The Stranger tloe-1

by Макс Фрай

  “You know best,” I sighed. “Let’s go eat, Juffin. These walls need a rest from us.”

  Even the Glutton was gloomy. Madame Zizinda looked like she had been crying. The food exceeded all expectations, as usual, but we weren’t in any mood to appreciate its merits. Juffin ordered a glass of Jubatic Juice, sniffed it critically, and pushed it away.

  This was perhaps the most incoherent, senseless night I had experienced in all the time I had been here. Hm. In all the time I had been here. It hadn’t been too long, to be honest. It wasn’t at all hard to imagine that in addition to tourists from neighboring cities, inhabitants of other worlds had made their way to Echo, just as I had done. Sinning Magicians!

  “Juffin,” I whispered. “What if it’s a countryman of mine?”

  My boss raised his eyebrows and nodded slowly.

  “Let’s go to the Ministry. A conversation like this isn’t for strangers’ ears. Tell Madame Zizinda to send kamra and something harder to my office. Only not this stuff,” he added, looking at the liquid distastefully.

  In the office the chief stared at me with his penetrating gaze.

  “Why?”

  “Because it explains everything. No magic, right? In any case, no obvious magic. That’s number one. Number two, if I’m here, why might there not be other guests like me? A door, no matter how well locked, always remains a door while a house is still standing. And Juffin, you yourself say that it’s not customary to kill like that in Echo. Where I was born, back there, treating ladies that way is quite popular among madmen. Some madmen. We call them ‘maniacs.’ That’s my third, and most important, argument. It’s all too familiar. I’ve seen similar things on television.”

  “Where did you see it?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I mumbled. I tried to think of a quick and comprehensible way of describing television to a person who had never seen it. “Let’s just say that it gives you the ability to stay home and watch what’s going on in other places. Not everything, of course, but the main things. Things that are surprising or important. And then there are movies. With the help of a special apparatus. No magic. Although who knows what the gauge on your Magic Meter would show?”

  “Exactly. Oh, you should have brought that television along with you—what a fascinating little gadget!”

  “But what do you think about the murderer?” I asked, trying to steer my chief back to the problem at hand. “Do you think he might be a native of my country?”

  “Well, it’s an elegant and logical hypothesis—just something you’d come up with. We’ll have to try it out. I’ll go see Maba Kalox, and you’ll come with me. Maba knows your story, so don’t try to impress him with the legend of your origins.”

  “Sir!” I exclaimed, indignant. “It’s not my legend, it’s yours. A prime example of the genre of fictional falsification. ‘Sir Max is from the Borderlands of the County Vook and the Barren Lands—an uncouth barbarian, but one heck of a sleuth!’”

  “It’s mine alright,” Juffin sighed. “At least I’m good for something. Let’s go.”

  At this point, I must elaborate on how I ended up in Echo, since, strange as it may seem, it is directly connected with how these events further unfolded.

  For the first twenty-nine years of his muddled existence, Max, the Max I was then, nocturnal dispatcher at a newspaper, average in every possible sense of the word, had grown used to attributing special significance to his dreams. Events in dreams seemed even more real to me than everyday reality. It even went so far that when matters in my dreams weren’t going very well, nothing could comfort me when I was awake. Moreover, even on the best of days, when reality was absolutely agreeable to me, I didn’t quite see the difference between the dream world and the waking world. I dragged all my problems around with me, there and back—as well as joys and satisfactions, when there were any, of course.

  Among the myriad dreams I saw (for it was like watching myself starring in a strange movie) there were several that stood out for their frequency. A city in the mountains, where the only kind of municipal transportation was a cable car; a shady English park, divided into two parts by a babbling brook; a series of empty beaches on a gloomy seacoast. And another city, whose mosaic sidewalks enchanted me at first sight. In this city I even had a favorite café, though I could never remember the name of it after I woke up.

  Later, when I found myself in the real Glutton Bunba, I recognized it immediately. I even discovered my favorite table between the counter and window onto the courtyard. I felt immediately at home in this place—the smattering of customers who stood along the lengthy counter all seemed strangely familiar to me, and their exotic mode of dress didn’t daunt me in the least. I might add that they, too, looked upon my trousers without any particular curiosity. Echo is, after all, the capital city of a large country. It is also one of the largest seaports in the World. It’s hard to shock the local residents, least of all with exotic attire.

  In time, one of the regulars began greeting me. I greeted him back. Even a cat, as everyone knows, appreciates a kind word—no less so when it’s asleep and dreaming.

  Gradually, this person established the habit of sitting down at my table just to chat. And Sir Juffin Hully can do this as no one else can—just give him the chance, and he’ll talk your ear off. Things went on like this for a fairly long time. Sometimes when I woke up I would relate to my friends some of the marvelous stories I had heard from my new acquaintance. They all told me to write them down, but I never got around to it. I somehow felt that certain things shouldn’t be entrusted to paper. Well, laziness was a factor, too; why hide it?

  Our curious friendship began suddenly—and, for me, completely unexpectedly. One day my conversation partner broke off his story in mid-sentence, and with the mock seriousness of a conspirator, glanced around furtively, then said in a mysterious whisper: “But you’re sleeping, Max. This is all just a dream.”

  I was thoroughly shaken, and my body jerked so that I fell off the chair and woke up safely on my floor at home.

  For the next seven years I dreamed about everything under the sun except the mosaic paving tiles of the wondrous city. I was sad not to be visited by those dreams, and in my waking life things got worse and worse. I lost interest in my old friends, broke off with my girlfriends, and changed jobs more frequently than underwear. I threw all my books away, since they could no longer comfort me, and when I drank too much I invariably got into fist fights, as though I wished to smash to bits the reality I could not abide.

  In time, however, I calmed down. I adopted the whole package of life-affirming values: friends, girlfriends, a tolerable job, decent living quarters, a large library attesting to the affluence of its owner, rather than to his literary tastes. In bars I began ordering coffee instead of spirits. I showered in the morning, shaved no less than every other day, took my underwear to the laundry, and kept my wits about me, resorting to withering glances and biting comments instead of using my fists.

  Instead of justified pride, however, I still experienced that dull longing and boredom that drove me out of my mind in my youth. I felt like a walking corpse that had risen from the grave, and had for some reason settled down to a quiet, unobtrusive existence among people who were only half-alive, just as he was.

  But I got lucky—and how!

  One day, early in the morning, as soon as I had fallen asleep after work, I saw in a dream the long counter of the bar, my favorite table, and my old acquaintance waiting for me at the neighboring table. I remembered right away how our last conversation had ended. I knew I was having a dream. But this time I didn’t fall off my chair. I didn’t wake up. I wasn’t even afraid. I guess as I had grown older I had learned, from necessity, to keep my wits about me.

  “What’s happening?” I inquired. “And how is it happening?”

  “I don’t know,” my old friend answered. “I don’t think anyone knows how things like this happen. But they do happen. My hobby is examining that fact, when I’m up to
it.”

  “You don’t know?” I asked, flabbergasted. For some reason I assumed this person was bound to know the answer to my every question.

  “That’s not what matters just now,” he interrupted me. “But tell me—do you like it here?”

  “Do I? It’s my favorite dream! When I stopped dreaming it I thought I’d lose my mind.”

  “I understand. And do you like it there, where you live?”

  I shrugged. Around that time problems had been piling up at home. No major difficulties—they were all in the past by then—but dull, trivial, everyday problems. I was the proud owner of a mediocre, uneventful life, and delusions of grandeur about what I actually deserved.

  “You are a nocturnal creature,” my conversation partner observed. “And not without eccentricities, am I right? Where you live, it’s a problem when you can’t sleep at night, I suppose.”

  “A problem! You’re not kidding!”

  Before I knew it, I was unburdening my heart to this sympathetic old man. And when all is said and done, why be ashamed of it? It was only a dream, as I had been frankly informed seven years before.

  He listened to me rather indifferently; but he didn’t laugh at me, either, for which I am grateful to this day.

  “Well then,” he began, after I had gone quiet. “That’s all quite sad, but I have an excellent proposal for you: an interesting, well-paid job here in this city, which you have already come to love. Moreover, you’ll work only at night—just like you’ve always wanted.”

  I didn’t have to think twice. It still hadn’t sunk in that a decision I made there, in my dream, could have any real consequences. But I wanted him to fill me in on the details, purely out of curiosity.

  “Okay, let’s say you’ve already won me over. But why do you need me? Do you mean to say that there are no other night owls in this entire city?”

  “Of course there are plenty of those,” he said with a grin. “By the way, my name is Juffin. Sir Juffin Hully, at your service. Don’t trouble yourself, I already know your name is Max. And your last name is immaterial to me. You’d be surprised, but I know quite a bit about you already. In particular, I know that you have a certain rare talent that is relevant to the organization I head. It’s just that it hasn’t revealed itself to you yet.”

  “What kind of talent might that be? Not a criminal streak, by any chance?” I snickered foolishly.

  “You see, you’ve guessed it already! Fine work!”

  “Are you serious? What are you, some sort of a Mafia boss?”

  “I don’t know what a Mafia is, but I can assure you, what I am is much worse.”

  “A Mafia boss is the head of a criminal organization,” I explained. “A big-shot bandit. And what are you?”

  “I, on the contrary, am head of the Minor Secret Investigative Force of the city of Echo. Another version of a ‘big-shot bandit,’ you might say, but in the service of the law. By the way, my department concerns itself only with magic crimes.”

  “Tragic crimes?” I asked incredulously, fearing I hadn’t heard correctly.

  “No. You heard right. Magic crimes. There’s no need to wince. I’m not playing a joke on you. I’m quite serious. But never mind about that for now. If we are able to work together, you’ll get answers to all your questions, and even answers to questions you didn’t know you had.”

  “Well, I guess you could say we’re already working together.”

  “Really? Well, that’s good. I thought it might be hard to persuade you. I even thought of making a speech.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what my job will be, since we’re working together?”

  “Nocturnal Representative of the Head of the Minor Secret Investigative Force. You see the Force is usually getting some shuteye at night. So you, Max, will be the Nocturnal Head.”

  “Not a bad career for a migrant worker.”

  “You’re right about that. Tell me, if I really were this ‘Mafia’ boss, would you nevertheless have agreed to work with me?”

  “Oh yes,” I replied honestly. “I don’t know the ins and outs of life here. So for me there’s no real difference between those who commit crimes and those who catch the criminals.”

  “Good for you, friend; you didn’t lie. Keep going in that spirit. The truth isn’t such a weighty thing that it ought to be concealed.”

  This Sir Juffin, with the profile of a bird of prey and the cold eyes of a predator, had a surprisingly gentle smile. I realized I hadn’t been that charmed for a long time—either awake or asleep. I truly did want to stay here, with this extraordinary person. What he did, and what role he wanted me to play, didn’t really matter at all. This may be why I decided to take our conversation as seriously as I would have if I had been awake. I wanted to believe him; I hadn’t desired anything so deeply for a long time.

  “Now we just have to sort out the technical details,” said Sir Juffin Hully and sighed.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, Max, that you still have to get here.”

  “Am I not here? Oh. Well, yes . . .”

  “That’s just it. Do you think it’s the real you here now? You’re an ordinary ghost. Well, almost ordinary. People don’t shriek and dash aside when they see you, but someone with a trained eye will see through you instantly. And you’ll have problems with your body, which is now lolling around under a blanket. If you die, it’s curtains for you. No, you must be present here with all your engine parts and accessories, which are who-knows-where at the moment.”

  “The engine—yes, that’s a problem,” I said, crestfallen.

  “Right you are. But listen carefully. You have to do something well-nigh impossible when you wake up. First, you must remember our conversation. I hope that won’t pose a problem for you. And if it does—well then, we’ll have to start all over again. Second, you must remember that all this is extremely serious. You have to convince yourself that some dreams can continue while you’re awake. And if it doesn’t work, you must persuade yourself to verify it. Out of curiosity, or out of boredom, as you wish.”

  “No problem. I have enough of both in my life.”

  “Wait before you speak! People are made in such a way that if something inexplicable happens to them, they write it off to an overheated imagination. You have only a few hours here to convince yourself of my existence. There I’m powerless to help you. All I can do is hope for success.”

  “Have a little faith in me,” I protested, a bit hurt. “I’m no dimwitted fool.”

  “Neither dimwitted, nor a fool. But the capacity to believe in miracles isn’t the strongest trump card in your deck. I’ve had the pleasure of studying you for many years now, Max.”

  “How?”

  “Not ‘how’ but ‘why’. That’s just the way it happened. I saw you here by chance many years ago. I realized you weren’t a local. Then I thought that you weren’t old enough to be hanging around in bars. Only then did it occur to me that you weren’t real. You know: a phantom, a ghost, a pale shadow of a distant dreamer. Around here such things do happen, but I didn’t sense any of our magic in you. That’s why no one caught on to you. Except me, of course.”

  “And you—”

  “I noticed you because I’m well-versed in these things. And you know what? I took one look at you, and I knew: this guy would be an ideal nocturnal replacement for me one day. And he’d be a pretty good one even now!”

  I was stunned. It had been a long time since I had received any compliments, and such pleasantly unexpected ones were a first for me. Now I understand that Juffin was praising me in advance, as it were, so that I could more easily believe in his existence. No matter how loudly my common sense shouted that it was just another stupid dream, to accept the fact that the charming Sir Juffin’s overweening flattery was also only a stupid dream—well, that just wasn’t my style.

  “When you’re convinced that it’s worth a try—if, of course, it comes to that—do the following . . .” Here, Juffin fell silen
t, rubbed his forehead, closed his eyes, and then commanded, “Give me your hand!”

  I extended my hand, which he then grabbed hold of painfully. Then he began muttering quietly, hurriedly, almost incoherently, as though trying to keep up with some invisible understudy.

  “Late at night, go to . . . yes, that place called Green Street. Remember. Don’t stand still, just keep walking. Well, for an hour, two hours—however long you need to. You’ll see a carriage—you call them ‘streetcars.’ An empty streetcar. It will approach you then stop. Get in and sit down. The streetcar will start moving. Do whatever you wish, but don’t take the coachman’s seat. It’s better not to risk it, you never know with these things. Don’t get nervous, and don’t worry. It could take a long time, so be sure to bring some sandwiches or other provisions. You should be prepared to spend a few days on the road. I don’t think the trip will take terribly long, but anything can happen. And, most important, don’t tell anyone anything. They won’t believe you, and other people’s doubts always interfere with real magic.”

  Finally, he let go of my hand, opened his eyes, and smiled.

  “Remember that last bit of advice well—it will come in handy in the future. Is everything clear?”

  “Yes,” I said, rubbing my sore extremity.

  “Will you do this, Max?”

  “Sure I will. But streetcars don’t run on Green Street.”

  “Maybe not . . .” Juffin said indifferently. “What, did you plan to travel between worlds on an ordinary streetcar? By the way, what’s a streetcar?”

  When I woke up, I didn’t have to make any extra effort to remember my dream. I remembered it down to the most minute detail. Trying to figure out where I was at that very moment proved to be more difficult, but I managed.

  It was three in the afternoon. I made myself some coffee. Then I sat in an armchair with my cup, and with the first, best cigarette of the day, intent on mulling over everything. By the last gulp, I decided there was nothing more to think about. Even if it was an ordinary dream, what did I have to lose? Taking a walk to Green Street wasn’t much trouble. I like to walk, and I didn’t have anything to do at night. But if the dream was prophetic . . . then it was the chance of a lifetime!