by Pavel Kornev
The psycho went around a corner, and I looked around. With no small measure of surprise, I noticed that none of the locals were the least bit bothered by his seditious cries, as if such talk was business as usual down here. And I was immediately reminded of the bouncers from the casino on Maxwell street.
What was happening to this city? The first illustrious were on the front lines against the fallen but now, a half century later, their descendants had mud flung on them everywhere. No one had a single issue with that. I was even getting the sense that Professor Berliger was not at all alone in his desire to cut off the illustrious at the root. And that even scared me a bit.
I shrugged my shoulders, went down to the next level and found myself in pitch blackness. There was no light down here, and I had to basically navigate by touch. Unlike my previous visits, my eyes had yet to adjust to the dark.
Fortunately, it wasn't very far from the stairs to the blind illustrator's place, so I didn't take any lumps on the outcroppings of the uneven stone walls.
CHARLES MALACARRE took a bit of time to open the door.
"Is that you, Leo?" he asked after my third or fourth knock. "I'm sure I recognize your breathing, but I'd like to clear up my doubts!"
"It's me, Charles. That's right."
The illustrator let me into his home, locked the door and shuffled to the table.
"I'll light a lamp. I'm just not sure if there's kerosene."
I heard a gurgling, then with a long hiss a match was lit. Its smoky little flame gave way to the warm glow of a lamp, hanging down from the ceiling like a bat.
"Where is it?" I asked, looking around.
"What are you talking about, Leo?" the thin old man faked surprise, but he couldn't lead me on so easily.
I stood on my tiptoes, felt the high shelf in the entryway with my hand and, without any surprise, pulled down a two-round percussion musket with a full stock and an extremely short barrel.
"Charles, next time you cock it, clear your throat like this," I said, making a throat-clearing sound, putting on the safety and returning it to place. "And really, what do you need a weapon for?"
The illustrator sat down in a concave armchair and turned his head in the air indistinctly.
"The illustrious are not in a good way these days, you know."
"Is it that bad?" I asked in surprise, taking off my overcoat.
"Worse than you know."
I lowered down onto the artist's bed with a nasty grimace, threw myself back on the pillow and immediately felt taught pricks of pain in my shot-through thigh. I really shouldn't have exerted my wounded leg, but I couldn’t just sit around without moving. I also had a horrible ache between my shoulders. My neck could hardly turn.
Charles Malacarre got up from the chair and, just as confidently as a seeing person, took a glass of tea from the table and came back.
"Fortunately, few would suspect a blind old man of being illustrious," he chuckled.
"When did it start?"
"Did you miss everything?"
"You might say that."
The illustrator gave an understanding chuckle.
"I can sense that you've changed, Leo. What garbage are you on, morphine?"
"Morphine," I confirmed.
"Your thoughts are just a ghastly mess. How long has it been since your last injection, a few days?"
"I was never doing the injecting, Charles!"
"And I'm Emperor Clement!" the old man laughed acridly.
" I spent more than a month in a hospital. They gave me morphine to treat the pain."
Charles nodded.
"Then everything is clear." He spent some time in silence, then still decided to answer my question: "It started, Leo, with the death of the Empress. In the Atlantic Telegraph, there was an article with the headline The Last Illustrious Lady of the Empire and, although it was praising Victoria, people got it in their heads that the time of the illustrious had passed."
"You can’t read the papers."
"I'm blind, not deaf! I can hear everything. Judge for yourself: Clement welcomed the illustrious. But while he was ruler, they made a lot of enemies. Victoria escaped her husband's legacy but was a guarantor of stability all on her own. And now well, believe you me, blood will be shed. The old aristocracy hates the illustrious. The reductionists consider them a hold-over from the past, while the rest simply want to dip their hands into someone else's pocket."
I got up from the bed, looked around the pitch-black room with shadows playing on the ceiling and suggested:
"You wanna get out of here?"
"No, Leo. I don't," the old man refused. Then he asked: "Why'd you come by? What do you need dragged out of your memory this time?"
"A man."
"Well at least it's just that!" he laughed hoarsely, coughing as he walked over to the easel. "Concentrate, Leo. Today, there isn't even porridge in your brain, but the most natural gelatin."
I laid back on the bed and tried to restore my chance encounter with Sean Lynch in the hotel vestibule. But my head was heavy, my thoughts were confused, and I just couldn't concentrate on the redheaded Irishman's face. There were unfamiliar shapes curling on the edge of my consciousness. Charles swore, tore out some sheets and threw them into the basket.
"Drink some tea, Leo!" he suggested. "It's from my personal collection. You'll like it."
I didn't refuse. The illustrator and I sat and chatted for a bit, then Charles pulled a clean sheet of paper over and tossed a portrait of Lynch on the paper with a couple of sparing strokes.
"Sorry, Leo. This is all I could pull out of your head. Stop taking that morphine."
I lit up the sheet with the kerosene lamp and whistled. This time, the blind illustrator had outdone himself: the sparse pencil lines had surprisingly come together into a familiar face. This was the very man I'd seen at the receptionist counter on that ill-fated day.
"Simply astonishing!" I said, not begrudging him the admiration.
"Your words are a balm for the soul," Charles laughed, going into a dark corner and shuffling through some bags. "I'll give you some tea. Drink it three times a day. Everything will get better."
"Excellent!" I smiled and, trying not to make noise, raised the lamp and put a couple of hundred-franc bills under it. After that, following a certain intuition, I pulled one of the rumpled papers from the garbage.
Eyes, fangs, claws.
Vertical pupils, the acrid curve of a wide smile, the glimmer of curved claws.
The Cheshire Cat. I also recognized him from at first glance, but this ghastly monster didn't look one bit like the kind-hearted creature from John Tenniel’s illustrations.
"Here, Leo!"
I accepted a little fabric bag from the illustrator, put it in my pocket, then carefully folded the portrait of the suspect and got up from the table.
"Thank you, Charles."
"Take the money," the artist demanded. "I heard money crinkling."
"You only thought so," I lied without blinking, pulling on my overcoat and walking to the door. "Close it behind me."
"Drink the tea!" Charles Malacarre bid me farewell.
"Without fail."
I left the room and went along the dark passages in search of stairs. The conversation about the illustrious left me with a burdensome impression, so I kept my right hand in my pocket with the revolver. But no one even glanced in my direction. Either I looked obviously unfriendly enough, or I simply didn't look much like an illustrious gentleman with my clear eyes.
THE ARMORED CAR was waiting where I'd left it. I got into the back and handed the paper to Ramon.
"Here's our man."
Ramon shone an electric torch on the portrait, gave an indistinct snort and asked:
"Remind me of his name?"
"Sean Lynch. And also, Roy Lloyd, but that's an alias."
"We'll check," the hulking man nodded, writing the names on the back of the paper in pencil.
"What now?" I asked.
Ramon loo
ked at me in doubt and rubbed his chin.
"It's too late now. I might not catch the right people at work. You want me to take you home?"
I shook my head. Albert certainly hadn't yet returned from his rehearsal, Liliana was at her parents', and I had no desire at all to talk with the succubus.
"No, we better go to the Imperial Theater," I decided.
"Are you serious? To the theater?"
"Mhm. I'll call tomorrow morning and get the news."
"If you say so," Ramon shook his head and told Tito to get moving.
THE IMPERIAL THEATER BUILDING impressed first-time visitors with its monumentality, the muscular atlantes on its portico and the great many marble statues on its gable. In the center of the roof, there was a towering dome with gilded spire which, in clear weather, was visible even from the outskirts of town.
The inhabitants of the capital mostly didn't share in these delights, and disdainfully referred to the theater as "the birdhouse." No one could say for certain why it had been assigned that derogatory nickname, but it must have either been due to the tower being shaped like a bird cage, or because of all the songbirds living inside.
Getting inside was no work at all: Albert Brandt had been given a basement room in a side wing for rehearsals, and the guard thought his main job was to make sure the actors, costume artists and scene workers kept their smoking outdoors. The little fussy old man simply didn't have time to keep track of guests.
All on its own, the practice space seemed spacious to me, but not too well kept. I didn't stick around there for long. I saw a half-naked girl running down the corridor, and I asked her where to find the gentleman poet, then headed where she pointed. The actress, her teeth clacking in the cold, didn't even think to ask who I was.
It was barely warmer in Albert's office than in the corridor. His only privilege was that he could smoke right at his desk: when I walked across the doorstep, there were thick wisps of smoke curling under the ceiling.
"Leo!" the poet said in surprise, rubbing a whitish cream the consistency of petroleum jelly on his face. "I was just..."
"No!" I held out an open palm. "Don't explain a thing. I don't want to know about your bohemian affairs."
"Come now!" Albert laughed. and continued rubbing in the ointment. "This is to protect me from the sun. Without it, I'd never have survived the summer in Montecalida!"
The poet really did have an allergy to the direct rays of the sun, but I just snorted in disbelief.
"It's raining outside, Albert."
"Doesn't matter!" the poet waved it off and pushed its tin container to the edge of the table. Its top was screwed off, and the label had a white-skinned vampire standing in the sun and smiling.
"Science makes miracles," I laughed, sitting in the chair.
Albert wiped off the rest of the ointment with a paper napkin, threw it into the waste basket and asked:
"What fates brought you here?"
"Liliana left to see her parents."
"Oh!" the poet lit up, opening his desk drawer. "That means we don't have a time limit!" He took out a bottle of wine and started cutting the wax. "Leo, what'll you have?"
"And what about the rehearsal?"
"It's already over. But now that my darling wife is healthy again, I can afford to stay a bit late at work!"
"Did Elizabeth-Maria come during the day?"
"Oh yes!" Albert confirmed. "Her new look caused a true furor! I'm sure they society journalists will write about it in their columns!"
"I'm glad for you."
"Leo, you didn't answer. What will you have to drink?"
I looked around Albert's office. It had a single window just under ceiling and practically no furniture. I asked:
"Can I make some tea here?"
"Tea?" Brandt cringed. "We haven't seen each other in so long, and you're going to drink tea?!"
"It's a medicinal tea. I need to get my nerves in order."
The poet rolled his eyes and left the office. Soon, he was back and placed a tea brewer and pot of hot water on the table.
"Get it from the doorman?" I guessed.
"The night guard," Albert corrected me and threw his arms wide. "Well, what do you expect? Pour your water!"
The poet uncorked his wine. I started brewing my tea. After that, we clinked glasses and conducted an unhurried conversation about everything at once, and nothing in particular. The blind illustrator’s tea had a calming effect. All my problems seemed far away and insignificant, but I didn't have any sleep in either eye.
My head was clear, I was feeling sprightly, and I didn't want to get up from the chair. All those feelings combined in a surprising way. Albert was also in full swing today, regaling me with tall tales of his theater life.
When the clock on the wall rang one AM, it caught us by surprise. The poet thoughtfully rubbed the bridge of his nose and enquired:
"Do you think there's any reason to go home?"
"Elizabeth-Maria?" I reminded him.
"She'll huff and puff, but I need to catch my breath. Let's just sit and talk like the good old days! You me and no one else. Family life is just wonderful, but if only you knew how I missed all this!"
Albert Brandt led his hand around the office, and I nodded, letting him know that I understood his mood perfectly. And how else should he be? We're all visited by such thoughts from time to time.
"Shall I give you the tour?" the poet suggested.
"Why not!" I didn't refuse.
In the end, we didn't go home.
8
ALBERT FELL ASLEEP right at the table.
To the poet's credit, he dozed off only around seven AM, and had spent all night babbling away like a wind-up toy.
I got up from the chair slowly and carefully, grabbing the arms and leaning forward a few times to stretch my legs, then headed to the lavatory. I relieved myself, and on the way back, turned to the guard. I'd seen a telephone on his table yesterday. The little old sentry man's shift hadn't begun yet, while the night guard was sleeping somewhere, so no one could stop me from calling Ramon Miro's office.
And although I didn't have particular hope for success, my partner was already at work.
"Leo, where the devil have you gone?!" he hissed into the receiver. "I found your Lynch yesterday!"
"So soon?" I asked in surprise.
"It's his real name!" Ramon blindsided me.
"Are you sure?"
"My man in the card database brought out his personal record. The photograph coincides with your drawing."
"What did he do?"
"His crimes were political. He's under investigation by Department Three on suspicion of connections with Irish nationalists."
"Address?"
"Got it."
"Can you pick me up from the theater, or should I just get there on my own?"
Ramon considered it for a while, calculating the distance, then admitted grudgingly:
"You'll be there before me. But don't sneak up on him alone, alright?"
"Tell me the address."
"A house with a green dovecote on Hamilton street."
"But specifically?"
"Five Hamilton Street, but there aren't any numbers there. Look for the dovecote. Lynch is renting a basement apartment. There's only one in that building."
"Got it"
"Do you know how to get there? It's the Green Quarter..."
"I know," I cut Ramon off, because I knew exactly where the Irish-populated neighborhood was. It was not far away from the Eastern European one, settled mostly by Poles and Russians. Once upon a time, I had lived there for six months or maybe even a year.
"Wait for us on the street," Ramon demanded. "Don't do anything before we get there. Got it?"
"Agreed," I promised and hung up the receiver.
After that, I quickly returned to the poet's office, took my leather overcoat off the rack, clipped the peaked cap on my head and hurried to the exit. On my way, though, I had a change of heart and ducked int
o the prop room, which Albert had shown me on yesterday's tour. The door was affixed with an English lock, but I managed to open its simple bolt with a couple of pins.
Yes, I robbed the Imperial Theater without compunction. I made off with a wrinkled woolen overcoat, a shapeless felt hat and a shaggy strap-on beard. I crammed it all into a knapsack with an over-the-shoulder strap, slammed the door and hurried away, mentally vowing that I would return these rags at my first opportunity.
For me, this masquerade was simple necessity. The leather overcoat and peaked cap were perfectly familiar to the killer, and I really didn't want to catch a couple bullets in the back while waiting for Ramon Miro.
THE NEAREST UNDERGROUND station was five minutes' walk from the theater, and that's where I headed. The sky had cleared overnight, and the sidewalk had dried off, but it wasn't hot in the leather cloak. There was a chilly breeze blowing in from the ocean. It blew away the smoke from the smokestacks and rustled the branches of the trees.
My head was very slightly humming after the sleepless night, and my ears were ringing a bit but, overall, my wellbeing didn’t worry me. Not paying any mind to the heartrending cries of the newspaper sellers, I joined the stream of city dwellers going down into the underground, paid for passage and started waiting for train.
Soon, a sooty train, shrouded in wisps of steam and smoke, dragged a chain of no-less-blackened cars into the station. I took a seat in the corner and rolled through the outskirts. With every stop, there were less civil servants and clerks. Their fashionable cloaks and smart derby caps were gradually replaced by the well-worn jackets and caps of laborers.
When I left the wagon, there were very few clerk types left. Most likely, they were plant managers. For some reason, they seemed very afraid. They didn't show it externally, but my talent suddenly came to life and caught a distinct timidity inside them.
Most likely, it was all to do with the continued strike.
On the platform, I walked to the stairs, but drowsiness immediately poured down on me with a heavy weight. It was as if I was pulled into a dream. My eyes started sagging, and the smoke and steam enshrouding the locomotive came to life, forming a gloomy hooded figure in a cloak.
