed soundlessly, hinting at the other name of rabies – hydrophobia.
"You don't drink anything at all?" I clarified.
"That's right," Krasin nodded, taking a pickled mushroom on his fork and popping it into his mouth. He shrugged his shoulders and started carefully cutting up his watermelon. "I'm used to it already," he said calmly after a brief pause. "I eat soups, and I make up for the lack of moisture with fruit. Watermelon, for example, is almost totally made up of water. But this is just an appetizer. I eat a few pieces of fresh fruit, and that tides me over."
I didn't inquire about the circumstances that led to such a strange quirk of the psyche. I asked about something else:
"But, Yemelyan Nikiforovich, what were you doing on the lake then?"
Krasin looked gloomily at Sokolov. He laughed.
"You fight fire with fire, Count! Fire with fire! It's elementary, my good boy!" he announced. "Sakes alive, I was sure that our trip around the lake would easily rid our dear Yemelyan Nikiforovich of such a troublesome phobia. You cannot even imagine how much effort was put into getting him down to the docks!"
"A wager in cards is sacred," Yemelyan Nikiforovich said, and with a gloomy look sent a second portion of vodka-soaked bread into his mouth, then waved his hand. "Pour me another!"
I quickly finished the ukha, and drank my tea. My hunger let up, but only a bit, which is why, when they brought out my fried potatoes, I spread out a napkin on my knees and started filling my stomach, absolutely uninterested in how respectable I looked doing so.
A balalaika, which had been jingling out for some time on the first floor, went quiet, and an orchestra started playing. Sokolov, sending glass after glass of vodka down his throat, quickly became drunk. Krasin wasn't far behind with his vodka-soaked break and, when they started playing "Marusya was Poisoned" for the umpteenth time, put out his papirosa cigarette in a dish and decisively got up from the table.
"I'll have a Russian vodka, merchant-class," he announced and walked over to the stairs.
I looked at my watch and went up after him, taking out my wallet.
"I think it's time for me to pack it in."
It was an order of magnitude darker outside. The main chandelier had been turned on in the restaurant, but on the second floor, the light was impeded by a dim haze of tobacco smoke.
"Stop, Count! Stop!" Sokolov grew startled, having already abandoned all hope of foisting a glass of vodka on me. "Yemelyan Nikiforovich will be back soon, and we'll show you a really special place. It's just amazing!"
"It's no use," I refused, and placed my last tenner on the table.
But I didn't manage to get away. Down below, they were drawing out the sung phrase: "Hey, my little box is so full," (translator’s note: from the Russian folk song Korobeiniki) and, before I got up, Yemelyan Nikiforovich returned.
