by Pavel Kornev
"Atlantic Telegraph," I asked him.
The kid handed me the paper I requested, getting ten centimes in return, then walked down the street, loudly informing passers-by:
"Storm warning! Hurricane coming! Dirigible flights to the continent canceled! Anarchists blow up police armored car! Read all about it! Blood-soaked horror and imminent storm!"
I went back to the table and began leafing through the news as I waited for my order. But there was nothing new about Procrustes in the paper. Just rumors, as before. The Newton-Markt was keeping stubbornly silent.
They brought my coffee, crispy waffles and two scoops of ice-cream with maple syrup on top. In no particular hurry, I ate my food and leafed through the paper. The hurricane was expected any day now. After I finished my meal, I just sat and drank my coffee.
But I was no longer unoccupied, not at all. I was thinking over my next steps and considering my opponents' possible moves. I wasn't expecting the malefic strangler to attack any time soon. What did he need me for? But then the gang of illustrious gentlemen had serious intentions. And it wasn't at all certain that Bastian Moran's forthcoming activity would get them to lay low. He might have been working for them, after all.
Paranoia? Nothing of the sort. The bruise on the back of my head and electrical burns on my arms and legs were clear evidence of the fact that I was currently quite far from mere paranoia. But sure, I did have a slight, if natural, mistrust of those around me.
I paid up and headed into the library. Once there, I spent some time filling out a library card and set about shuffling through old newspaper files. I was looking for any mention of people who died with the characteristic bite marks on their neck. But there was no mention of such happenings in the crime blotter from any paper in the last five years. Elizabeth-Maria was right. Vampires must have tried to avoid New Babylon. And if not, they were devilishly good at covering up their foul misdeeds.
After killing a few hours, I tossed my gaze at the clock face and ordered a few books on the founding of the Second Empire. But I was disappointed: though there were dozens of thick tomes written on the great Rie brothers, Emperor Clement and Emile his constant chancellor, I wasn't able to glean anything useful from them.
They all just told slight variations on the same official story I’d heard my whole life: a group of people fighting for freedom and justice rose up in rebellion against the tyranny of the fallen. And though the Emperor himself had been given every imaginable biographical treatment, his younger brother had always occupied his shadow. Even as chancellor, he wasn't such a public person and, after his sudden end, everyone simply forgot about the great Duke of Arabia. I supposed the fact that he was disliked by the widowed Empress had at least some part to play in that.
One thing could be said absolutely for sure: of those who took part in the rebellion alongside the Rie brothers, the survivors now numbered in the single digits. Their generation was gone now. Those who had known Emile Rie as chancellor numbered incomparably higher, but I was hardly likely to track down anyone involved in his secret by going down that route.
And there was definitely some kind of terrifying secret tied up with the lightning-rune aluminum box.
"In respect to the memory of Emile Rie..."
What the devil did that illustrious gentleman have in mind?
What kind of respect? What did that have to do with anything?
I headed to the magistrate, still not having found an answer to the questions hounding me.
I ARRIVED to the magistrate just as it was closing. I walked into the vestibule, looked for the clerk whose palm I'd greased and was unpleasantly surprised to find a sour expression on his handsome mug.
"Alas, Mr. Orso," the young man sighed, "I'm afraid I cannot help you..."
"Listen here, my good sir!" I grabbed him by the arm and pulled him toward me. "Our agreement was mutually beneficial. Don't complicate things!"
"I checked the archive," the frightened clerk whispered back fitfully. "The land you asked about is currently in abeyance. You can check yourself, if you like!"
"Where are the documents?"
The young man adjusted his frock and pointed at one of the doors.
"After me, please," he said in an official tone.
We walked into the office. The clerk there rifled through a desk, opened a dusty folder and handed it to me.
I quickly made sure that the documents were about the right property. Its last owner really had died half a century ago. With unhidden disbelief, I looked at the civil servant:
"How is this possible?"
"I do not know," he replied, shrugging his shoulders. "The plot of land has simply been forgotten!"
"Do such things even happen?"
"Back then, stranger things were known to happen."
"Perhaps." I wrote the address of my attorney on a sheet in my notepad, tore it out and handed it to the man. "If you do manage to find something out, I'd be much obliged."
"By all means," the clerk nodded, sticking the paper in his pocket.
And I went outside empty-handed.
Twilight had already crept up on the city. The street lamps on the alleys leading to the magistrate were starting to turn on. The black clouds on the backdrop of the darkening sky seemed to be made of cut black paper. A steam tram grumbled loudly across the square. A few carriages and a police armored car rolled past.
I followed it with my watchful eye and headed into the Charming Bacchante.
My mood wasn't suited for an outing to the circus, but Albert Brandt would never forgive me if the valuable ticket went to waste on my account.
4
WHEN I GOT UP to the poet's apartment, he was standing in his underwear before a mirror shaving, dipping a straight razor from time to time into a basin of soapy water on a stool. His evening attire was on the couch. In a glass on the table, there sat a beautiful carnation for his lapel. And do I even have to say that his lacquered ankle-boots at the door had been so thoroughly polished that it hurt the eyes?
"Leo!" Albert grew happy at my appearance. "You're always so punctual, it's impossible! The cabby will be here in five minutes."
"Did you order a carriage?"
"This is a society event!" the poet snorted. "Being late, or arriving on foot is bad form."
"As you say," I chuckled, taking a seat on his ottoman.
"That's why I shaved all on my own!" the poet bragged, wiping his cheeks with a towel.
"Your arms don't ever just twitch?"
"You're mean. Who raised you?" Albert reproached me, taking his suit and going behind the screen to get changed. "What's the news?" he shouted, already out of view.
"A storm warning's been announced. They expect torrential rain and lightning."
"Is that even news?" the poet snorted. "What about Procrustes? Who has he killed now? I was working all day today. I didn't even go outside."
"Procrustes is dead," I informed my friend.
"Come off it, Leo!" he replied, not having caught my meaning. "If only you knew what a royalty I've been promised for this poem about him, you'd be dripping with envy."
I felt my bill-swollen wallet and had a fit of laughter.
"That's not very likely."
"Oh, come off it!" Albert said with a wave, coming out from behind the screen dressed to the nines. "And take your billiard ball already. Why the devil'd you even drag it down here?"
"Are you saying I should bring it to the circus?"
"Throw it away if you must. I have no need for it whatever."
"You’re grumbling like an old man," I said, refusing. Then I asked: "Are you not going to wear a cloak?"
Albert looked out the window, looked up at the sky and agreed:
"Sure, a cloak couldn't hurt."
"Remember the storm warning!"
We left his apartments and went down to the first floor. Very soon after that, the carriage the poet ordered drove up to the cabaret.
"To the old circus!" Albert declared, and
he took us off down the narrow streets of the Greek Quarter, which were dark and still quite deserted.
The twilight had grown denser. The sky was finally stretched over with clouds, and the wind had grown stronger and brisker. The temperature had also dropped noticeably.
The movement on the street wasn't very intense yet, so getting to the square near the Yarden Embankment with the old circus at its center took us just ten minutes. The old circus building was circular and had a stone dome lined with archway entrances.
There were so many people gathered outside of it that we couldn't get through.
In the light of the street lamps, the honorable public was sauntering down the alleys of the square and embankment. Some were asking for an extra ticket, some were selling tickets that had never been "extra" in any sense at three times their listed value. There were several divisions of equestrian police maintaining order. Near the fence, in front of the entrance to the circus building, constables' uniforms shone out like beacons.
"Full house tonight," I noted, getting out of the carriage.
"These scalpers are gonna get rich," Albert agreed.
We went onto the square and stepped past the many carts and stalls of the street sellers providing something to tide the viewers over for the show.
"We'll eat inside," the poet decided.
I didn't argue. Enjoying concessions at the circus was a tradition. Going to the circus or theater and not stopping by the refreshments area was bad form.
Curses! What an obtrusive concept!
Standing at the edge of the square, I cast my gaze over the stone titan of the circus and gave a shiver.
"Yeah, this place is also giving me chills," Albert nodded. "Ghastly things have been done here. Ghastly."
There were rumors that, when the fallen ruled, a certain portion of the audience would not return home after a show. And though no documented confirmations of such occurrences existed, the stories had tickled the nerves of several generations of New Babylonians. Thirty years ago, the authorities even built a new circus building. This one was bright, airy and spacious. Nowadays, the only groups that performed at the old one were traveling collectives and independent troupes.
I didn't pay particular attention to these rumors, I just felt something strange in the air, that was all. The ripples of long-gone fears? Perhaps that was it.
"Extra! Extra! Procrustes kicks the bucket!" came the sudden call of a boy darting between the people in the crowd with a stack of papers. "Extra! Extra! Read all about it! Procrustes shot down in the Chinese Quarter!"
Albert Brandt immediately acquired the fresh edition of the Capital Times; it consisted of just a few pages and was entirely devoted to the legendary murderer. The poet read the headline in the light of the gas lamp and exclaimed:
"Curse me, Leo! He's dead!"
"I tried to tell you," I chuckled back significantly.
The poet considered my affirmation and stared at me with clear disapproval.
"I thought you were talking about..." out of delicacy, he didn't remind me of my father, which meant he couldn’t be that angry, "bygone times! Not about the present-day murderer!"
"I said what I said."
"Here, it's written that Procrustes was shot by on-duty police."
"In the inspector general's place, it would be at the very least stupid to say otherwise."
"Am I to understand that this wouldn't have transpired without your involvement?"
I nodded.
"Tell me!" demanded the poet, looking around and immediately correcting himself: "No, wait! Let's go get some food!"
"They won't let us in yet," I told him, but the spectators crowding in front of the circus didn't slow Albert down one bit.
He moved decisively forward, getting through to the wide stone steps without particular effort. And once there he coughed, clearing his throat, and in a low and cracking voice demanded:
"Let me through!"
And the people, not really aware of their actions, started making way. We didn't have to curse or fight our way to the front. My companion's talent worked easily on the circus patrons and made us a path through the crowd.
With the guards, that wasn't going to work, though. And Albert didn't even try. Such tricks could easily lead to him sitting out the show in the neighboring police station.
"I'd like to speak with the manager, if you'd be so kind!" the poet asked. If a note of bossiness slipped through in his booming voice, the constables didn't pay it any mind. Then, one of the doormen suddenly left his position and ran to fulfill the illustrious gentleman's request.
The crowd around started grumbling and shooting us unkind looks. Then, Albert waved his tickets in the air, letting them know that we weren't just taking advantage of our connections and walking in without paying.
"Calm down, ladies and gentlemen. Please, be calm!" he said in an easy and good-natured tone. "I'll be performing comical couplets today, and my friend is trying out for the role of tap dancer!"
Everyone around burst out laughing and, when the manager told them to let us in, no one said a word.
"Mr. Brandt!" said the circus employee, embracing the poet as he clapped him on the back like an old friend. "I'm devilishly glad to see you but, to my extreme shame, I must be going. So much to do! So much to do!"
"We'll talk later," Albert nodded carelessly.
I waited for us to be left alone, and elbowed my friend in the side.
"So, that means I'm to be a tap dancer?"
"Well, you have got a cane," he said with a thoughtless hand wave and walked through the old-ad caked vestibule. "We have to hurry, my young friend. We must be inside before the ravenous crowd gushes in!"
I walked after him and unwillingly shivered when Albert turned sharply and asked:
"Do you smell that? It smells like the circus! The circus is a special world, Leo! Circus people are not the same as you or me. They're a particular folk. A surprising lot!"
I didn't share my friend's inspiration one bit. In his time, my father had done business with some middle-man circus impresario, and I had spent just about as much time around "circus people" as I could stomach for one lifetime. There were good ones among them, but also some that were plainly wicked. All in all, I wasn't left with particularly pleasant memories.
"Have you ever been backstage?" the poet asked, stepping through the vestibule.
"I have," I confirmed, not saying that I had lived a few months in this very building and even taken part in setting up shows.
"A surprising world!" Albert said as he walked up to the concessions stand. He ordered a cup of coffee, a glass of cognac and a sugared lemon, then hurried me along: "Pick something, Leo. Pick something."
I asked for a mineral water with pear syrup and a bit of ice cream with nuts and told my friend about yesterday's skirmish with the werebeast in the Chinese Quarter.
"Alexander Dyak is simply a gem," I announced near the end. "I don't even know what I'd have done without his help!"
"Alexander has a good mind," Brandt agreed with me, then asked in reproach: "But, Leo, why didn't you tell me all this earlier?"
"I was afraid."
"Afraid?"
"Well, sure," I confirmed, pushing away an empty plate. "I was afraid of spoiling your inspiration. After all, you did recently tell me how delicate it is..."
"Leo, you're not a good person," Albert Brandt sighed, having picked up on the mockery in my voice.
At that moment, I heard the buzz of the crowd. The spectators managed to quickly fill up the circus.
I finished my mineral water and chuckled:
"So, am I to understand that the lady of your heart is busy this evening?"
"That’s right, she couldn't make it," the poet confirmed with a dreamy smile. "But her and I already saw each other today. I gave her a huge bouquet of tulips. She's crazy for flowers."
"How original!"
"Leo, sarcasm doesn't suit you," the poet frowned, gulping down the last of his c
ognac and suggesting: "Shall we go?"
"Let's go," I nodded, as the second bell had already rung.
And, after grabbing a program and a pair of theater binoculars, we headed off to find our places.
As it turned out, the poet's unknown benefactor had given him a whole box, so we were to enjoy the spectacle in enviable comfort, causing the other spectators to look on us with unhidden covetousness.
"Moon Circus is five centuries old, can you imagine?" said Albert, his program open. "For a long time, they performed only in New Babylon, but for the last three hundred years, they've been traveling Europe. Some of their acts haven't changed since the day they were founded!"
"How educational," I snorted, looking at the stage and rows of seats, the majority of which were occupied.
The sawdust-covered ring was placed, as tradition dictated, in the very center of the spacious building. The dome looked very high from inside. There were no windows or lights on it, and the cables running down got lost in the murky shadows nearer the top.
"I've always liked learning new things," the poet shrugged.
"I've always liked learning useful things," I parried.
"You're a bore, Leo!"
"And you're a nuisance."
"I should have gotten a cognac," the poet sighed, just as the third bell rang.
Soon after that, the master of ceremonies walked into the ring. Then, the session orchestra started playing, as two grimacing clowns walked out on stage, one red and one white. A magician followed them, taking rabbits and pigeons from a top-hat, clearly not large enough to store such a great number of beasts. Next was a sweet looking girl, who climbed into a box, was closed up, then vanished. The following act was a pair of jugglers, throwing their flaming clubs back and forth. Nothing strange, everything like usual.
For me, it was all pure boredom. But then, the acrobats started. They performed without safety wires or a net spread out under them but, despite that, they pulled off such stunts under the domed ceiling that I was left frozen with my mouth agape.
The acrobats seemed to be flying. Really flying, with every second breaking the law of gravity. In times gone by, they would surely have been accused of witchcraft. Now, though, people were just staring in horror; the crowd would burst into applause, then wash over with waves of elated terror. Sometimes, I felt that one of the artists was out of step and would fall like a stone to the ground but, every time, there appeared a trapeze underhand at the very last moment, or they were caught by a partner with perfectly calculated timing.