To Brumburg we could go by water, but we were about to go by train. The railway station we could reach going from Clem's home Estate. His home Estate we could reach going through Suurkukk, my land, where there was the dubious Chocolate Factory. In other words, both Clem and I wanted to see the Factory.
Next day, as soon as we were ready for taking the road, Clem and I got into the carriage. The enigma of the red rose given by an unknown hand remained unveiled, thus far; when dressing for going out, I cut the long stem and placed the red flower in the buttonhole of my gray sporting jacket, not risking to look suggestive in the countryside --like a puttana to someone, or anything else --however, the flower was somewhat matching to my claret cravat.
Hearing of our wish to visit the Factory, our coachman said, "My godchild's father lives in Suurkukk. Every time I'm there, I stay at his. Gentlemen can find bed and breakfast at his too." It sounded nice. On the way, Clem and I talked about the accident at the last night dance party, but I said no word about the blond stranger, because nothing to tell about; because the talk with the blond stranger seemed unreal as dream.
The factory settlement was named Suurkukk too. The Factory was on the half-way between the Settlement and the estates, but Clem never had a chance or wish to visit the Settlement or the Factory. Our carriage was to enter the Settlement in half an hour, but a tree across the road was a quite unexpected barrier, which made our way longer.
Going the street of red brick barracks through, not so long, we proved to have seen all the Settlement. Some men stood still and quizzed at our carriage. The workers seemed clean, tidy and alike to each other, apparently because of their dress or uniform: long leather aprons. Prosaic. They moved lightly, and their features hardly could be discerned because of the visors on their heads which covered their eyes like steelmakers'. Extraordinary. The workers didn't talk, but it could be an incidental silence, and personally I didn't find anything suspicious about the way things were going there. Our carriage stopped at the porch of a wooden house.
The publican came out of the door to meet us, and his manner was rather polite, but his look strikingly differed from the workers'. A one-legged middle-aged man with a crutch under his left shoulder which didn't prevent him from moving only a little less lightly than everyone. Unlike other crutches of our time, the man's crutch looked so light that it was hardly visible under his arm.
When we refised entering the pub, our coachman was offered a drink of rum. Clem asked the Publican, "Do you work for the Factory as well?"
"Just so, sir."
"You know Mr Aboleo's, maybe? The Englishman?"
"Mr Aboleo's name is known for us."
"What about chocolate?"
"We are woodworkers."
Clem and I exchanged glances and I said to the Publican, "Why woodworkers? The Factory owner was about to make chocolate."
The Pub keeper said, "We cannot know anything of it, sir. Unless keeping this pub and woodworking."
I said, "And we'd like to know more. Could we see the Factory?"
"With the manager's permission, sirs," he said, "But he's away, today."
"Stop it, old fellow!" I said, "I am the owner of the land. The owner of the Factory dealt with me when he began his business. Why not to show me the Factory?"
"We cannot know anything of it, sir."
In short, we never succeeded, though we tried bribery, but the Publican was firm. We stopped inquiring and left him. It looked like Clem and I had a while to see the only street of the Settlement once again, and we used the chance.
The street looked empty. No wonder: a working day. A subdued sound of some machines was heard from somewhere. The barracks looked tidy with roofed passages between each other, with cold cellars, and sheds. But the small windows seemed absolutely impenetrable and main entrances were locked. We felt watched and fooled, but our wish to see more prevailed and we went towards the subdued sound of machines.
The land seemed to be deforested not long ago: here and there were pine or birch stumps, and not all of the stumps were dry. Beyond the wooden fence, we could see the tops of some red brick buildings with big sooty windows. The gates seemed the only entrance to the territory of our interest. A big, angular figure of a man with a shooting gun at his feet was on the bench at the weathered wood of the fence. The hulking man, well-dressed in russet, but with untidy black hair, a copper ear-ring, and a black eye-patch, and only his look made think that there might be something dreary about the place. Clem waved his hand to the gate-keeper and said on the move, "Mr Magnhus? Eh?"
The Gipsy-like man said that his name was Yvo Golendukha and that he was merely the gate-keeper. I said, "We want the manager. Is he in the Factory?"
"No, sir," the gate-keeper said.
"Has he left?"
"Just so."
"When will he be back?"
"I can't know of it."
"Well then… May we see the Factory?"
"Gentlemen should ask our Manager."
"Tell us his address."
Glancing at the big padlock on the gates, the gate-keeper said, "I can't know of it."
When our carriage was on the way to fields, Clem began questioning our coachman. "Have you heard of Aboleo? What kind of a man is he?"
"Who knows… An outlander." The coachman shrugged.
"Who's the Factory's manager?"
"Either Drinkings or Drizzlings. An Englishman, sir."
"An Englishman. Well… What do they in Factory produce?"
"Devil knows what… Humans."
"They produce humans! But it's nonsense!"
"By Jove. Hands, legs, heads, bodies. They make the parts of wood, or something. Some say they make the parts of stone, some say of iron. I don't know."
"Maybe, the artificial legs and hands for disabled?"
"Not a bit of good, sir! They make humans, and the humans work at the Factory which made them."
"In other words, the Factory workers are not from natives?"
"Just so sir."
"Maybe, the workers are outlanders?"
"Who knows… I heard that whatever they make they send all abroad. Animals they make too. And something more, what shouldn't be mentioned by night." The coachman crossed himself.
Hearing the coachman's information sounding more and more absurd, we stopped questioning, and Clem said to him, "The people of the Settlement look suspicious, indeed. Ever so much. The father of your godchild too."
I believed so.