by Pavel Kornev
"We can talk about that later," the moneylender stated threateningly.
He was a strong man, and did not allow emotion to rule him. That said, sober calculation had told him not to chase a rat into the corner.
Rats trapped in corners are too dangerous.
I never forgot that, so I smiled amicably, gave a shallow bow and stepped back from the self-propelled carriage, not waiting for him to order me out of there.
My knees were shaking and giving out, but all the same, when I got near Albert Brandt, still under the awning, I was no longer showing the discomfort that had overtaken me.
"Shall we go?" was the only thing I said to the poet.
"Who is that?" Albert pointed to the self-propelled carriage, driving away from the cabaret to the measured claps of its powder engine.
"A business partner."
"You could have asked him for a ride."
"I don't want to trouble an old man," I laughed in reply.
Albert snorted pointedly and we went on our way.
On foot.
And it wasn't at all an act of small-minded revenge on the poet's part. It was just that his acquaintance's shop was very near the Emperor's Academy and it was faster to walk the confusing little streets of the Greek Quarter directly than tracking down a cabby and rolling down the overcrowded avenues and back streets.
"Alexander Dyak gets on excellently with reductionists," Albert told me, adjusting the carnation in the buttonhole of his morning coat. "He is also an unrecognized inventor. He's always messing around with all kinds of tools and tinkering with transformers. Students drag him ancient baubles, teachers visit to fill out their own collections of rare objects. You wouldn't believe it, Leo, the different kinds of people who gather there! Every other time you look, you see people laying out huge sums of money! They come in for a new electric jar, but leave with a little porcelain statue, all cracking and ancient. Weird people!"
"Collectors," I shrugged my shoulders.
"And students are like magpies. They'll take anything back to their nest that meets the eye. One of them this year has figured out how to nick manhole covers. A rare year for graduates, they say!"
I laughed and asked:
"So, tell me about your friend? What area is he active in?"
"I have no idea," Albert answered frivolously. "He's got a whole laboratory in his basement, but as you know, I don't understand science very well."
We crossed a stone bridge over a narrow canal into the historic part of the city and started walking directly for the square. There were benches all around the glade with students nesting in them like worried little sparrows. Those who couldn't find seats were sitting on the marble edges of the fountains, and some were just lounging about on the grass.
The whole neighborhood was filled with cute little two- and three-story homes with a never-ending array of bookshops, cheap snack bars, laundromats and little shops selling school supplies. If there ever were open seats on the outdoor verandas of the cafes, you almost never saw them. The owners didn't make particularly great profit from the many visitors, though. Most of them ordered just tea or coffee, and as for food, made due with the fruit of knowledge. The most profitable local businesses traded in nocturnal alcohol sales and renting out the upper floors and attics of nearby homes.
At first glance, this whole area was ruled by cleanliness and order, but as soon as you turned down a back alley or walked down a narrow little street from one tavern to another you would get a face-full of the smell of freedom and libertinism. Freedom smelled of piss. Libertinism had its own aroma always marked by strains of vomit; after flying out of their parents' coop, most students had achieved the wisdom to avoid excessive consumption of cheap beer not long after the beginning of their studies.
We didn't stay on the seedy little streets long, soon emerging onto Leonardo da Vinci-Platz. On the spacious square, there were noticeably more people, and the severity of the business-like frock coats of the die-hard reductionists there was fairly diluted with the frivolous and colorful attire of creatives; beyond the department of natural sciences, the Emperor's Academy had a school of high arts inside it as well.
Someone was playing the violin. Another person was dancing right in the middle of the street. Artists were lined up with their easels, getting the details right in their drawings of the slender spires of the academy, which gave off an unbearable shine both on sunny days and in the distinguished yellow of today's overcast skies. It should be said that some of the young people weren't doing architectural studies, they were fashionistas just sauntering by. They looked like kerosene lamps come to life in their straw hats, angular jackets and wide dresses with expanded waists.
My canvas pea-coat clearly lost out in elegance to Albert's morning coat and, even though my boots were shining with a fresh coat of polish, they still could not compare with the poet's finely lacquered shoes, so I hurried my pace involuntarily.
Near the memorial to Leonardo da Vinci, there were a few people fencing with wooden foils. Next to them, students in theater course were rehearsing. Hawkers with trays and bulbous coffee pots were carrying pastries. Boys with fliers were running around in all directions.
One of them noticed Albert's foppish appearance, slipped him a theater program and ran further, yelling in a hoarse voice:
"Last showing of Moon Circus. It’s the finale of a big tour! Don't miss it! Tight-rope walkers and a bearded lady! The strongest man in the world! Acrobats and tamed lions! Maestro Marlini is a virtuoso of scientific hypnosis! Don't miss it!"
The poet snorted and stuck the flier into his pocket.
"You need to get out sometimes," he said in reply to my inquisitive gaze.
After leaving the square, we turned down the next little street and almost immediately found ourselves before the store Mechanisms and Rarities.
"This is it!" Albert pointed.
It was strange inside. No, that's not quite right. I had been in some truly strange places, and in comparison with those, this shop looked like the height of normalcy; even the stuffed crocodile hanging from the ceiling and the sparking electrodes couldn’t make it that strange. My surprise was brought on by the way this place combined the contradictory.
On one side, the cases were filled with the latest electric jars, measuring instruments and writing implements. The other side of glass cases were filled with stamps, books, rare coins, porcelain statues, clocks and other antiquarian junk, of interest only to true connoisseurs.
But there was one thing that didn't fit the category of "mechanisms," or "rarities:" directly over the counter, there was a canvas with a panorama of some defensive structures near a river under a cloudy autumn sky that sprinkled the gray sea with fine droplets of drizzle. The picture was illuminated with two electric bulbs; their light gave the image a strange depth.
I was so distracted by the canvas that I didn't even notice the owner of the shop right away. He was a thin gentleman of sixty years in a frock coat with an antiquated cut. His hair, combed back, underlined his high forehead with its deeply receding hairline. His mustache and sparse beard had a touch of gray.
Albert exchanged a handshake with the shop owner, then introduced me:
"Leopold, my good friend."
Alexander Dyak greeted me cordially, then came out from behind the counter and threw back his head to look at the picture that had captured the attention of his new acquaintance.
"That is Kronstadt," he explained. "It is in the area of Petrograd, the capital of the Russian provinces."
I nodded and said, much to my own surprise:
"My grandfather is from Russia."
"Oh!" The shop owner grew animated. "And what was your father's name?"
"My father was named Boris."
"Leopold Borisovich! Nice to meet you!"
I smiled at the name I was unaccustomed to hearing and asked:
"You're making me blush. Now, I'll feel impolite not using your patronymic."
"Think nothing of it
!" Alexander Dyak guffawed. "I left Russia fifteen years ago. If someone were to use my patronymic now, that would feel really strange!"
We laughed; the poet ran his hand over the glass and said with pride:
"Leo, whatever you need: a screwdriver or a powder engine, you can find it all in our man's warehouse. And anything you can't find, he can get for a good price!"
"Well, I don't need a powder engine right now!"
"Then what do you need?" Mr. Dyak clarified in a business-like manner.
"A cane," Albert Brandt answered, bowing over the glass case of gold guineas. "Leopold hurt his leg, and he needs a cane."
"In that case, you'd better go to a doctor," the store owner suggested.
"Drop it, Alexander! Young people heal better than a junkyard cat!"
"How many junkyard cats have you seen in your life?"
The poet laughed uncontrollably.
"In my hungry years..."
"Stop it, Albert," I brought my friend to reason. "Whether you see it or not, Mr. Dyak, I will soon need to do a lot of walking, and without a cane, I won't be able to get by..."
"And in that my friend is a bit strapped for cash," Albert Brandt added without circumlocution. "We decided to go to you. I remember that you were telling me about an invention..."
"What do you mean invention..." Mr. Dyak frowned. "I just put a couple mechanisms together. Why do you listen to the ravings of old men? Much less what I said?"
After such a rebuke, I would have been dragging anyone else to the exit, but now I was just standing and moving my gaze from one man to the other as they argued. If Albert had beaten anything into his own head, it would be impossible to tell him otherwise, but the old man was a tough nut to crack, too.
"It'll just be a few days!" the poet continued to insist.
The electric lights burning under the ceiling flickered; Alexander Dyak nervously shuddered and cursed out:
"Damn these current fluctuations!"
"Alexander!" The poet tapped severely on the edge of the counter with his finger. "Don't get distracted! We can talk about the current fluctuations next time. What about the cane?"
"You could convince the dead to walk, Albert!" the shop owner complained and crawled under the counter. "Here, look at this," he demonstrated us a cane with a rubber cap that grew slightly thicker in the lower third as if two knees joined there.
The poet immediately grabbed it and handed it to me.
"Try it out!"
"Albert!" The old man boiled over and again got distracted by the frequently flickering light bulbs. "I'll have to check the cable..." he muttered to himself in agitation.
"You can check it..."
"Right now!" Mr. Dyak cut him off. "The last thing I need now is a fire!"
"Leo," the poet commanded me. "Try it out!"
I took a few steps, leaning on the cane as I did, and it gave under my weight just slightly every time. It definitely wasn't the rubber cap giving either, it was more likely a powerful spring inside.
"On the end of the handle, there's a cap," the owner of the shop told me. "Under it is a torch, check it."
The miniature bulb was unusually bright, but the small refractor behind it made the beam disperse fairly quickly, so it didn't go very far.
"The generator and electric jar are in here!" Albert grew giddy like a school boy. "Can you imagine? Isn't it lovely? No need to keep changing the battery! Just take it and use it! How congenial!"
"Very convenient," I agreed.
Alexander Dyak looked at us as if looking at two small children and shook his head.
"Be careful with puddles, though," he warned, taking the cane. "The high capacity electric jar discharging all at once would be very strong. I categorically recommend against submersing it in water by more than a third." He drummed his finger on the thickened part and returned the cane to me. "Can I count on your good sense, Leopold Borisovich?"
"Most assuredly," I told the inventor.
"No need to worry about rain, though. Drops and splashes shouldn’t pose a risk."
"You didn't tell me about that!" Albert reproached the store owner.
"Well, I still haven’t gone mad enough to entrust this cane to you!" Alexander Dyak waved it off. "Although I am no longer totally sure of the soundness of my own judgment..."
"How much do we owe you for the rental?" I then asked.
"Just get it back to me safe and sound," the old man replied. "I'm awfully interested in how reliable and tough the joint mechanism will be. I don't walk that much anymore, and there's no other way of evaluating wear and tear."
"Can I keep it until the end of the week?"
"Yes. And now, you'll have to forgive me, I need to deal with that wire!"
The light bulbs under the ceiling were now flickering incessantly. I didn't distract the man, thanking him again and making back for the entrance. Albert held back for a moment and asked:
"Nothing for me?"
"I would have written!" The old man pushed the poet out the door and hung a sign reading: "Closed."
Based on his agitated appearance, the problem wasn't the electrical wire at all, just another invention.
"A man of the world!" Albert assured me, sighed and added: "Just very easily distracted."
"How did you meet him?" I asked and leaned with all my might on the cane to test it out; it gave a slight spring, but that was all. "I don’t take him for a lover of poetry."
"Stamps," the poet answered simply.
"Stamps?"
"Postage stamps," Albert confirmed. "Students from all over the world study here. Their friends and relatives send them letters. If only you knew what kind of rarities come through this place!"
"I had no idea you were a philatelist."
"Me? No," my friend assured me. "But I have friends of friends with a certain interest in it. It's all quite complicated..."
Things were rarely simple with the poet, so I didn't interrogate him too much on the matter. I walked along, getting used to the cane and wondered:
"Why'd you drag me down here? Was it not for the cane, then?"
Brandt shrugged his shoulders.
"Alexander gets lonely," he stated. "No family, no friends. He emigrated from god-knows-where in Russia, but never really got close to anyone. He's always messing around with his inventions, but he never makes them public. That takes its toll, believe it or not. He's starting to give out."
"So you thought you'd give him some entertainment?"
"I'd like to keep buying stamps from him for many years," Albert laughed and took out his pocket watch. "And now, I beg your forgiveness, but I have a date."
"The mystery girl?"
"That's right." The poet sighed dreamily and warned: "If you were planning to spend a night in the city, you’ll have to find alternative accommodations. I'm afraid I won't be able to host you tonight."
"Are you afraid, or do you hope?"
"Leo, you see to the root of the problem, as always!" Albert laughed uncontrollably, clapped me on the shoulder and walked off to the main building of the Emperor's Academy. He was whistling away some tune, which I could still hear.
I shook my head and went off in the opposite direction.
I had business to attend to.
2
WHILE I WALKED to the nearest steam-tram stop, I finally got used to the cane. Slightly springing at first, it gradually took weight on itself and gave more resistance until the spring was compressed all the way down, and it became stiff. No more free motion, just up and down, up and down.
What did embarrass me a bit, though, was that the generator gave off a faint buzzing noise. But, here on the lively streets it dissolved into the urban soundscape and didn't bring any attention to me from passers-by.
I WASN'T ABLE TO FIND Ramon at home, so I looked into a small snack shop nearby, where the constable had the custom of having lunch before going to work. And that was exactly where I found him. I walked in the spacious room with hams hanging from the
rafters, took a seat next to him and asked:
"How's it going?"
Ramon stopped digging in his paella with his fork and sized me up with a gloomy gaze.
"Saturday!" he sighed. "My last day of work!"
"As for your last day," I took out the Atlantic Telegraph from the eleventh and slid it over to my friend, "I recommend you spend it wisely."
The constable began reading the headline; I ordered a sweet pastry and a cup of coffee.
I should have ordered something more substantial, but having a hearty lunch usually put me right to sleep.
"And what," Ramon snorted in confusion, looking at the data on the horrible murder, "now you’re planning on hunting for Procrustes?"
"Forget about Procrustes!"
"Leo, I'll never understand you! What do you want from me, tell me directly!"
I could barely suppress a heavy sigh.
"Ramon! What is the chance that two different werebeasts appear in the city at the same time with identical habits?"
"It doesn't say anything about a werebeast here," the constable objected. "Also, the murder happened three days after the new moon, and werebeasts are usually not feeling so hot at such times."
"Normal werebeasts, yes," I corrected my friend.
The constable pushed his unfinished paella away, picked up his glass of sangria and threw himself back into his chair.
"Normal werebeasts?" He didn't understand. "What do you mean?"
"Miscreants who transform at the full moon," I explained. "Even in New Babylon, they are no rarity."
"Every new moon, there are extra patrols in the Emperor's Park," Ramon confirmed. "Though a lot of the people they catch on such nights are mere lunatics."
They brought me my pastry, I took a bite, chewed it, poured my coffee and nodded.
"At the new moon, normal werebeasts do not attack people, which is why the newspapermen remembered Procrustes."
"But if it isn't Procrustes," the constable frowned skeptically, "and not a 'normal werebeast,' as you put it, then who is it?"
