Apparently, the minor pain in Clem's leg helped him to recover after the hysterics; as a result he was manly enough not becoming my burden on our way; he was silent, sullen and manly, both on the way to the railway station and on the way to the city.
On the way to the railway station, we met a carriage, which took Frederic Kothen, the investigator, from the railway station to our countryside. Clem happened to see the younger collaborator of Anton Shubert, and the policemen told to stop his carriage, when he saw us. We stopped our carriage too. From our talk, we learned that he was interested in me as the owner of Kernstadt Castle, because he was on the way there. "The next death in your part of the world," he said. Thus, we learned that the victim of the accident, the badly burnt damsel, died last night. The death was to be investigated.
Listening to my evidence which showed how little I knew of the accident, Officer Kothen let me ask some questions, and I said, "But it's perfectly natural that the victim of the burning died. It was a serious case, as I was told."
"Indeed," he said, "it could be natural but for two or three strange things about the night when the suffering woman was lying abed, at hers, impossible to be transported. As the nurse said, she was left alone twice. When she was revisited for the first time, she looked quiet, stopping crying, and falling asleep. When she was revisited the next time, she was found dead. A reason remains obscure for physicians. The physicians said the way she died was unusual for this case."
That's what we learned from this talk. Obviously, we were told about the mentioned above details solely in virtue of the fact that we were natives, known to the Police and I was the owner of the Kernstadt Castle. Officer Kothen was in a hurry; we too; therefore, we parted to continue our way.
In the city, we succeeded in being in time, and they in the Address Bureau gave us the information that Mr Kornelis Aboleo the merchant from London lived in a rented house in Red Abbey Road, one of the old streets beyond Vasa Canal.
The city was wet after the rain; the sky was clouded over, and the umbrellas in our hands were highly to the purpose. Inquiring about the Salon Semiramis address, we went there, by horse-drawn tram, but the outing proved to be vain, resulting in the news that the Salon was no more. The case of suicide of the owner smashed the Salon d'esthétique Semiramis and the business was shut down.
The sun was setting; but no hurry, and we went to La Belle Chocolatière cafe for refreshment.
Sandwiches with cheese, sweet cakes, hot chocolate, black coffee with brandy. Beside the copy of the famous picture of The Chocolate Girl by Liotard, the interior of the cafe was graced with some posters advertising Gala-Peter chocolate. The poster, which I could see from my seat, was a picture featuring a lady with blond hair, decorated with pink blossoms, tenderly gazing at a bunch of wild lilies, and the poster's slogan stated: "La Premiere Chocolat au lait du monde." Anything in the image of the blond lady in the picture had little to do with chocolate bars. Apparently, it's the fashion to use beautiful female with flowers in any type of advertising. A beauty with flowers. A beauty and flowers. Flowers and a beauty. Having my snake, I thought to myself that Salon d'esthétique Semiramis was the only in the city, as far as I knew, so, where people would go to use service of the kind? A beauty with flowers. A beauty and flowers. Flowers and a beauty. Standard. A popular view. The next popular view of the epoch was that the world was traversing. On the way to Brumburg, or rather to the mysterious man whose name I had to hear too often, I tried to picture Aoleo's visage, and like most of people, I did it judging by what he was by trade. His massive, more or less paunchy body, his short trimmed beard, his broad hand with a big brilliant, the solid gold thick watch chain across his paunch, his low voice, maybe, rolling. The man might be tall as well as short. I shared my thought with Clem and he said that his idea about the merchant's look was similar.
But our imagination was mistaken.
From the café, we went to Clem's flat in order to get changed. We were fast, and soon we went out for the next inquiry, informal now.
The Vasa Canal was quiet, only rain pipes gargling was heard. The new moon seemed to chase us as we went by cab; when we began looking for the house in Red Abbey Road, the moon got over-clouded. Night dusk in a big town is never absolute. A boat went slow with the free-board touching the railing of the Canal. The dark water glimmered. Eventually, our cab stopped at a three-storey old mansion with unlit windows and the main entrance dimly lit by a distant streetlamp alone. We hesitated as we stood on the porch, trying to hear anything from inside. What if we were mistaken? What if they in the Address Bureau gave us a wrong address? Were we too late? Was the host in? Anyway, it was not too late, soon after 9 pm, and we were entitled to ask a servant at least, and Clem pulled the doorbell.
Something lit up inside as we could see in the fanlike casement above the door, then the door opened, and we saw a uniformed manservant. Apparently, a driver, because he was wearing high boots and protective goggles half-covered his face. The manservant let us in without demanding much explanation from us.
Lit by a group of electric tulips in the centrepiece of the white ceiling, the entry looked traditional. The manservant got our hats, gloves and raincoats, moving silently, noiselessly and with confidence of a trained professional. A moment more and he took a candlestick and headed upstairs in the familiar grave manner of a butler which always made guests follow servants.
Reaching the third storey, the butler-driver led us through some unlit rooms with curtained windows. The candle in our leader's hand lit our way and we could see the rooms as luxurious as the unlit staircase. Polished and gleaming surfaces, big vases, pictures and crystal pendants seemed to be everywhere around, with mirrors being places so deep or carefully draperied that the mirrors seemed only delineated. Silks from Lyon among the furniture seemed another sign of the luxury of this house. It all impressed and it could be nice, but for the perishing cold of the rooms.
The cold along with the luxury made think that there might be something dreary about the house. The butler walked evenly showing the way to us. Tips of my fingers got cold. If by chance we would be left in the place, alone and locked up, with no help, we could die from hypothermia. The dusk caused our disorientation, so, we obediently followed the butler. Eventually, in the next room, the rapid change: a blazing fireplace.
The fire was made by another servant who we saw bending over the fireplace. This servant was wearing the same uniform as our guide's. The greyish-violet service uniform looked like a driver's: their army-type gray jackets had a silvery aiguillette which went through the only epaulette and ended with a yellow metal aglet. Their trousers were tucked in high shining boots, and protective goggles half-covered their faces.
Not sure, at first, but the room seemed decorated with gilt. Instead of looking round, Clem and I hastened to the fireplace to warm our hands. The butler came up to the wall to turn on the light, and the crystal chandelier brightly lit the room. The room walls and ceiling were in tones of dark-green and soft-green, and yes, the walls and ceiling were decorated with gilt all over. The tones of green seemed to absorb the bright electric light, softening it, but I could not see more, because nearly on the instant, a male voice said in English, "It's better now, isn't it?" We took our hands from the fire and turn round.
From one of the doorways, where the two familiar-looking uniformed menservants were standing at attention on sides, the host walked towards us. The comer was a blond young man of average stature, slender, wearing a beige suit with a light-brown-and-yellow chequered necktie, pined with something gold and brilliant, and his light and elegant look was misleading enough to prevent from identifying him as the very man who we wanted.
His skin was literally the colour of ivory as though he hadn't been able to go out in the sunlight for two years. The young man's hair was rather long and of the hue that changed from golden to white gold, depending on the lighting, nearly blending with the whiteness of his skin... what an unbelievable colour of his hair! The colours of champagne or hog were dull and insipid in comparison with it. Along with the main colour of a white wine, there were some cold magic ash blond strands like those we could see in pictures by Watteau or Renoir. Thin like a moonbeam, light from top to toe, the young man said, "Kornelis Aboleo at your service."
I loved the manner of some men of fashion to begin talking as though we saw each other half an hour ago even if we saw each other never before; but today, something prevented me from finding a right thing to say in reply; moreover, my current slow-wittedness as well as the state of benumbness seemed something natural to me.
At a distance from the fireplace, he took a pair of spectacles from the top of a round table, put it on his chiselled nose, the dark-blue spectacles glinted and on the instant I recognized him. The very stranger whose speech impressed me at the dance party in the park of my Kernstadt Castle!
"Well Mr Lisnyak…" the elegant young man said, approaching us, "What could I do for you?" He took off his spectacles, for a moment, and anyone would agree that his twinkled golden eyes were the best about him.
I was the first to reply, "It looks like we, my cousin Clement-Theophile Lisnyak and I came solely for a talk about... chocolate." Through his dark-blue spectacles, he watched me, and the familiar shadow of a smile slipped across his thin soft-rosy lips. I went on, "Have you heard, Mr Aboleo, the Swiss Peter's Chocolate Company began manufacturing in the United States, three years ago?"
As though mesmerized by my speech, he got one step closer to me, saying, "Why not?.." his thin nostrils moved as he peered at my face, "Mr Graf..." his beautiful features winced and he stepped back, as though recoiling, "...You had chocolate, today!"
Unprepared, I said, "Do you hate chocolate?"
"Ah, yes, you've come to talk about it..." he said instead of a reply, and I heard a sound of sucking as if the man were troubled by a bad tooth. The elf-like young man seemed oh so young no longer. He turned away and went to another corner of the room. Reaching a group of easy chairs, he turned to us, "Sit down, gentlemen."
We crossed the room to do it, feeling compelled to leave the saving flame of the impressive fireplace in the Henrie II style and having no apparent reason to refuse.
After the three of us settled in the chairs, I noticed a keepsake on the top of the table between us. Photos taken by William Courtenay Von Gloeden, our famous photographer. The keepsake was one of the things which I enjoyed having at mine. Placing his left hand on the knob of his walking-stick, our host said, "Some drink?"
To say truth, tasting food or drink from suspicious outlanders like he never was my custom. "No thanks but no." Glancing at his walking-stick, which was chained to his left wrist, I said, "Mr Aboleo... We happened to see each other before, no?"
"I am not about to deny the obvious," he said. I recognized the posh accent.
"Charming," I said, "Your reply is charming, and charming is all I heard from you that night." I turned to Clem, "You see, dear, it turns out that we, Mr Aboleo and I know each other. I never told you... Our encounter took place on the day of your trip to Padrik. After your departure." Assuming airs, Clem frowned and nodded in reply. Looking at our host, I added, "Merely, Mr Aboleo never introduced himself that night."
Aboleo said, "To say truth, almost all of my speech, which you, Mr Graf, appreciated that night, was a mere turn of speech. But today, on business. Business alone. It's your intention, as far as I understand." I kept silence, feeling somewhat mesmerized, nearly like it was on the night when I first saw him. He turned to Clem, "Mr Lisnyak, I thank you for your care about the parcels."
Clem drew up and said, "I'm glad you know my name, Mr Aboleo. Indeed, I am the very person who brought the lockers from Weymarn."
"Ever so nice," our host said.
Clem said, "Your mentioning the case of the locker is of use to me, because it gives the opportunity to ask some questions. Mr Aboleo, I hate being in dark. Will you explain two or three things, sir? It's not my idle curiosity. Tell me why the note said about only one locker and only one parcel, but in fact the lockers were eight with a lot of parcels."
"I don't know," Mr Kornelis Aboleo said, sounding quite careless though without the repulsive manner of sucking or smacking, "In my talk with my friend, I declared that the lockers were eight. The shipping was on his behalf."
"I see," Clem said, "Did the boxes have samples of goods?"
"What else? Did you expect to see limbs and organs of disembowelled babies, men and women in the boxes?"
"Why, Mr Aboleo? Forgive my curiosity, but it was solely the mention of my cousin's land which concerned me, when I read the note that I got accidentally, believing it was for me. I did what I did, after I read the note, solely in virtue of the fact that the note had the names familiar to me. Next, I declare, I felt curious. That's why I dare asking you about a kind of the goods."
"Curiosity. All right. We, traders, deal with goods of diverse sorts."
"And yet, what kinds of goods? As an unemployed, I'm looking for a job. What if I could be of use in your trade?"
"Could you be of use or not, I can't judge, young man. And we deal with flax-fiber, tobacco, hemp. Every good can be profitable."
This elegant blond man began talking as a merchant, but the conversation was interrupted, by two gentlemen's coming.
Well-built, the elder of the gentlemen looked somewhat tougher than any of his friends in this room, but not tougher than me; his head was truly beautiful with the perfectly cut golden hair, bright blue eyes, rosy cheeks and sun-honeyed skin.
"My manager Adrian Magnhus..." Kornelis Aboleo said. The gentleman friendly nodded and smiled at us. It was the manager, who had a secretary. Kornelis Aboleo went on introducing, "My son Cecil Tottenheim… What, age discrepancy contrariwise? Right, I'm not so young as I seem."
His son Cecil was a magically beautiful youth about twenty, with the artistically wavy brown hair and ice-blue eyes. On the face of it, the only feature he had in common with his father seemed to be the white colour of his skin. But a reason of my surprise or rather my confusion was that I subliminally expected to see someone, who I knew, at the moments of the introduction at Aboleo's, someone like my pal Henrie Termian.
Not showing my concern, I said, "No, nothing of the kind I'd say, for I know the world. I happened to see much, including cases when two men called uncle and nephew each other, with the nephew elder than his uncle. That's all right."
Needless to say that the comers' look and clothes could be called chic, highly; more than brand new or beautiful, the clothes were both rich, elegant and simple, and some subtle artistic details could suggest something to some interested persons; London met Paris on the exterior of the young gentlemen without making them look like dandies. Something of globe-trotters or military men was in their posture and in the attitude of their shaply limbs, or it only seemed to me. They seemed to be dressed for going out. Pulling up chairs, they sat down across Clem and me, with Mr Magnhus reclining and Cecil crossing legs. Thus, Clem had to proceed between six eyes of the outlanders who he never had a chance to know better and who had no reason to be nice to him.
Clem took out the "Note from Mr S" and began talking on his business, "Mr Aboleo... my inquiry at Mlle Delamarche's directed me to you."
"Really?" Leaning back in the chair, Aboleo looked either bored or indifferent. Nouvoriches or nabobs never permitted to themselves manners like this unless they were drunken and among their men.
"Mlle Delamarche said to me that you knew my mother's whereabouts."
"As far as I remember..." Monotonous, Aboleo sounded standoffish like a boss talking to his clerks or someone who wanted to sound weighty and autocratic, which airs looked somewhat ridiculous to me, at the moments, when I saw the young man's face. Really, he should care about having some facial hair, a small beard at least, if he wanted to sound imperative and look older. A small golden beard. But no, his young face was clean-shaven, and his wish to order about was obvious. Funny. The pauses in his speech, he apparently used to the same purpose. He went on, "...I happened to be introduced to Mlle Delamarche. She's a French teacher by trade. Surprised? Yes, yes, a mere teacher. An ex-teacher, to be more exact, because today, she's fiancée to Doctor Talvik. The Doctor is my friend. But I never had a chance to see your mother, Mr Lisnyak. Don't you think, Mr Lisnyak that before going to me, you should ask Mlle Delamarche why she believed that I could be a right source of information of the sort? Is your mother missing?"
"Yes, missing," Clem looked embarrassed, "Like my family I cannot feel satisfied till we know her whereabouts. Mlle Delamarche... yes... she didn't explain why you could be a right man for my search. I beg your pardon, but... but…"
"Those women. They talk what they want, and no sense of duty." Clem's confusion seemed to please Aboleo, for some reason, maybe looking apologetic, with the blue spectacles aimed kindly at my cousin.
Clem muttered as though thinking aloud, "It looks like I should go to Padrik to see her again!"
"Why Padrik?" Aboleo said softly, "She lives in Lance-Knights Street."
Clem stared at the gentleman in the dark-blue spectacles, "I've came from Padrik and I know where there is Mlle Delamarche at present. Would you kindly read this…"
"What's that?" Aboleo said.
"Another note." Clem held the note out.
It took the ill-fated note some time to get to Aboleo's hand. Seeing the note was in Clem's hand, Aboleo turned his head to glance at one of his friends, then Mr Magnhus turned his head to glance at one of the menservants on sides of the doorway, then one of the menservants left his disposition and went to our group. Approaching, the manservant got the note from Clem's hand and passed it to the Manager's hand, and then the Manager to Aboleo's. For me, this ceremony looked remarkable and quite comprehensible in case if it's a custom in the household. Eventually, Aboleo read the note, and said, "Maybe in Padrik. Really, her fiancé should know better where she lives." He held the note out to Magnhus, "What's your view, dear?"
The Manager read the note, but he said no word, only looked at his boos meaningfully.
Aboleo turned to Clem, "Your neighbour Mr Lundstrom can tell you more about your mother than me."
Clem and I exchanged glances.
Aboleo said, "You, Mr Lisnyak, asked about the lockers. It's of little interest. Much more interesting is talking about chocolate as Mr Graf offered. Isn't that so, Mr Graf?"
"That it is!" I said, peering at the dark-blue eyeglasses and seeing that Aboleo's friends peered at my face. Without looking at them, I said, "And I'll do it."
"For example," Aboleo said, "too bitter or not bitter enough, that is the question. Some humans want only the bitter chocolate, the snobs. The others, the spoilt rich, want it more milky and sweet. What is your taste, my dear guests?"
I said, "The chocolate that I ate up today was nice but it was not manufactured by our dear host. According to agreement, the Factory which you, Mr Aboleo, built on the leased land, is to produce chocolate. Nothing of the kind. What is your view about this misuse?"
Mr Magnhus said, replying instead of his boss, "Have you evidence that the Factory produces anything but chocolate, Mr Graf?"
"No, I haven't. But my cousin happened to see the production packed in the boxes or lockers."
Moving in his chair, Aboleo said, "Have you evidence that those objects, which Mr Lisnyak saw in the lockers, were not made of chocolate?"
I kept silence, because it seemed to me that the company of the gentlemen openly mocked or their intention was to get rid of our presence. Then Clem and I exchanged glances, and I rose. "We no longer dare to burden you with our presence, gentlemen," I turned to Clem, who rose too, "I suppose, you've finished your business here as well, dear?"
Before Clem had time to reply, our three companions rose, and Aboleo began talking in a changed tone, quickly and emotionally, "Mr Graf, before you go, I want you to know that not everything of what I said on the night of our first talk was a mere turn of speech. I was looking for you, wishing to see you in order to talk on business, like you did today. Unluckily, I had not time to introduce myself or begin to talk on business that night, for the apparent reason. Do you remember?"
"I do remember that night and the tragic accident in the end of the village party. Apropos, Mr Aboleo, have you heard that the burnt woman died?" We proceeded stand-up, with four eyes of his friends openly watching me.
"Did she!" he said and it seemed to me that I heard a sound of sucking again, "In other words," he said, "she suffers no longer. No, daily papers never reported that. The woman's death is quite natural and it could be foreseen, no?"
"I believe so, but the Police disagree." I was surprised by his taking the accident to heart. "Anyway... Mr Aboleo, what about your business to me?"
He said, "It's about your Castle. It stays idly, and I want to rent it." It was surprise. He went on, "I hope you won't deny the fact that the Castle is nice and it stays idly a year long. I want it to be my country house. This is the deed, which my lawyer drew up..." With that, he looked at his manager, and Mr Magnhus took out a paper and handed it to him. Aboleo said to me, "Would you kindly read it... Read it, sign, and get the conditioned money, here and now... or voice your price."
Taking the paper in my hand, I unfolded it, saying, "Legally binding document of rent?" Then I said about what I learned from the paper, "The text sounds sane. All right. I shall give the paper to my lawyer, as it's my custom. I do it usually before I plight myself to anybody. And then, I'll let you know of my resolution."
Aboleo seemed to expect nothing of the kind. He said, "However... À bas papiers! All the procrastination takes plenty of time. Let's do it in another way. Only you and me. Your word and my money. Well?"
Looking round the four watchful blue eyes on his left, I said, "It's an unbecoming way for businessmen."
Aboleo went on insisting, "We should talk a deux. Let's ask our all friends to go to spend some time in the next room, and we, here, between four eyes, shall talk over the mentioned money, and you'll give me your permission to use your Castle. Accordingly to the document, which you approve, in general, no?"
"Indeed, the document looks all right."
"Sure! Why not to get the money?"
"Mr Aboleo, please, listen to me... Beyond doubt, you have the mentioned handsome money about, and you can pay it, or doubled..."
"Trebled," Aboleo said.
"All right. Anyway, my intention never was lending my Castle. And your proposition is too unexpected. Sorry." I placed the paper on the top of the small table, on my left.
Aboleo reached to his inside pocket to extract some thing. The motion was fluent, he could extract any thing, under the circumstances, and my suspiciousness was pardonable and quite natural as well as my powerlessness in case if the man's intention was extracting a weapon and if he was about to be quick and vigorous enough to use the weapon --but no, the thing was a soft-blue and white handkerchief, which he got to his chiselled nose for a moment.
The warm fragrance of ylang-ylang whiffed in the air between us. Nice; quite acceptable for me; as for him, it could be his favourite fragrance. He glanced at his friends.
Meeting his eye, his manager and his son turned away and went to another corner of the spacious room, leaving him alone with me, because Aboleo looked and sounded as though Clem was not with us.
Clem kept silence positively chocking with a number of contradictory emotions; the significant degree of his ardor preventing him from speaking out, making him be silent, puffing and blushing, thus making him behave himself at the moments.
Aboleo never glanced at him. "As I've said, not everything in my speech of the night was a mere turn of speech. I do love fine art, and tonight... I have something more to offer to you. No, not business, but some entertainment. A ticket to one show... Nénuphar. The choreographic ballet fantasy in one act. Sweet music. Choreography by Marius Petipa." He turned a golden ring on his finger and the simple ring turned into the familiar eye-shaped ring with the dark cabochon that could change colours.
"It's too unexpected, again..." Not to see the ring with the pulsing colours, I could either look at his face or cast my eyes down and watch the floor; I suppressed my wish to loosen my necktie.
He said, "Perhaps my interest to much about you seems bizarre. Bizarre, suspicious and hardly comprehensible, but you would find it quite natural if you know that I happened to see you earlier, much earlier, in 1894. In Paris, at the premier of Prélude à l'après-midi d'un faune. And it was not the first time I saw you."
"Really?" I said, feeling disappointed with the possibility of a mere molestation from him, "I remember the chamber concert. Lovely."
"What does seem lovely to you? The chamber concert or the fact that I saw you there?"
"Either." A little more and his questions got taxing to me. For me, the man at my age. For me, the man whom even I myself could call a sad pervert, something unnatural was in his… not, not in his attention, rather in his voice, look and manners. Either unnatural or supernatural. Bad vibrations from the young man's molestation. Why did he seem so powerful? Most probably, because he was at his, armed with his walking-stick, spectacles and the unusual ring. The silence helped me realise that all I wanted was leaving his place as soon as possible. Not to sound harsh, in order that my leave would not look impolyte, I proceeded with our conversation by remarking, "Your son doesn't look like you."
He said, "Everyone has his own remedy from loneliness."
"Worldly wisdom?" I said.
"Ephemera."
I said, "Loneliness is captivity, and any union is captivity. Where is salvation?"
He said, "Self-sufficiency, judging by your good look. And so, what's your view about going to the show with me?"
I said, "I am not a playgoer. Besides, the case of my cousins' mother is not closed, and I feel concerned too much. Having not time for anything theatrical. Sorry."
His fingertips turned his ring and left it. He said, "I wish you every felicity."
No handshaking between us. Clem and I went to the doorway, passing by Mr Magnhus and Cecil who stood at a gilt-framed picture; they were still, silent and looking like a part of decoration; at the same time they seemed dwellers completely at home when watching our departure. As the menservants on sides of the door got animated and one of them took a candlestick to lead us, Mr Magnhus moved too, approached me and took my arm.
Looking at my face and smiling either friendly or emitting his inborn charm, he said, "May I see you out, Mr Graf?"
"Why not..." I muttered and said, "Of course, Mr Magnhus!"
He smiled at Clem and led us out of the room.
If I was not mistaken, it was the same way that we used when going to the room with the blazing fireplace; thus, the next room was dark and as cold as before. The hot presence of our guide Mr Magnhus as an offset against the cold made me understand what the cold reminded of. Cold in a mortuary. Mr Magnhus turned on the light, and we saw the room was gilt decorated all over too, with walls and ceiling of the dark-rosy colour which might be called "dead rose" or soft terracotta.
Backs of chairs and other furniture were gilt too, or rather clouded with gold, and the furniture was not the main source of the bleak splendour of the rooms. The gilt over the walls was rich, which could not be regarded as anything unusual, especially in royal palaces, but it was only a house of a merchant, and the gilt was not over moulding, because instead of moulding, there was a filigree carving over wood of the quality which looked fantastic or it's a forgotten technique. Forgetting of my companions, for a while, I got closer to a wall and began examining this wonder.
The carving was floral ornaments running over the wood decoration in the rococo. Dazzling and making giddy, as it was often with me when I contemplated an object of art. A sort of the Stendhal syndrome, maybe, not exactly yet something of the sort. Do you remember, dear Diary, the famous 19th-century French author Stendhal wrote--
"...in a sort of ecstasy, from the idea of being in Florence, close to the great men whose tombs I had seen. Absorbed in the contemplation of sublime beauty... I reached the point where one encounters celestial sensations... I had palpitations of the heart, what in Berlin they call 'nerves.' Life was drained from me. I walked with the fear of falling."
The floor in the rooms had not carpets, and the repetitive labyrinthine meanders, the black and white, all over the pavement of the floor, could make giddy too, therefore, I sought not to look underfoot. Through the giddy golden haze in my head, I heard Magnhus who had begun to speak a moment ago, "...and I know how it looks, but I beg you, forgive my friend and boss Kornelis Aboleo. He is so passionate, easily carried away, of an amorous disposition, strangely for a businessman, but a reason may be his versatile talented nature. He's art-lover, writer, researcher, traveller, inventor..."
Looking at him, I said, "Researcher? Writer?" I remembered a typewriter glimpsing somewhere on a table.
"Yes, writer." The stare of his bright blue eyes was nice, sympathetic, all together. "I guess you want to know his genre? His main themes are two. He writes about his own travels and also... mystique, esoteric, occultism, and all that."
"Occultism?" I said, "Esoteric? Aha... this can explain much. Isn't that so, Clem?"
Clem sullenly nodded.
Magnhus said, "Exactly!"
I said, "This explains much and can excuse much. Who don't dabble in occultism and mystique nowadays? Isn't that so?"
Magnhus said, "Every man, more or less. Besides, he's rich. Did you see his blue spectacles? The glasses are cut-offs of solid sapphire."
I said, "Nice."
"He has a pair of green spectacles, which is cut-offs of emerald," Magnhus proceeded, in the same soft tone.
"Amazing." I rubbed my cold hands.
Clem sniffled.
Magnhus said, "This way, gentlemen..."
The next room was white and gilt. I should not examine the ornaments lest it made me giddy, and I never did it. We went downstairs in the dusk.
In the ground floor, Magnhus and I pressed hands of each other, and I could feel his hand. The hand was so warm. Warm and dry. A warmest hand I ever felt. No, hottest. I didn't mind my hands being warmed in the hands. If his boss' hands were the same hot, then… all the supernatural or unearthly about the two was only seeming. Two hot rich men with some whims, no more.
Besides some whims, they had the younger relatives or boyfriends or whatever the beautiful boys could be in fact. Nothing unusual, as well. If the intention of the second of the two blond gentlemen was looking like a true man of fashion and lulling my suspicions, before Clem and I left the suspicious place so generally sprinkled with a heady essence of several kinds of the beautyful, then the gentleman succeeded. By the by, like his boss, he smelled of ylang-ylang.
Outside, the night reigned, veiling this silent part of the city. Shadow of city and city of shadows. Dark clouds sailed in the sky making all shadows move; the stars and the moon exchanged twinkles, and it was difficult to understand where reality ended and fiction began. From Red Abbey Road, Clem and I came out to Vasa Canal and went along it; then we turned to cross the bridge and went towards busy streets in the hope of finding a cab on the way. About Kornelis Aboleo, Clem's verdict was in the following, "The guy lives with a counterfeit passport, most probably!" There are some of the epithets, which Clem gave to Aboleo's person: a self-conceited man, arrogant, ready to take any risk for earning additionally, cunning, sly.
I agreed, "His look alone makes think that his personality as well as his name is thoroughly faked, but if we take in consideration his financial abilities and entourage... Interesting. Anybody hardly wants to join what is believed an object for people's amazement and study, but everyone loves to see something extraordinary or unbelievable in the world and society. Nobody will go to live at the edge of a Swiss glacier or on the rocks of North-Cape, but everyone wants to take a look at these wondrous natural phenomena and many want to study them."
Clem's exclamation interrupted me. He stopped, staring straight before himself as though thunderstruck.
"What, what's wrong with you, Clem?!"
He turned his pale face to me and said that it seemed to him that he had forgotten of the "Note from Mr S" leaving it in hands of Magnhus.
I specified, "You left it in hands of Aboleo, and Aboleo passed the note to Magnhus."
Turning back and peering in the darkness which we left behind, Clem said, "Where Mr Magnhus could be now?"
"As I think, the three of them were ready for going out. Anyway, he's not a needle in a haystack to be lost forever."
Clem sank his head. The rain began sprinkling again, the next windflaw proved to be too cold for us in our overcoats, and this returned us to reality. Clem muttered, "I must go to Lesyinesmagi to search in Mother's letters once again." It looked like he changed his mind to revisit Padrik. Only some guesswork. However, the news that his objet, the chic lady of the chic name of Mlle Delamarche, proved to be a mere teacher, in fact, could truly cause Clem's disappointment. Il y a des jours... et des lunes. Holding the sides of my coat, I pulled my hat over my eyes as we continued our way.
All we had heard tonight made me feel curious. Curious? No more? —my reader could ask.
Could it be helped? Man can stop feeling interested in twists of somebody else's mind and loving to study them solely because they are unusual. The feeling of an intensive interest passes away along with our young age. Man becomes an egoist by his early forties, having had a good deal of friendships and love affairs in his life. It's truism that at the age of 40, Man should be sophisticated and somewhat satiate, and I believed I was like that –besdes, life in countryside or provinces is often so ordinary, often virtuous and often benumbing for our emotions --and all this together cooled my personal interest, turning it into a mere curiosity. And yet, the more I heard of the foreigner of the name of Aboleo, my curiosity increased.
The more Clem felt in need of the stranger, depending on some information from the stranger, the more all about the stranger gave cause for my concern. It was not curiosity alone. Tonight, my egoism gave way to some feelings.
A dark shaking mound in the mist ahead of us and proper sound alluded to a cab's useful presence; five minutes more and the cab took us to the warmth and safety of Clem's hearth.