TRIUMPH OF DEATH (Romantic Interlude)
The curtain is lifted. On the stage, the Universe itself with all its beauty and splendour.
Grand ballet: planets go dancing to the sound of music of spheres. Death comes, a beautiful young equestrian. He's wearing a light white mantel, his blond curls are crowned with a snowdrop wreath. People of the Earth as well as other planets accompany Death with loud exclamations: "Vive la Mort! Vive la Mort! Vive la Mort!" Young nations mob around Death, embracing his knees, kissing his silver spurs and golden stirrups: "Vive la Mort! Vive la Mort! Vive la Mort!" The choir of the young nations sings. The procession departs. The music dies away as a series of inharmonious sounds. Actors vanish like shadows at dawn. Poet is alone, with a scroll in hand, standing among old ruins.
"...Why isn't it my fate to live for ever in a peasant's small abode, peaceful, modest, in the rustic quietude of my home garden, instead of hearing the noise of crowded squares? No, no. Oh spirit of my doubts, go away!" The God of Death comes to him in a shape of a dark-eyed young Venetian, and… Poet gets languishing in the loving embrace, but before he dies, he takes his harp in hands again, and begins singing in a vibrating voice. The song of a dying poet. Swan's song. Here, scared by censorship, Poet dies without finishing a couplet.
The curtain falls, with a loud noise. For whom did it fall? The Poet was both the last actor and the last spectator.
Clem's old tutor of the name of Old Ilmar could not be called "une demoiselle pour faire tout," but the old manservant did many works at the household, being a barber as well. In the morning, before going out, I called him to use his service.
Our venerable Figaro did it to me fairly well. Awaking in the morning, I forgot to look out of the window, and when I did it, it was too late for seeing Clem's "apollos." The half-legendary creatures remained difficult to catch for my eye.
The windowpanes of the manor house were graced by the bright glow as I glanced at it, on my way to the Lake Laas. From the flower garden, the bowery stone staircase, old and broken, went down towards the yellowish sands. In springtime, I remembered, the curly crowns of the bird-cherry trees sprinkled the white fragrant flowers all over the stone way. The Lake seen at a distance was friendly for bathers and swimmers, and I knew one lovely place under the shelter of weeping willows.
From the time in my young age, when the Siamese of the name of Laurie taught me to swim, I was second in this art to none of the Pacific Ocean islanders. In the early hours of the morning, at the Lake side, I had a good dip in the cold waters, took the sun, and in addition, a blind chance gave me a mate, and I nearly had sex with the stranger.
The stranger was a swimmer like me, but unlike me, he turned in the Lake side on the way to his home. Colonel Valentine Denesvije, the ex-military man and lifelong bachelor, with his nice setter Pish-Tush, lived in Retusari Estate, patrimony of twins von Hahn-Hahn, his far cousins. His rich wavy light-brown hair had some silvery strands. His upside-down U-shaped moustache was thick and trimmed: the full moustache with vertical extensions grown on the corners of his thin lips and down the sides of his mouth to his manly jawline. Could not be called a military fop, far from it. Wearing disarray, the tall robust man was trim and reserved, and like many healthy and strong men he looked friendly and in the mood for new impressions. One of us.
We recognized each other's taste, perhaps like Oddfellows, and it was not because we had the chance to see naked each other. It must be said that usually, seeing or hearing a signal, subtle or evident, which suggests a possibility that my new friend could be "one of us," I accept the signal readily, being ready for helping, understanding or being a rescuer, but no sooner than I see we are sailing in the same boat, for I'm too mature and sophisticated for a folly. My supposition about the Colonel was pleasantly exciting, but confusing too, for I was not about to please his manhood, here and now. As for him, however hot he was, he looked returning after a sleepless night. Seeing me swimming, he greeted me from the shore, telling me about his intention to join me, then he undressed and presently I was a lonely swimmer no longer. We introduced ourselves to each other in water. After we came out on the sands, we saw each other naked. His armpits look like two dark furry rats and they seemed slightly moving in the breeze as he lifted his beefy hands and placed them behind his head in order to take the sun. His manhood with the ass-shattering cock looked positively like a hairy monster. The water was cold, as I have said, and getting warmed in the sunshine was above all for both of us. Thus, in the nude, we were standing and taking the sunrays for some time, but the breeze seemed cold to our wet skin too, and we subsided on my coverlet. It was quite reasonable to get our skin dried a little more, before putting on our clothes, and we spent some time, sitting side by side and whipping droplets of water over our skin.
I expected his first attempt, and when he suggested his help for whipping the droplets over my skin with his hands, I said, "Allez donc, mon colonel that'll do, and I want nothing from you, nothing!" Looking at his face, I hastened to add, "One should be in love beginning a new lovemaking. Only this helps to tell who is to be on top. The burning question which brings some beginners to a state of hesitation."
"Jawohl!.. I take your meaning." He looked both understanding and interested.
Thus, everything about our sexual orientation was clear between us, and something more about our sexual taste could wait till next time. I went on by saying one poem. Author: Rupert Brooke. Title: Lust. Written in 1911, last year, my translation in German --
"Love wakens love... I felt your hot wrist shiver
And suddenly the mad victory I planned
Flashed real, in your burning bending head. . . .
My conqueror's blood was cool as a deep river
In shadow; and my heart beneath your hand
Quieter than a dead man on a bed."
All shades of carnation.
Lavender
has many shades too.
Not exactly, lavender has hundredfold more shades. It looked like my reciting touched his heartstrings. He stopped his attempts on my body, those careful yet evident actions in the form of his gloating over my body, the cadences of his low voice and his big hands getting closer to me with every motion of his broad shoulders. As I think, however licentious or righteous the man was, his special attention might be baleful to one's virginity, for the military man scarcely felt like keeping ceremonies to a civvy, who most probably was of his ilk. After his big mighty hands got quiet embracing his own hairy knees, with the knees looking beautiful to me, and he himself looked dreamy, I asked him to tell about his house-mates. I little knew anything about the twins, unless their kin's history, which was a part of our European history. My interest to biographies like that was always great because of the fact that one of my own grandsires came to the Russian Empire when specialists were called from Germany for beginning post office service in Russia.
The kin was ancient, having several lines. In 1762, during the Seven Years War, Christian Ludwig Hahn from the Ludwigsburg line of the kin was taken prisoner by Russians; later, the prisoner of war came to a decision to stay in the Russian Empire for ever and he entered the Russian army. Colonel Valentine Denesvije met his far cousins, again, after years of separation, and the three had to know each other anew, which proved to be for better, in the special period of the twins' life, which he never said much about, unless roundabout, to me. In his interpretation, it was a while before the twins celebrated their 21th birthday, in Europe, where they travelled in search of their father's murderers, with some secret ends, as avengers. The search was their old intention, but first, the boys had to wait till they were aged 18 in order to be entitled to manage their legacy and to travel with no attendants. By the time had come, they were motherless. They left home, elaborating their plan, on the way. "Now, if I say that their mission's accomplished, it'll be more than enough said," it was all what Colonel Denesvije said in conclusion of his narration which had only two short sentences more.
Quite enough for me. My vivid imagination of a writer could complete the information. It's not so difficult to suppose that the avengers felt happy after their mission accomplished. If not happy as blazes, then having a new stimulus to live on. Perhaps, only now, after unburdening their minds, they could enjoy life as before, having a wish to live afresh, to live happy for the rest their life. Retribution restores balance, no? I said, "As I think, their mission is accomplished thanks to the happy circumstances that the twins have you, their Uncle, finding again you, sir, on the fine day."
"You are right," he said.
Seeing his mildness to my refusing, when he left his attempts on my body so easily, I took it he didn't wish my submissiveness too much, having a lover, perhaps, or preferring to have sex with inferiors.
Now, it's time to begin dressing. As soon as he put on dark breeches, boots and his khaki military uniform jacket, with his shotgun on his shoulder, he looked yet better, a true feast for the eye, though he never buttoned his jacket, and the breeze blew over his manly chest as he whistled at his lovely setter, "Pish-Tush!" Khaki uniform never was my fetish, but trimmings of lace, ribbons, and buttons never was to my taste too much as well; the Colonel simply looked beautiful to me that moment.
Besides my trousers and shoes, I had only my white shirt on, when going out, in the morning. I subsided on the grass to see him from below and began openly gloating over his figure as he caressed his dog. Why? Firstly, the sight was highly enjoyable to me; secondly, my intention was showing my love for the sight and tender passion for the stranger, before we parted company each going to his own realm. I said, "If we were naughty, mon colonel, today, here and now, it might not be a mere fun, and not faint, far from it. Thrown together by a mere chance, we risk our carelessness breaking our recent plans, no?" I sought to sound both meaningful and apologetic, but frankly speaking, I sought to convince myself in the rightness of my refusal not to be regretful about it.
With a blade of grass in his teeth, he looked down at me and said, "I see. Next time, but not now."
My judgment did not betray me: he's one of us.
Watching the figures of the two, the beautiful man and the beautiful dog, against the blue sky, sunlit and moving away from me, I felt more and more regretful about my refuse – in an instant, I said to myself that my flat refusal right if not righteous, for really, it was not a right time for getting dependant on a hot and lustful male body like his.
PART 3. On the Continent. Quest II in September
"Come in, my son, and lie on the bed,
And let the dead folk bury their dead."
(Oscar Wilde)
Chasing up
Before going out, in the morning, as usual, Kasimir-Theodor heard the news of their mother, which Clement heard from me. Impressed like we, he said that he would go along with us, when the day came.
After the morning meal, Clem and I settled in the antiquated, brown and beige striped chairs at the balcony door. My chair held me like a cloud again. Did you notice that the most of our grandsirs' chairs are especially comfortable? Neither he nor I began talking about our intimacy, as though nothing happened to both of us, last night, in his bed --me, because I was old enough and not subjected to outpourings, and he, because he wanted to look older and manlier than he was. After we made a sip from our glasses of cold milk, fine in this part of the world, Clem proceeded with his narration on Quest I by telling about his thoughts when he was to get out of the carriage and on the way to his home estate.
About the apartment that either was naughty or it only seemed to him... he lost his cane there. "I needed a new one. In addition, I needed a pair of new gloves, a match for my gray hat, which I'm about to buy in one of boutiques of Gunsmiths Avenue, as soon as I'm in Brumburg again." The only dark cloud above the railway station began drizzling... At home, Hippolite and Kasimir-Theodor got from Clem a glimpse of his visits in the city, but he told nothing about the mystique part of the visits. Seeing himself losing the thread of the talk, he said that he was too tired and went to his. The thought of some evidence or trace in the correspondence of his missing mother had prevailed in his mind, eventually; therefore, after having a rest, Clem went to Mother's room.
In Leticia's room, for some obscure reason, the servants never gave the room a dust and the masters never ordered to do it. Printed copies of Alma-Tadema paintings were one each of the walls. The trees shaded the half-curtained windows. It seemed to Clem that he sniffed smells of abandonment and decay. Opening the Chinese Chippendale desk, Clem tried the drawers, but the boxes proved to be locked. Searching for keys and not finding them on the desk, he switched on the lamp and began searching on the shelves, tables, stands. The keys were between books. He returned to the Chinese Chippendale desk.
A lot of papers in the drawers: some bills, an old prescription: "Infus. Valerianae, Natrii bromati..." No wonder. The largest part of letters was in the form of accurate packets, neatly tied with string or ribbon. Clem didn't dare touching the letters; he merely looked at the upper envelope of each packet. Several familiar hands: his late father's, aunt's, late grandmother's, his own childhood letters, Hippolite's and Kasimir-Theodor'. But there were unknown hands and addresses as well. Placing the bundles back, he turned over the unsorted letters.
A small book was among the letters. Her diary or notebook whose pages were to breathe of her oddish spiritual life. But Clem was not about to read it. He merely opened the book at the bookmarked place and he read what his mother wrote on Page 4:
"It cannot be otherwise. I've come to the decision. Once I came to the decision, I must do it. I should do it 10 years ago. Doubts? Is there any use?"
The bookmark was a piece of paper which proved to be a note. He showed the note to me. The note said:
"Mme, don't you think that you should get resolved? In addition to what was previously said, I can merely say that Mr X knows Your history, in brief yet enough for taking it into consideration. You detest the thought of being connected via Mlle D. All right. I'll be waiting for you at midnight, at the swing. If you don't come -- that's Your business. It's not joke or threat -- alas. Sincerely Yours, S."
"S" might refer to names or surnames beginning with "S" as well as "Sh" and "Sch". The hand was unknown to him; a sense of the text seemed incomprehensible to Clem, not to mention me. For illustration, he offered to go to Leticia's room so that I could see the next scene with my own eyes.
Indeed, his mother's room was full of scents that seemed old, which created impression of abandonment and decay. Opening the windows we spend the time in the breezy room till dinnertime. Clem finished the story of the "Note from Mr S" by saying that after reading this note, he was about to confer the handwriting to the handwriting of the Note, which he got from the black gloved hands of a stranger, and which brought him to the Locker, but... he could not find the Note.
Needless to say that unable to find the "Note about Locker" at his, he got agitated, and then he flew into a rage, because he remembered that he cold lose the Note when visiting the Naughty Table's Den. It was clear to him that with the err birds like Mlle Delamarche, it was impossible to find a truth, and then he realized that he could not remember whether he took the Note out, when he was at the Den or not.
The pause in Clem's narration. A message from Kasimir-Theodor which let know that he dined out today. At table, besides my younger cousins and me, there were two guests: the local land-surveyor of the name of Rudolf Trauberg, who came to talk with Kasimir-Theodor on business, and Georges Simenon the teacher who was to continue Hippolite's home education.
A Belgian, the teacher was a middle-aged man wearing steel-rimmed spectacles therefore of no interest for me, for the time being, at least, till I knew him better. Rudolf Trauberg was ugly, or rather the fair-haired young man was not so young and having no charm, which made him rather common, in my view. In other words,
"Another sip of wine. Smoke snakes upwards.
It's time to go home. Nothing to do here,
with you, in particular."
After the first removal, Clem asked, "Have you heard, Mr Simenon... our mother disappeared. Almost a week ago."
"No. Nothing seriose, I presume?" the teacer said.
"Nothing serious. She was thinking about a travel. We expect her message."
Mr Trauberg said, "They say a wolf was seen on the road to Suurkukk. However, it was only one time, and the source is not so reliable. A young boy from a farmhouse."
"Interesting," I said, "It's the mushroom season here, isn't it?"
Mr Trauberg said, "Not sure."
Hippolite said, "It's high time for gathering mushrooms."
Clem said, "Sooner, the time begins."
Hippolite said, "There are damp places in the forest where mushrooms a yearlong."
Clem said, "But we talk of edible mushrooms, no?"
I said, "Let's go to check up, eh?" I never was a mushroom picker but I wanted to see the forest.
"All right," Clem said, "Did you know that mushroom pickers go out at dawn?"
"Tomorrow," I said, "At dawn. Charming."
Having no other business today, Clem and I went to the Lake side, after the meal.
In the umbrage of the nut-trees, Clem continued by saying that when he was in his mother's room, alone, it occurred to him that Mlle Delamarche knew both the writer of the note found in his mother's room, and his mother's current address.
He said to himself that he should visit Mlle Delamarche solely in order to see her apartment safe after someone's invasion and then he should use the chance and inquire about two things at least which concerned him so much and truly. As for his visions of the naughty objects in her apartment, he believed it but a hallucination or temporary obsession in virtue of the alcohol intoxication. Thus, the next day, he went to Brumburg for a "pair of new gloves."
In St Benedict Street, at the gates of the house where there was so-called Den of the Nauhty Table, the junior yard-keeper said that Mlle Delamarche had moved from the appartment, and he didn't know where. Clem went to the chief yard-keeper. A Russian Old Believer, judging by his clothing and the smell of incense from his lodge, the chief yard-keeper took out a register from behind the stove and began turning over the pages. Looking from behind the man's shoulder, Clem was the first to see the record about Mlle Delamarche: on **/**/**** Mlle Delamarche departed without leaving any information. "The lady's departed though," the chief yard-keeper said, "If you, sir, would like to know where, you should apply to Mr Aboleo."
"What about Mr Aboleo's address?"
"We can't know it. He and his manager usually come by autocar, by night. Would you, sir, like to leave your address so that we could let you know as soon as we know more about Mr Aboleo's address?"
"Well then…" Clem left his address and left the lodge.
It was on Thursday. Clem decided to revisit St Benedict Street to inquire once again, in the evening of Saturday. In Lamplighters Lane in his faily flat, the Locker, both mysterious and unlocked, was no longer in the hallway. He called the servant who knew the story of the Lockers' coming from Weymarn.
In reply to his questioning, the servant said that on the next day after the locker was brought, a messenger from one Mr Aboleo came to say thank you for keeping and to take the locker away. Clem did a jolly good scolding to the servant for letting some strangers in.
On Friday -- impatient, alone in his flat, with no news from St Benedict Street – he dressed for going out, but the doorbell rang, and Clem had to receive a guest. The guest was Doctor Talvik.
As he said, Doctor happened to be in the city on business, on the day, but his visit in looked perfectly natural and didn't need any explanation in the light of the Lisnyaks' latest trouble. Clem briefly told him about the purpose of his own going out. Hearing the address of Clem's destination, Doctor said, "So, it's not a rendezvous?"
"No, not at all!"
"It's a business date?.. Well then…" Doctor looked hesitating and thoughtful as though being talked into staying longer and thinking over his own plans in his mind, then he said, "…You are going out, and I have no business. I'd love to keep your company… if you don't mind."
"I'm glad."
As they came out of the main entrance, they nearly bumped into a guy, who looked like a yard-keeper's assistant, which made Clem pause. The guy stared at Clem, thinking of something. A piece of paper was in his hand. Eventually, he took off his hat and turned to Clem, "I beg to ask if you are Mr Lisnyak."
"It's me."
"So, I am the junior from St Benedict Street. So, Mr Aboleo told to let you know the address of Mlle Delamarche you may learn from his manager."
"Where there is the manager and what's his name?"
"I can't know it… sir."
"Why on earth you've come?"
"Thinking that you, sir, know of it."
"You are a thinker. What's your name?"
"Kvas, sir." The yard-keeper scratched his head.
"Now, Kvas, tell me if your chief knows the manager's name?" The guy kept silence. Clem said, "Well?"
"I humbly apologize, but... No, sir."
Vexed, Clem thought he had to let the guy go, but Doctor said, "They don't now the manager's name. Maybe, they know how the gentleman looks like. Eh, Kvas? Can you tell anything about the gentleman?"
"If Your Lordship wants to find the manager today… He's on New Market Square."
Clem said, "So, you know how he looks like!"
"True, I happened to see him, sir."
Clem said, "So, he's on New Market Square. What does he do there?"
"He and one more gentleman have coffee in the second floor, at the open window. I can't remember the house's number, but you'll see the manager: blond and presentable all over. Foreigner."
Clem faked a smile, saying, "A house with no number. An open window. Coffee at New Market Square!" Impatient, Clem left the guy alone and with no tips, took cab, and along with Doctor Talvik he went to New Market Square.
"Well…" Doctor began talking, when the springs of the carriage with the opened folding top began rocking them, "What a funny guy. I began thinking that you would never get the point from him. Apropos… What about your mother's correspondence? Did you do the search in her room?"
Clem said, "I did it, but.. Nothing. Nothing, unless… one note."
When giving the note to Doctor Talvik, Clem glanced at his walking-stick. Brown and silver, it looked familiar. In his visions about the naughty den, a brown wood and silver walking-stick was at the table. However, the stick looked rather ordinary when seen from afar, one of many. As for looking at it attentively, he had no chance or reason to do it.
The square was crowded on the occasion of a holiday. A night promenade or outdoor fete which the citizens did with the endemic decency, savoured by proper gluttony and other sorts of spree. At the watering booth, Clem asked the coachman to wait for his return, and among the festive noise, Doctor Talvik and Clem went round the Market part of the square. The air smelled coffee. Then they crossed the square going to another side.
Looking more and more vexed, Clem looked in the opened windows of the shops and cafes, but nothing of the yard-keeper talked about: no blond gentleman with a mate having coffee. "Searching of a blond man in Ostsee! How silly!" To finish the expedition of the night some how, Clem began cruising about the New Market Square among the more or less joyful walkers.
Doctor Talvik seemed to have lost his usual talkativeness, and he simply followed Clem. As they approached the enormous balcony of the Restaurant At Del Monaco's, the very balcony which was propped by cast iron pillars, over the pavement of the New Market Square, Doctor paused by two strangers who could have spent time over a cup of coffee in the restaurant, having come out of the rich and flippant atmosphere of the tail-coated waiters, popping crocks and aromatic steams from the earthly viands, only a short while ago, and raised his hat.
One of the strangers was wearing a gray bowler, and his mate had a dark top hat on; both men were well-dressed and mannerly; their dark spectacle frames glinted gold, and their dark moustaches looked as artificial as many modern styles. Clem heard Doctor addressing to them with a question about the object of Clem's search and he took it that Doctor acted au hazard. In reply, Clem and Doctor heard that they knew Mr Aboleo's manager and that the manager was "over there" at the moment. Following the strangers' eye, a not long way off, Clem saw a mass of a glossy darkness which was a motionless black autocar.
Doctor said, "What an exceptional luck!"
"I'm going to him!" Clem said.
Doctor Talvik touched Clem's sleeve, "I'll be waiting for you."
All Clem wanted was the autocar not to move away suddenly before he reached it; he harried, but he sought to be extremely polite when drawing the attention of the autocar's driver through the window.
There were two gentlemen inside, and they were the two, who Clem was in search of, on the clear night. Clem felt shy about his own improper mood, hating to look ridiculously nervous. The two got out of the autocar, and in the sufficient night lights Clem saw the manager proved to be a fair-haired indeed, well-dressed, handsome man about thirty, but Clem never looked at him attentively because he gaped at the gentleman's companion who left the driver's seat.
It was the very young man who he first saw at the séance of aesthetic gymnastic. Clarence Batwick. The young man's elder said, "Good evening, Mr Lisnyak. I am Adrian Magnhus. Manager and friend to Mr Aboleo. This is my secretary Clarence Batwick."
"Hello, Clem!" Clarence Batwick said.
"Hello, Clarence. Nice to see you. Mr Magnhus, Clarence and I happened to see each other, but... I wanted you to talk on business. As I heard… you can tell me a new address of Mlle Delamarche."
"Why not?" If the blue eyes of Adrian Magnhus were not so bright, they would twinkle. "Mlle Delamarche has left for Padrik, and she lives there. Padrik is a small estate on the road to Est-Toila."
"Padrik. Thank you, sir. Maybe, you can tell me Mr Aboleo's address either?"
"Alas. I cannot talk about Mr Aboleo's address."
The Manager said this so dryly that Clem changed his mind to be persistent, "Thanks," he said.
The Manager and the Secretary bowed their thanks, slightly sideway, giving polite smiles.
Forgetting to talk about the Locker, Clem left the two faultlessly tailored men at the autocar.
("I didn't know that managers have secretaries," I said.
"Neither did I. Anyway, when leaving that spot, I thought that I succeeded at least in something that day."
"So, the strangers didn't look fearsome and they never did harm to you?"
"Just so. And yet, they looked unusual."
"Unusual, indeed. A manager who has a secretary... Fancy that!"
"No, that's not what seemed strange. The Manager looked five years older than me, at most. And his secretary looked younger than me. I expected nothing of the kind. I expected they were much older, old enough for their job."
"Perfectly natural of you. In addition, you didn't expect to see the young Batwick who was one of friends to your neighbours Mona and the von Hahn-Hahns."
"Of course. That's a reason of my confusion and agitation. Not sure. Besides, the two looked too rich and independent. Like you and me."
"Too rich, too well-dressed, too handsome. But dear, you must know that there are some men who do care about their look and comfort, much. Perhaps, too much. Perhaps, as much as some females. For me, a globe-trotter who knows the world, the portrayal of the two doesn't sound unusual."
"Maybe, and yet..." Clem wearily sighed, "Anyway... There's little remaining to tell.")
At the restaurant entrance, Doctor was nowhere about. Either was the cab. Not a slightest vexation about that. Really, a man of dignified appearance, Doctor Talvik was but a doctor and he might have some business. When walking on the bridge between the riversides, Clem said to himself, "Well then, I'm going to Padrik!"
Next day, on Saturday, early in the morning, Clem carefully dressed. Putting on his new gray gloves and taking his new walking-stick, he was ready and he went to the railway station. But he never got to Padrik.
At the railway station, at the platform, there was a crowd, at the moment when Clem came. There, among the people, a top hat glimpsed.
A man had a lilac silky top hat on. The man's coat was blue; a dark and silver stick was in the man's hand; he was with someone, and the two went out of the railway station. The sight of the glossy lilac top hat mesmerized Clem for several reasons. Seeing their way out away of the railway station, he dashed to chase the men.
Firstly, he wanted to look at the men's faces to get convinced that they were actually unknown to him, but he failed. However, the longer he walked after the two, the more he got convinced in his first impression that he saw the men never before, though he could not see their faces, unless the profile of the man wearing the gray top hat who turned his head to talk to his taller companion and who looked either Levantine or Spanish with the black beard of Mefisto. Secondly, he wanted to know a name of the top hat's owner, whoever the man were. For some obscure reason, the simplest supposition that it could be a different top hat never occurred to Clem; on the contrary, it seemed to him that he recognized the excessive gloss and the treacherously shimmering lilac glow.
In the sunshine, the old trees forgot of the upcoming autumn; over their crowns, the lancet roof the Cathedral pierced the blue sky, and this gray spire, this symbol of the local antiquity that one could see in postcards and guide-books, seemed available for viewing from every side-street, every archway and café. Something mystique was in this omnipresence and balanced indication seen from the far corners of the lower part of the city as well as from the mossy walled height. From the height, the city spread as a glorious medieval view. The hoary wall went down to the tall grass of the triangular public garden, next to the cobblestones of the street, narrow and meandering, and next there was the view over the crowds of housetops, orange in summer heat and red in a rainy day. The town hall tower clock read soon after ten in the morning. Following the cabaret top hat like a lodestar, Clem followed two strangers wherever they went.
Clem supposed, Lilac Top Hat hosted his companion around the city, and the companion had arrived, this morning. The tourist was taller than the gentleman wearing Lilac Top Hat, he had a deerstalker cap and light chequered overcoat on. Clem's amateurish eagerness of a spy prevailed over his delicacy and caution, which caused some isunderstandings on his way. He didn't notice his attention seeming persistent to a kissing couple in the shade of an old willow till the lad turned to him asking what he could do for him. The fiery sparks of a possible fight flashed in the air, over and above his plan, Clem begged pardon and turned away in search of the next way for his chase. His next stop was because Clem hesitated between the side-street whose vista showed the oatmeal-coloured side of the Cathedral, where two sightseers walked, and the nearby archway leading to the same place, roundabout. He who hesitates is lost. Clem dashed to the archway.
From the Cathedral, Lilac Top Hat and the Tourist went away through the very archway and Clem had to pretend an ordinary passerby to the best of his abilities, and then he carefully came after the couple of sightseers. The next side-street was so narrow and meandering that the very thought of a finish was pleasant -- but the side-street didn't finish. In front of a house, Lilac Top Hat paused and took something out of his blue coat pocket. Apparently, a guide-book in the form of a booklet or a folded map, since he and his companion began checking over something. The result didn't seem satisfactory, because the two turned to a passerby, an old man with an umbrella as a stick in his hand. Listening to their inquiry, the old man thought a little and then got angry, gesticulating and sputtering. The visual angle let Clem see Lilac Top Hat struck dumb, but the companion said thank you in a loud voice in English. The old man got quiet, nearly decreasing in size; it looked like the vent of his tension was intended for others. Two sightseers turned to a branch of the side-street.
A light at the end of the passage. Next, a busy street, a home to shops and boutiques. The grocer's shop window beckoned with thick snakes of sausages and the cheeses gleaming in tears. Next, a watch maker's shop with constellations of old clocks. An antique shop window where a small Negro goggled at an excessively fastidious chess. Leaving behind the Vautier shop, passing by a museum, Lilac Top Hat paused at a four-storey house. An old apartment house. The two entered it through the front door. Trying the old door, which didn't creak, Clem slipped in.
One of steps was broken, and Clem stumbled, flying into the semi-dusk -- but the objects of his chase had been upstairs, by the moment, and their spy's clumsy coming in didn't alarm them.
In the third floor, the visitors paused, and Lilac Top Hat pressed the button of the doorbell. The sharp sound drilled the wall and obscure entrails of the apartment. Lilac Top Hat and his companion waited at the door. On the staircase, their shade Clem froze awaiting too. After Lilac Top Hat pressed the button once again, the door turned into the light yellow doorway, where a woman appeared. The woman's face showed a fright. The lilac top hat was raised by its owner's hand, and the polite greeting calmed the woman's fright which slipped into amazement. The comer's question never changed the woman's inquiring expression. Lilac Top Hat asked another polite question. She began telling something about a former dweller of her apartment. She shrugged shoulders, her lavender flowered dressing gown moved which looked like a huge bunch of lavenders swayed on her front and the flowers began falling. But the information was simple: she settled in the apartment a year ago, after the death of the former owners, who she never happened to see. Seeing the visitors taking leave, Clem recoiled and his determination to be a good spy helped him to be fast and noiseless slipping out of the house.
Outside, in the sunshine, Lilac Top Hat and his companion were plainly visible and again Clem followed the two idle walkers in the streets. After the seemingly purposeless roaming, they came to New Market Square, to the place where a red autocar was shining in the shade of an ash-tree, at the pillar of the enormous balcony of the Restaurant At Del Monaco's.
In the lower part of the city, the life was livelier. They went by the main entrance of the Arch Street Restaurant with the impressive door-keeper. Next, the Ship-Building Museum whose large window exhibited a model of a gallant vessel, wooden and black varnished, with the snow-white sails that looked ready for catching a wind. Lilac Top Hat paused at the numismatic shop window where the rough imitations of coins glimmered against the blue velvet. The two came in the shop.
A bell jingled overhead. Carefully looking inside, through the windowpane, Clem saw the shop owner humping over the counter. Lilac Top Hat shook his head in reply to the shop owner's polite question and began seeing the small discs of the coins on the blue velvet of the showcase. Time lingered, the time which was so benevolent to the thalers and doubloons. It seemed that the time's heavy drops, cut by an invisible knife, had turned into the coins. Four houses further, in the bookshop window, an alabaster bust of Napoleon Bonaparte, huge and out place, attracted attention much more than some dusty volumes. Lilac Top Hat and his companion came in the bookshop. They spent half an hour there, among the tall stands, soft dust and faint glimmer of inscriptions. Next, on their way, there was an exhibition hall of an art salon with the widest windows or rather the paned facade, which created an impression of a big aquarium, and which was highly to the purpose because Lilac Top Hat and his companion entered it and Clem could see them, for some time, without following them. The sightseers used the service of the door keeper, giving up their hats. Clem crossed the street and got ready for watching the main entrance of the Salon for a long while --but the sightseers didn't spend much time at the exhibition. From the aquarium of the Art Salon, they returned to the terrestrial life of the city…
…the city with the traffic noise and bars, the solemn garden of advertisements and streetlamps. Passing by a shop with a number of music cabinets in the window, they left behind the china shop window, where a china violinist expressively played his tiny violin opposite a couple of china dancers frozen in the eternal minuet. Through the next window one could see the varnished counter of Fait's shop, with the red and golden strapped cigars, and flat boxes, whose pictures showed all the impressive moustaches and uniforms of South American army-generals, whose number could make an army. Tnext, the facade of the cinema in the modern. Next, the small public garden on the approach to the upper city, and the vision of the Spire. Here, a shade dashed to Clem's feet and his nearly stumbled upon a stray dog. He hastened upstairs.
The Swedish Gate to the upper city used to be so massive that the Gate seemed to cover up a hypostasis of the other world rather than the familiar streets and buildings. Following Lilac Top Hat, Clem found himself on the square again, but in a new visual angle, he could see the Cathedral in the vista of the next lane. Lilac Top Hat went round an unusual monument, one of the new, in shape of a human hand with a small human figure, obviously a copy of "La Main de Dieu" by Auguste Rodin. Opposite the monument, a signboard promised coziness: "Fair Birutė Bar."
In the Fair Birutė Bar, the aromas of coffee added a portion of everyday sobriety to the wild mixture of impressions, and the sudden freedom from the cobweb of side-streets seemed so appropriate. Not crowded, the bar offered different seats: close to the small stage or in the cosy nooks. Lilac Top Hat and his companion took seats in a corner, ordered grog and lit up a cigarette. Watching him, Clem nearly forgot of his companion, the chequered tourist, who seemed indifferent to drinks and the tobacco smoke. Clem ordered a cup of black coffee with brandy. The first sip was so pleasant that he drained the cup dry nearly in a gulp. His eye drifted over the reddish-brown walls with pictures: photographs, paintings, views, landscapes… Ah, there it was, the Cathedral with the Spire, in two of the pictures. Clem asked for the bill, keeping an eye on Lilac Top Hat who left the bar.
His chase seemed so simple and successful that Clem didn't hasten to follow his prey when the two sightseers entered the Cathedral. Besides, his hurriedness could be too plain there, on the empty spot. When he eventually stepped on the stone floor of the temple, he got that he was evidently too late.
Nobody inside. Even if one of them was in the confessional, another should be somewhere about --but no. The pews like waves of a big lake underneath the Gothic vaults --not a single person. The depressing semi-dusk covered the pictures in the niches, whose scenes could frighten children. The heavy crown of atheism never burdened Clem's brow, and he used to be one of the children. The tallest, lavishly decorated organ hardly could be seen in the dusk. Clem walked to the pews. Underfoot, the slabs had some half-obliterated drawings, and he stepped on an image of a boot; then he stepped over a vignette of a knot-shaped biscuit, and over a long inscription in Latin... The pause in the shade of a column was necessary for watching the spacious entrails of the temple. But he felt a touch on his shoulder.
His fright and his rapid motion were at the same time as he turned round, ready for anything.
A young cleric was before his eyes.
"Father!.. Did you see two tourists, here?
"No. No tourists but you, young man. Would you like to see the Temple? It seems to me that you are not one of our parishioners. Rather, you are interested in architecture, paintings and other antiquity. Our Cathedral is famous indeed. Would you like a guided tour?"
Clem said that he didn't mind a narration about the Organ.
Covered with glory, blessed by the most sublime music, now silent, the Organ looked impressive as much as when it sounded. The young Priest paused for a moment as though immersed in contemplation of the grandiose creation before his eyes, and then he proceeded with his lecture saying that the makers of this wonder were six, and a history of each of them was so extraordinary that it needed a particular interpretation. The six biographies had all, from bitter debauchery to zealous monkhood. Clem thought to himself, "This is beyond endurance." The Priest passed on to all the characteristics of the building itself and details of the construction. "Next," he said, "I'd like to talk about our famous cathedra."
"No…" Clem never stopped looking round, as though seeing over the interior, "I'd like to hear of something other… more entertaining…"
Looking displeased, the Priest switched to tombs, and Clem had the chance to learn that according to the ancient city council regulations, most renowned citizens were lying underneath the heavy slabs with the proper inscriptions mentioning a claim to fame of each of the defunct. The Priest pointed underfoot, "Here, a shoemaker lies, as you can see. The shoes made by him are still a legend. Next, his brother, the renowned pastry-cook. Their Margrave loved his pastry."
"Who is there?" Clem pointed to a tombstone with a number of inscriptions but with no picture.
"Martin Luther," the Priest smiled, "No, not that one, of course not. An artist. A good artist at the court of Margrave."
"Where there's Margrave himself entombed?"
The Priest looked at him attentively before replying, "His tomb is beside the tomb of the Marshall, who died a century before, in the northern part of the temple. Please, follow me."
Clem came after, but he listened to the Priest no longer, because a small, loosely closed door attracted his attention. Something seemed to glimmer in the semi-dark doorway, either going upwards or downstairs. Clem pushed the door open -- it creaked -- Clem asked about what was behind the door.
"It's the staircase to the top of the Bell Tower. Where are you going?.. Stop!" the Priest said as Clem came in the doorway so rapidly that he dropped his hat, "...Goodness gracious..." picking up Clem's hat, the Priest followed the uncommonly nervous tourist.
The staircase going upwards seemed endless; it looked like the Spire itself was not the end… but Clem's meditation was interrupted by a horrid cry sounding outside.
He and the Priest exchanged glances. The cry was horrid not because it was too fearsome to be heard but in virtue of the fact that it was heard from outside, through the hoary thick walls and narrow windows, which fact told about someone's enormous despair. Clem and the Priest turned to go to the exit.
Outside, at a distance from the Cathedral's wall, the place of the happening was marked by a small crowd which quickly grew. The people gave way to the Priest as he told to let him go to the centre of the crowd, and Clem came after, using the Priest as his guide.
The lilac top hat's owner was bared-headed, lying face downwards, motionless, on the ground. A plash of his blood was glittering and enlarging, coming from under his cranium. Only a while later, it came home to Clem or he simply was told that the fall from the enormous height of the Bell Tower, the gravity and the cobblestoned ground mushroomed the stranger's body. The sight of the untimely death made Clem feel unwell, his stomach wambled, but it looked like he had reach the object of his chase, and he remained staying and watching along with the people.
In the meantime, the crowd was in motion and changing, now getting smaller, now, getting larger. The case was extraordinary to the city and citizens, that's why a lot of policemen were quick to arrive to the scene. The policemen looked like true operatives. Feeling unfit to move, Clem could not leave the scene, staying among watchers, who were told to keep a distance. Shocked too much, he hardly could observe the policemen's activity, but he noticed the Priest talking with a man who could be a chief detective or police officer. The Priest looked round and --he beckoned Clem. Unprepared and depressed, Clem didn't move; then, the police officer was quick going towards him. The busy man with a reddish dark beard and undone light gray overcoat was police officer, and he introduced himself, "Anton Schubert."
In reply to the Officer's questioning, Clem pressed out, "I was in, seeing over the interior of the Cathedral, when I heard the cry." The thought of the lost lilac top hat interested him much more than any questions, at the moment, that's why he answered briefly and irrelevantly, half listening to questions and knowing that it all looked quite pardonable of him, the eyewitness of the tragedy who felt shocked.
A moment more and it came home to him that the top hat of the dead man was nowhere about. The stranger's head could lose the hat in the fall and then the hat might be gone with a wind, or on the rebound, it could fly somewhere aside, and at present, it was in some shrubs.
Free from the policemen' attention, at long last, free of anybody else's attention, Clem went to the nearby vegetation for the purpose of the search.
He saw it in the branches of the tree. And so, the lilac top hat of the dead man rebounded. Most probably. But it got in the public garden which was so much aside from the track of the man's fall… too far away from the track. What did it rebound from? More questions than answers. And yet, Clem could see it with his own eyes: the lilac top hat was on a bough of the tree. Clem approached, reached, in vain, and then he shook the tree which was not so thick. The top hat fell down to his feet.
Weird feelings. Holding the top hat in his hands, Clem felt confused. Yes, it was in his hands, but he could not if it was the very lilac top hat which played tricks to him in the Den. This one looked rich but quite ordinary. The policemen didn't find it, because they never searched for it, because they didn't know of it. But he knew, that's why he held it in his hands. Weird feelings. Some labels inside. The trademark, and… The second label had the owner's monogram. JBN. It didn't add up to much, thus far. Clem was not about to give the top hat to the Police like he was not about to give account of his chase of the day to the Police. Why on earth? It's his trophy. Yes, the top hat was evidence and a part of the investigation but it's his Trophy first of all. He fetched a sigh, here, standing in the tall grass, in the shade of the tree, which pleasantly cooled his face, but… Somebody's hand friendly and energetically took his elbow from behind. He turned round.
It was Anton Schubert the officer. "Bravo!.." the Officer avidly grinned seeing the remarkable top hat in Clem's hands. Reaching for the lilac top hat and taking it from Clem's hands as though the young man offered it to him, he said, "…Good for you, young man!" Holding the lilac top hat in his own hands, Anton Schubert looked at the tree, attentively at the branches, where the top hat had been, and more overhead, and then he began examining the top hat as the next and most important evidence in the investigation. Absentmindedly praising Clem's eye and gumption, he read the labels, said, "Palmary!" turned away and carried his trophy to his comrades. Taking it away from Clem, he glanced at Clem never again, apparently, forgetting of the young man on the instant and remembering again only at writing the report.
The loss was the next reason for sighing, but Clem felt devastated too much to sigh. It was the last straw for his endurance on the day -- or "the last sipper," as I called it, sometimes, "to break the camel's back." Unfit to start something important, he hated the very thought of staying in the city or going somewhere to the next mystery, therefore, he went to his home countryside.
Far in the day, in the Estate, he felt fever.
Doctor Talvik was invited for checking over him. "Nothing serious. It's only nerves," Doctor said with a chortle. Like for that quiet corner of the sleepy city in the slumberous land, the latest suicide of a stranger was too much for Clem's nerves. But Clem had no thought of telling about it to the Doctor or anybody in the household, for he didn't feel sure about what exactly he nearly witnessed, and he felt depressed too much to laugh the happening over. Before Doctor Talvik left his room, he asked about something of interest to him, eager to use the chance, desiring to know all about the new factory in Suurkukk. In reply, the Doctor said he little knew of the Factory, for they never sent for the Doctor.
"Really?" Clem said, "All right. I'd like to know at least the names of those, who boss the business at the Factory. How many are they?"
Luckily, the Doctor knew the names. Adrian Magnhus the manager, Clarence Batwick his secretary, Mr Aboleo the owner, Cecil Tottenheim either his secretary or relative. All of them from England, judging by the names. "…As far as I know," Doctor Talvik added, "one of the gentlemen took the land on lease in order to build a chocolate factory with the use of steam engines. If only this can help you, Clement. Apropos, what kind of business makes you worry about the Factory, the bosses and their names? Anything serious?"
"No, nothing." Using his status of an ill man, instead of an explanation, Clem asked to bring newspapers to him as soon as the mail came. Alone, he said to himself, "A chocolate factory. And so, the mysterious Factory is an ordinary factory." Then it occurred to him: what did happen to the dead man's companion? The second sightseer, the pal of Lilac Top Hat never came to see his dead companion. Clem remembered he didn't saw a man wearing the deerstalker anywhere in the crowd around the dead man.
("You aren't about to inform the Police about what he witnessed, are you?" I said.
"No, of course not," he shrugged, "Why on earth?")
Doctor prescribed a glass of hot milk for goodnight, and left. When taking a glass of hot milk, Clem asked himself the question, once again: why did the lilac top hat was found so far from the place of its owner's fall?
("Indeed," I said, "this detail seems most weird and meaningful. The track like the top hat's could be in case if the suicide took off his top hat, before jumping down, and he threw his head-dress far away, for some reason. And then he jumped."
"Oscar, I thought about the possibility too. It sounds unbelievable."
"Another supposition. In case if it was not suicide, the one, who pushed the unhappy owner of the lilac top hat, could take the top hat off the victim's head fist, then he threw it far away and only then he pushed his victim from the Bell Tower. Or he threw the head-dress first and only then he pushed the victim."
"It sounds both believable and fantastic. I felt confused too much to stay longer there, underneath the Bell Tower. What a pity… I could learn more.")
The evening mail brought the news about the investigation. The news column said that one successful businessman of the city of Brumburg, owner of Salon d'esthétique Semiramis Mr Jacob Bey-Nasar committed suicide by jumping off the Bell Tower. A reason remained obscure.
Not much. Strictly speaking, all Clem Learned in the pandemonium of recent events was the four names and the fact that the young man who he first saw at the séance of the aesthetic gymnastics was one of them... those strangers, who looked so fatally good-looking and so strikingly atypical.
It was actually the end of his Quest. Recommended to spend several days lying up, feeling frustrated at the nadir of his hope, and apathetic, Clem spent time idly at home. The summer came to an end. Melancholy-ridden sooner than suffering carnally, Clem spent days sitting in the chair, with books, or leaning back and contemplating the woodland and the Lake --the "dying beauty of nature like his dying friend" –then he glanced through the time, beginning from the past summer, enumerated his own pleasures, achievements and expectations, imagining how "all this, both the world around him and the world of his imagery would be enshrouded by winter, and how in due time the sun would enliven nature again," about the resurrection in the sunshine of springtime that caused thoughts about the beautiful and the eternal power of creativity, about "the benevolence of Providence and the inconceivable wisdom of Universe." "Those faded leaves and herbage were not dying, no; they were turning into a beginning of a new life! This thought should console Man when he saw the dull autumn earth, when he kept vigil over his dying friend, and when he thought about his own perishable existence." Also, more than once, he began asking himself questions about his mother, because he had nobody else to ask: Hippolite and Kasimir-Theodor seemed to be yet more powerless than he about that. On the days of his idleness, my telegram came. It was my message sent from the Island Shardana which let him know that I was on the way to him.
("Poor little thing," I thought to myself, seeing him exhausted by the end of his narration, "And I deemed he spent time delving in the inherited old library, in race against moths, and nothing more serious could ever happen to him.")
"We must go to Padrik together!" he said after a pause.
"All right. But first, I'd like to see the forest, as I've said. Do you remember? We are going to pick mushrooms tomorrow."
Under the shelter of the nut-trees, we spent some time, in silence, with his head reposing on my lap and me gently playing his hair, the auburn wavy hair of the young thing, who looked and sounded so unsophisticated about the world that I felt compelled to take care about him.
Far in the day, I asked Kasimir-Theodor to give us his shotguns for our tomorrow walk.
To do my request, I went to his study in the right wing of the manor house. The door was loosely closed, which let me overhear a conversation.
Kasimir-Theodor's voice talked with an owner of an elderly male voice, his fellow landowner, most likely, who expressed his interest to rye, "What? Your rye is sold? What a pity! Mr Lisnyak… sell it to me, eh?"
"It's sold, as I said, Mr Lutatovsky."
"Sold? All right. It's settled. No more!.. What about 2 kopeks extra, eh?"
"No more rye, Mr Lutatovsky."
"Hah-hah… No more. How could it be? It's a toss-up though. Has the deed of purchase been obtained?"
"I signed the paper."
"How much is the deposit?"
"60 roubles."
"Take 120 from me!"
"My word is dearer for me."
"Well… Sell me anything. What about oats?"
"All right, I have oats. 20 quarters."
"Only 20 quarters?!.. Sell me rye! On your conditions."
"But I've said no more rye."
"A pretty business this!… What's going on? I've covered 30 miles to buy nothing! It's a toss-up! A toss-up. Mr Lisnyak, and so, you won't sell anything to me? Pray, sell me rye. Say your price! I'll pay however much you want."
"100 roubles by quarter."
"Ha-ha! So, it's sold?"
"Sold."
"Ha! Surprising!"
"It's surprising that you, sir, haggle, after I said that it's sold."
"Well… I'm sorry, sir… Aha, it's the oats!.. Bad quality. How many?"
"100 poods."
"How much?"
"40 kopeks."
"Mr Lisnyak, only look at the oats! Only look at it… here it is!.. Small, weedy. Don't you see? Listen, sir… 30 kopeks. Get the money!.. Mr Lisnyak, sell me rye!"
"I said, Mr Lutatovsky -- my rye is sold."
"I beg your pardon, I'm businessman myself, I can sell anything and to anybody, and… there you are! It's sold! It's a toss-up."
"Let's finish the talk! I can say for the final time: I have rye no longer."
"Haven't you! Well... Forgive my bothering! Thank you so much! Good bye!"
Before entering the study, I thought to myself, "Poor little thing Clem. But it looks like his elder brother is a poor little thing too, if he has to hold stupid conversations like this every week if not every day."