by Tim Davys
Philip Mouse threw himself down under the desk and got hold of his pistol. With the weapon in hand he rolled away from the animals that had been standing at his side and who now threw themselves after him. He managed to kick one of them with his shoe; it landed right over the head. The other could not catch up with him. The private detective quickly got up on his knees and fired the pistol at the animal that had struck Daisy.
The bullet went through the hoodlum’s leg. With a howl he fell down on what remained of the fan. Right next to him Daisy lay on her side, still tied to the chair.
The pistol in Philip’s hand changed the situation. Instead of taking up the battle, the three attackers reacted as if they had been talking about it and come to agreement in advance. They fled.
The one with the hole in his leg was limping, and the one who got Philip’s foot in the head was dazed, but they were running anyway. As well as they were able.
Mouse set aside the weapon and bent over Daisy. He carefully pulled the tape from her mouth. And when he had stroked her across the forehead and assured himself that she was all right, he went out to her office to find a knife to free her from the rope and tape.
What the hell was that? he thought. What the hell was that?
Fassbunden Church is in central Lanceheim, built in the bombastic eighteenth-century style that would be so scoffed at during the centuries that followed. While many buildings in the same style were torn down during the late nineteenth century, the church remained. Today it is the foremost example of the grandiose, not to say megalomaniac, idea of good architecture of that bygone age.
A stone’s throw from the church is the monastery, the only one of its type in Mollisan Town. There is a convent in south Yok, not far from the retirement home, but it was to the monks that Philip Mouse embarked that same afternoon. He had been there to visit Brother Tom before, but it must have been more than fifteen years ago. That visit was, as Philip recalled, very brief. On the other hand he recalled, strangely enough, a detail that had etched itself into his memory in the mysterious manner that details have a way of doing. If the cowl Brother Tom had worn was gray or dark red, Philip had already forgotten that same day. But in contrast, the detective could, even fifteen years later, see Tom’s shoes in front of him, the red leather sandals that he had never seen either before or since.
Not until today.
One of the three intruders that attacked Daisy and him had just that kind of sandals on.
Now Philip Mouse stepped up to the impressive monastery gate and used the door knocker. The monastery was built like a regular fortress of red brick. No one came in through the gate without being invited, and—looking at it a different way—it was not easy to get out.
A rooster appeared. It looked funny when the little stuffed animal stuck his head out through the enormous gate.
Rust red, thought Philip. The tunic was rust red.
The rooster looked kindly at the private detective, who explained that he had come to see Brother Tom. With a nod he was let in.
The monastery received visitors in a gloomy stone hall from which three stairways led, one in each direction. The daylight filtered in through a series of small openings up under the ceiling, which meant that the floor of the hall was in darkness. The rooster went off, and Philip was left alone. There was no furniture, not even a bench to sit on, and there was a damp chill in the air.
The mouse leaned nonchalantly against the wall and prepared to wait. He was just about to sit down on one of the stair steps when Brother Tom came down the middle staircase.
“Tom!” exclaimed Philip. “I thought someone would come and get me? Last time I got—”
“We both remember what happened last time,” replied Tom.
With the rust-colored tunic Brother Tom looked less like a spider than he usually did. He radiated a kind of calm, there was a gentle friendliness in his gaze that had not been there before, but at the same time one of the reasons for Tom’s considerable success as a poker player had been that he was difficult to read.
“I’m sorry about last time,” said Philip Mouse. “It was simply not—”
“That was ages ago,” answered Brother Tom. “Nothing to talk about now.”
The last time Philip Mouse had come to visit was to find out how Tom became a believer and monk overnight. About how it was that this had happened the night when the largest winnings of the century had been paid out at VolgaBet. No one knew who had won, or if the betting that night had been manipulated, but Mouse had a feeling that Tom was involved in some way.
They had thrown the private detective out of the monastery that time. To his great surprise, Philip had ascertained later that Brother Tom had remained within the monastery walls.
“No, I have a completely different type of errand today, Tom,” the mouse confirmed.
When Brother Tom showed no signs of going anywhere, Philip assumed that the meeting would take place here, in the darkness of the hall. And that it was just as well to make the best of the situation. He breathed in the damp, close air and shrugged his shoulders.
“Nowadays I…investigate things,” said Mouse. “It can be a dirty job sometimes, but I do it anyway. And now I am searching for a stuffed animal—”
“Is it someone in the monastery?”
There was no worry in Brother Tom’s voice, but no surprise either.
“No, I don’t believe so.”
“For it has happened before. That stuffed animals have hidden in here….”
Philip felt uncomfortable standing there, in the middle of a massive hall, and he decided to get to the point.
“I only know the name,” he said. “The stuffed animal I am seeking is named Maximilian.”
Despite the darkness the reaction was apparent. Brother Tom’s eyes widened, his chin fell down, and his mouth opened. Several of his many arms stuck out of the tunic.
“Shh,” whispered Tom. “Not here. We’ll go…to the garden.”
And without further ado the monk led the mouse up the left stairway, through a series of smaller, vaultlike rooms and along a colonnade alongside the magnificent courtyard that was surrounded by a dense, high hedge. It was a walk of a few minutes. Brother Tom said nothing in the meantime, but he got more and more out of breath.
“Here,” he said at last with a nod.
In the hedge next to the colonnade a small arch opened. The garden that was concealed behind it caused Mouse to involuntarily sigh. To the right hovered a heaven of pink and white cherry blossoms; to the left was a labyrinth of boxwood-lined gravel pathways between which mimosa trees and a jungle of pink and red rosebushes had burst into full bloom. The scent of flowers and the explosive display of color, intermingled in the midst of the stern monastery building, were overwhelming. Even for someone dressed in a beige trench coat and a dark hat.
“Unbelievable,” exclaimed Philip Mouse.
Brother Tom conveyed the mouse with unaltered haste along the winding gravel paths, and he did not stop until they had reached a bower of grapevines over a green wrought-iron bench. There he signaled to Mouse to sit down, and he himself sat down close beside.
“That name,” whispered Brother Tom breathlessly, “may not be said out loud in this monastery.”
“Maximilian?” asked Mouse, startled.
“Shh!” admonished Tom. “I’m begging you.”
“But…,” Mouse began without arriving at which of all the questions he should ask first. “But—”
“There are those who maintain that he is the Savior, the Messiah.”
“Messiah?” echoed Mouse. “Maximilian?”
“Dear friend, stop that immediately!”
Brother Tom’s cheeks were red. He believed that Mouse was provoking him. Now that they had sat down on the bench, the birds resumed their concert, and Philip sensed that was why they had sat just here. Their words were drowned in an extravagant chirping and twittering.
“Where is he?” asked Philip, not beating around the bush.
“I don’
t know,” replied Tom. “No one knows. If we knew, we would take him prisoner and put him on trial.”
“Take him prisoner?”
“He pretends to be the Messiah!”
“Does he?”
“He has never denied it.”
“But the police can’t arrest someone who—”
“Not the police,” interrupted Tom with a contemptuous snort. “We’re the ones who will hold him accountable. The church. This is a matter for us.”
Philip Mouse nodded thoughtfully, as if what Brother Tom had said was reasonable and sensible. He dug in the inner pocket of his trench coat and took out a pack of half-smoked cigarettes; a kind of reserve pack for when he forgot to buy a new one. He found one of the longest butts, lit it, and took a deep puff.
“Have you seen him?”
Brother Tom shook his head. “Never. But we’ve been talking about him for many years. At the beginning no one listened. And when we finally understood that…others were listening…it was too late.”
“Too late?”
“Then he had already…been heard of. If you try to stop it now, in the wrong way, he becomes a martyr. That is probably the worst thing that can happen. Now you have to…consider.”
“In the wrong way?”
“He has several friends. A chaffinch and a snake. They’re not saying anything new. Talk about faith and hope and love. There was a mink too, who was especially troublesome. We tried to make her see reason a few times. I mean, not here, but…yes…our animals talked with her. She refused to listen. I thought we ought to have been…more definite.”
“You haven’t got hold of Maximilian?” asked Philip with surprise. “I thought you had enormous resources.”
“We do. That’s what has made certain parties…extremely worried. And we have devoted a number of years to this.”
Philip put out his cigarette in the gravel under the bench. The church had tried for several years; he thought he could manage it in a few days.
There was not much more to say. The mouse and the monk wound up the conversation, and went back together.
On the way through the colonnade they encountered an elderly deacon who blocked their path and looked searchingly at Philip.
“Brother Tom,” he said without releasing his gaze from Philip. “A visit, I see?”
“I’m following my old friend to the exit,” explained Brother Tom, doing nothing to conceal his restlessness. “He’s in a bit of a hurry.”
The deacon extended his claw.
“Nice to meet you,” he said, smiling gently. “Your name?”
Philip extended his paw and thought about saying just what his name was, when the elderly deacon held up a claw.
“Wait, don’t tell me. It’s Philip Mouse, isn’t it?” he said.
All of Brother Tom’s arms and legs were gesticulating wildly at the same time as he tried to draw Mouse away from there.
“We’re in a hurry, Philip,” he said.
“Philip Mouse,” repeated the deacon. “You are a stuffed animal of normal intelligence, aren’t you? You don’t need a clearer warning, do you?”
For once the flabbergasted mouse was speechless. The deacon, a large eagle, looked at the mouse for a moment as if he were prey, and then left.
“Who was that?” asked Philip.
“You don’t want to know,” answered Tom. “But get out of here now, Mouse. I think you’ve already stayed much too long as it is.”
WOLF DIAZ 7
The day Eva Whippoorwill climbed down from her tree and ran up to Das Vorschutz to receive Maximilian had been the thirteenth of October.
While Maximilian was growing up, therefore, the thirteenth was celebrated as his birthday, and we maintained the tradition during the years he was in prison. We invited Sven Beaver and Eva Whippoorwill and tried to make something special out of the day, tried to remember and celebrate Maximilian the individual, Maximilian the stuffed animal, rather than Maximilian the Savior. Most often this happened in more intimate gatherings, and the two Retinues were left out for practical reasons. But this year, the eighth after the unjust conviction of Maximilian, Maria Mink had conceived a larger event. During the fall she had hinted at this several times for her Retinue, which by this time was truly curious. For that reason we had booked one of our largest meeting places long before, a library that was above one of the retirement homes in Yok and which we had used on a few prior occasions. Changing places often, not starting the meetings before midnight, and not revealing the time or place more than a few days in advance were routines we no longer thought about; they were obvious. We did not have any further incidents with the authorities, but I did sometimes feel watched, and I know that the church made sure to remind Adam at regular intervals—sometimes not very subtly—that they were still following his life and activities.
“Cake isn’t vulgar, it’s just rewarding,” said Maria with a certain degree of irritation.
“And good,” I pointed out quietly.
We were discussing the birthday celebration, and Adam Chaffinch had expressed his hesitation about serving cream cake during the break. Seldom if ever did they get involved in each other’s arrangements. Adam performed his sermons in a rather traditional manner; Maria saw to it that her meetings had a warmer setting. Between them, however, there was always mutual respect. Adam had thought about taking part in Maria’s Retinue on the night of the thirteenth, and so Maria wanted to hear what he thought about the cake.
“I don’t know if cream and Maximilian go together,” said Chaffinch in an attempt to conclude the discussion.
He knew that Maria would do as she wanted in any event, and he regretted even opening his beak.
We were sitting in one of the rooms on the lower floor in what I and many others called “Maria’s House.” Through transactions the details of which I do not know, Maria Mink purchased an entire apartment building in east Lanceheim, and for tax purposes donated it to a foundation run by herself. After that, she had turned the house over to us without restrictions, and it was now in Maria’s House that I spent most of my time during the day. But more about that later.
“Cream goes with most things,” Maria smiled.
“Do you want me to make a note of that?” I asked jokingly.
Maria gave her consent and said that such pearls of wisdom should not only be written down, they should be embroidered besides.
This too I noted, and in the corner of my eye I saw that even Adam had a hint of a smile.
The atmosphere was jovial, and when we left the place half an hour later we all had the feeling that the evening’s meeting would be unusually exciting and vigorous.
I escorted Maria; we took her car to drive over to the bakery on mustard yellow Krönkenhagen, where she had already ordered her cream cakes. On the way we continued the discussion about how the evening would take shape.
“Do you know how many are coming?” she asked.
Maria was always convinced that no one would show up at her lectures, and when the meeting place was filled time and again to the last seat, she was always equally overwhelmed.
“It will be a full house, Maria,” I answered. “As usual.”
“But are you sure?”
I nodded.
Tears were running from her eyes as she turned right onto Eastern Avenue, but nowadays I did not even think about that. Everyone who associated with Maria was used to this constant weeping, and even if it might sometimes be perceived as disruptive—or downright provocative—it was a natural aspect of who she was. The first months I had curiously asked her each time what she was thinking about, but after getting answers that varied from “a limping chimpanzee on the crosswalk over there” to the discussion of our generation’s debt to our parents’ generation, I stopped asking.
“I was thinking about talking about unrequited love, Wolf. Do you think I can do that?”
This was one of the lectures that was always most appreciated. Maria described unrequited love in a new way each
time, but her fundamental message of course remained the same. And at no time did her Retinue go home in the cool night across Mollisan Town as sorrowfully satisfied as after one of these lectures.
“Or have I done it once too often?” she asked while she passed a Volga truck from Springergaast. “Should I do something different?”
“Never,” I replied with certainty. “Never. Talk about unrequited love.”
She shook her right hand lightly so that the bracelet with little hanging silver pigs slipped down on her arm a little.
“Don’t they get tired of it?”
If it had been anyone else, I would have maintained with certainty that this was coquetry, fishing for praise. But Maria was always honestly worried. It had to do with her level of ambition. She knew her value, but she always wanted to be better. Her reward was in the Retinue’s appreciation.
“No,” I said. “It is never tiresome.”
It went as I had predicted. In the twilight the library on the sixth floor of the Wrest retirement home was packed with stuffed animals. No new faces, only old familiar ones, but there was an unusual sense of exhilaration. The birthday celebration was something new. It was unusual that both Maria and Adam would be at the same place at the same occasion, and due to this, the assembly felt chosen and special.
Cream cakes were lined up on a side table, and Maria had decided that the event should start with the celebration itself, cake and coffee, before the more ordinary part of the night began. It was not possible for Eva Whippoorwill to come—it was something about her throat—but Maximilian’s discoverer and father Sven Beaver stood conversing with Adam. Sven tried to disregard the many curious looks that were thrown in his direction, but I could see how hard it was for him not to feel watched. I smiled to myself as I observed him, and knew how he would prefer to return home to the calm and silence of Das Vorschutz.
It happened just when we were about to take our places in the library and listen to Maria’s sermon.
It began with the tall windows breaking, and thousands of small pieces of glass raining down over us.