The Fallen (The Sublime Electricity Book #3)

by Pavel Kornev

  "Uh, yep!" Sokolov said in surprise, pushing the cork back into his emptied bottle. "Is something the matter? It's as if you weren't expecting it..."

  "No, no, it’s nothing," I hurried to quash the topic. "Everything is fine."

  Visiting the resort town, world-renowned for its hot springs, was not part of my plans, but I'd never have found a better place to crash: this town was directly on the rail line that connected the east and west coasts of Atlantis. With good luck, I could be on the road to New Babylon later today.

  The wind quieted down. The waves stopped beating on the sides and rocking the boat; Yemelyan Nikiforovich relaxed and seemingly even grew smaller in stature, having become a well-fed gentleman of middling years. Only in his movements did a distinct uncertainty still slip through, but that was easily explained by the other boaters. Often, they would make very poorly thought-out, if not to say utterly foolish maneuvers right into our path.

  I shook out my jacket. I'd had it sewn for me at one of the best tailors in Paris, but now I felt my ears starting to burn in shame. With all the impeccably dressed vacationers about, my suit looked like an old garment taken from a trash bin, and I looked like a vagabond intruding into a celebration of life to pick up a forgotten item.

  How could I go ashore looking like this?

  "Don't you worry, Lev Borisovich," Yemelyan Nikiforovich laughed good-heartedly, having picked up on the shame overcoming me, "I have an old habit of carrying a cloak with me. I left it at the quay. Life in Petrograd teaches one not to trust the weather, you know."

  "You'll look excellent, Your Grace," Sokolov supported his comrade.

  "Your Grace?!" I shuddered, not having immediately understood the winding logical path that led him there. "Ah, that's right! Lev is Lev Tolstoy. Lev Tolstoy is a Count. A Count is 'Your Grace.'"

  "That's right," said the fairly drunk Sokolov, pointing a finger at me. "You're making progress, Count!"

  The wind changed direction and was now blowing away from shore. An orchestra was playing near the quay and snippets of their melody were fluttering down to us. I listened in and recognized Caty Moss's Flower Dance, very popular this season.

  To the lapping of waves, our boat nuzzled up to the boards of the pier, and Sokolov was first to jump onto it. I took a chain from him, handed it to Yemelyan Nikiforovich, who was standing heavily and also left the boat. I was feeling devilishly uncomfortable to be in full view of society in this torn suit, but I still noticed the relief Krasin felt following after us. No, I was not wrong – he was definitely scared of having water near him.

  But then why take the boat trip? It was beyond understanding.

  Yemelyan Nikiforovich walked directly to the cashiers, and we came after. Sokolov walked with the easy gait of an inveterate reveler; I tried to stay behind him, drawn tight like a string, expecting sidelong glances and smirks.

  "Relax, Count!" Ivan Prokhorovich advised. "This is Montecalida! Here, if there is a drunk lying in a puddle, it's impossible to say if it's a vagabond or a stylish poet, or even a full-on playwright!"

  I nodded and tried to calm myself.

  Everything was right: the resort city attracted bohemian artists like a magnet, especially in the heat of summer when all willpower to remain in smoggy New Babylon had dried up. Basically, people came to visit these hot springs from all parts of the Empire, and even from the colonial states of the New World. Albert Brandt always said that this place had a unique atmosphere...

  Here, I winced habitually. Many years had passed since we'd last seen one another, but whenever I remembered him, an aching sorrow whirred up inside me. I didn't have enough friends for it not to hurt when I lost one. To be perfectly honest, Albert was probably the last friend I had left.

  Yemelyan Nikiforovich exchanged a few words with the cashier, and received a long gray cloak. I put it on and was left utterly satisfied: although it was a bit narrow at the shoulders, and hung quite low, the respectable public stopped lavishing me with their suspiciously surprised or surprisingly pitiful gazes.

  "A bit short on you," Sokolov noticed. "You, Lev Borisovich, are no Count. You’re king of the scarecrows!"

  "Come off it, Ivan Prokhorovich," Krasin rebuffed, taking a pack of papirosa cigarettes from his pocket. "He looks great!"

  But the sleeves really were a bit short. My wrists stuck out of the cuffs like a stick from that of a scarecrow, just as Sokolov had said.

  "Shall we hire a cab?" Yemelyan Nikiforovich suggested, lighting his cigarette.

  "Drop the lordly manners, mister slave-owner," Sokolov refused. "Let's go to the electric streetcar. I know a decent ready-made clothing store not far from here." And he turned to me: "Or would the Count prefer to visit a tailor?"

  "I'm afraid it won't be possible to mend the suit, and I cannot allow myself to wait until they sew me a new one," I sighed, having decided not to ask about the 'slave-owner' thing for the time being.

  Ivan Prokhorovich was marked by a tendency for associative thinking. The winding curves of his logic had me at an impasse. As did the man himself: I wasn't able to determine his professional affiliation, or even his social status. But he was definitely not the junior companion of "mister slave-owner." He behaved too unrestrictedly with the man.

  "Let's be going, gentlemen!" Sokolov called us, walking down a narrow alley away from the boat dock.

  Stylish vacationers were walking out opposite us; a red-faced man wearing a sailor's hat was straining to push a cart full of ice-cream as it bounced on the uneven paving stones; paperboys were running from one mouth-breather to the next, plying their wares. Life in the resort town bubbled over.

  After passing by two houses, we emerged onto a wide boulevard. A theater column with a bright poster immediately met the eye. On the backdrop of the local amphitheater, there were images of Caruso and Chaliapin. I didn't have time to figure out the details: a few fragmentary rings came out from the end of the street, and a self-propelled streetcar came around the bend, rolling along iron rails.

  "No time to lose, gentlemen!" Sokolov said, quickening his gait.

  Krasin took a deep drag and threw his cigarette butt in a trash can; I grabbed the bottom of the cloak, which was dragging on the ground occasionally, and hurried after them.

  The electric streetcar line that encircled the city, not quite the oldest in the world, was considered the second biggest attraction of Montecalida after its hot springs. Its blue and white cars were depicted on an unimaginable number of postcards and stamps. The choice of this mode of transportation, so strange for a resort town, was due to the hydroelectric dam, built in the mountains by Maxwell himself, who had spent the last years of his life here.

  The conductor reduced his speed. The streetcar came to a stop, and fifteen vacationers got out. Without any hurry, we went into the car, payed the conductor, who was wearing a black pea-jacket uniform and polished peaked cap, and took our seats.

  A sonorous crackle rang out. The overhead wire showered electric sparks and the car started moving. We were lightly rocked forward, then the car started gaining momentum, the wheels clunking out time on the rail joints.

  I was impressed most of all by the complete lack of smoke. The mountain air was unbelievably transparent. It was amazingly easy to breathe.

  We went past the city garden. On the crest at its gates, there was a sign advertising a lecture tonight: "Are Other Planets Habitable?" The sun was scorching with all its cosmic energy, heating the paving stones and warming the mountain air; there was a long line extending from a stall selling mineral water. The light was so bright it made my eyes water. I winced and turned away from the window, having decided to buy dark glasses at the first opportunity. I couldn't very well get by without them...

  "Here's our stop," Sokolov warned us, deftly hopping out as he walked from the back platform onto the causeway as if he hadn't just finished drinking a bottle of fortified wine.

  I jumped out after him and even had to run a bit to maintain my balance. Krasin follow
ed after us, and we went into a narrow alley between two three-story buildings with mansard roofs, which were made to be rented out to vacationers. Over our heads, there were taught clothes-lines laden with pillowcases, towels and stockings waving dully in the wind.

  We didn't have to walk far. As soon as we turned down the neighboring street, we were there. The ready-made clothing store was found on the first floor of a corner manor.

  It was a normal, quiet alley: shop signs washed out by sunlight, a cafe with a dusty window. Next to the clothing store was a barber and a pawn shop, its windows barred. Somewhere nearby, a dog was yapping. Behind the buildings, I could hear the knocking wheels of the electric streetcar. At an intersection, there was a paperboy shouting to attract the attention of passers-by.

  "So, Count, we'll wait for you over there!" Sokolov said, pointing at the outdoor seating of the cafe opposite. "Not a bad little spot," he told us. "Comfy. Like home."

  "Hey, I showed it to you!" Yemelyan Nikiforovich objected.

  "That is true," Ivan Prokhorovich smiled. "But, my friend, you did not notice the ready-made clothing store next door, did you?"

  Krasin just frowned and went for his wallet.

  "Lev Borisovich, do you need some money to tide you over?" he offered.

  "Thank you, but no," I refused in the hopes of using my now-dry payment orders, and removed the cloak. "I also thank you for the clothing. You really bailed me out."

  "Hogwash!" Yemelyan Nikiforovich waved it off, throwing the cloak over his arm and walking toward Sokolov, who had already taken a seat at the sidewalk table.

  "Newspapers! Gentlemen, get your newspaper here!" a boy with a swollen bag walked up to the street cafe. "Battles in Rio de Janeiro! Unrest in India! Kali-Strangler thugees commit yet another dastardly deed!"

  Yemelyan Nikiforovich bought the fresh edition of the Atlantic Telegraph. Sokolov took nothing. I just shook my head and pushed open the shop door. A little bell tinkled out over my head, and a doughy clerk rushed to get out from behind the counter.

  "How can I help you?" he smiled artificially, not paying any attention to my ripped suit or, to be more accurate, making a concerted effort to look like he wasn’t.

  With disgust, I pulled out and set back the lapels of my jacket.

  "I need a three-piece suit, undergarments and a dress shirt."

  The shop smelled of fur and dust. Suits hung in rows, differentiated only by fabric color and size. The very thought that I'd have to wear such an abomination again after owning a tailor-made suit gave me heartburn.

  Or maybe the food in the picnic basket had spoiled in the heat…

  The order-taker sized me up with a practiced eye and took out his ruler.

  "It won't be easy," he announced, taking my measurements, "but I'm sure we'll find something." After determining my height, shoulder width, leg and arm length, he walked between the hangers and took out a dark gray suit.

  "This is not quite the same as what you had," the salesman told me, as if apologizing for the store's poor stock, "but you need a suit fast, am I understanding right? Hence why you came to us..."

  "That's right," I confirmed.

  "Then please go into the changing room, if you like. And there's also the shirt. But as for undergarments, I'm afraid we don't keep them in stock..."

  In the little curtained-off nook, I set my knife, comb, gold cufflinks, coin-clinking wallet and tin of sugar drops on the shelf, took off my old suit and got into the new one. The dress shirt was just right. Its sleeves went right up to the bones of my thumbs. As for the jacket, although it fit snugly, it was much too tight at the shoulders. I needed to maintain a certain caution so it wouldn't split at the seams. I put my own belt into the trousers. They fit nearly perfectly, but needed to be brought in just a little.

  "Well, what do you say?" the salesman turned to me with interest.

  "The jacket is a bit narrow at the shoulders," I told him.

  "Well, I won't be able to find anything better suited, unfortunately," the salesman said, putting his arms out to the side.

  "And the trousers need to be brought in."

  The salesman marked out the correct length with some chalk, and pointed at a chair behind the curtain.

  "You can wait there."

  I handed him the trousers and stayed in the new dress shirt, waistcoat and long-johns. A sewing machine suddenly started whirring out from the back room.

  I didn't have to spend too much time alone. The salesman returned soon after, faltering obviously, not knowing how to start the conversation.

  "This is, of course, none of my business, but..." he uttered, floundering and waving a hand. He then walked behind the mirror. "Please, I'll just show you. Here, see for yourself..."

  I turned my head and nearly cursed out loud when I saw the burnt hair on the back of my head. I was immediately reminded of the fact that I had been in a flaming dirigible cabin. A bit of blood even coursed into my cheeks when I realized that I had been walking around town like this.

  A darn shame!

  And those two... They might have warned me!

  My annoyance quickly abated; at the end of the day, I wasn't looking for work as a nanny. And the ripped suit was a somewhat bigger problem than burnt hair.

  And my hair, it should be said, was beyond repair – the fire had scorched some spots totally bald.

  "I could send someone out for a barber," the salesman offered accommodatingly.

  "That would be wonderful," I replied.

  I was soon brought the sewn pants and got dressed. But I didn't leave the store – I was categorically opposed to going outside with my hair like this. I'd better just wait for the barber.

  "How much do I owe you?" I asked, opening my wallet.

  "Twenty-five francs," the salesman answered, taking a look at his ledger.

  It was a decent chunk of change, even by New-Babylon standards, and I winced internally, but didn't try to negotiate and set a couple of red tenners with a portrait of Leonardo da Vinci on the counter, adding to them a blue bill depicting Alessandro Volta. Then came the salesman's turn to frown: although the bank notes had managed to dry out, they still looked very suspicious.

  That said, the salesman accepted them without question. As he was putting the money into the register, the door swung open and we were joined by a small man with a mustache wearing a white apron – the barber. In one hand, he was carrying a leather traveling bag, and in the other, he had a rolled-up cloth.

  "Who needs the cut?" the craftsman asked with a clear continental accent. He noticed me and set about shooting out sentences as if from a machine gun: "Ah-ha! You! And what have we got? Show me. Turn to the light! Oh! You don't say? How about that! You're very lucky, mon cher. The fire only touched the back of your head. But I'll have to take the singed hair. Going outside like this would be the height of bad form!"

  "What do you suggest?" I asked, hoping to put a cork in the fountain of his eloquence, but without success.

  "Take a seat! Take a seat!" the small man demanded, then started walking around me. "Amazing! There's a bit of burning on the side as well! No, we cannot leave the temples looking like that. I simply cannot, don't even ask. But nothing needs to be taken off the top. Don't you worry, mon cher. I'll make it look great!"

  "What are you going to do?" I asked, straining to get a word into his punctuated monologue.

  The barber threw a cloth over me, folded it over my collar and took a step back.

  "What option do I have?" he balked, looking at me from the side. "Only an undercut can save you, now. It's very stylish... in certain circles."

  I cursed out silently. When I worked with the police, I had often had to visit the less fortunate peripheral areas, and young people there often had that very haircut. I had no desire to look anything like one of those underhanded rats.

  "There's no other way?" I asked, hoping for a miracle.

  The short man smoothed over his sumptuous mustache and sighed.

  "Mon cher,
" he said to me as if talking to a brainless child, "half the back of your head and your left temple are burnt to the skin. I could just try to even all the hair out, but the result is going to look simply obscene. I value my work and respect my clients. It turns my stomach to think of staining my hands with such hack work. But don't you worry. No one is planning to turn you into a caricature from the back pages of the Capital Times. It will all look... very stylish. You'll like it."

  I shrugged my shoulders and gave permission:

  "Get to it."

  The barber nodded and started in. He first shaved the back of my head and temples, then evened out the top, combed the hair to the side and slicked it down with gel.

  "Voila!" he said, handing me the mirror.

  The man reflected in the mirror was... not me. Or at least almost. My facial features, which were already quite sharp, became even more accented with the new cut. I looked like the kind of person, who had been getting their hair done this way from a young age. A rogue from a bad neighborhood? Oh well, sure. Why not?

  An experienced physiognomist could recognize Leopold Orso in me without any doubt. Just as they could associate me with the Lev Shatunov of my documents, but an average person could easily be thrown off by the changes. And that was not so terribly bad. Actually, it was good.

  I turned my head from side to side and decided that I liked the new hairstyle to a certain degree. Now, I would stand out from the crowd even without my stylish suit. Cheap and brutish, as they say in Russia.

  Brutish? Yes, I now really did have a certain barbarity in my look.

  The barber took away the cloth and gave a few spritzes of cologne. I got up from the chair and stood at the body-length mirror, looked over myself from the side and nodded. Not bad.

  "So, mon cher, how do you like it?" the barber asked me, stashing his implements in his traveling bag.

  "I could never have expected better," I admitted and, in a burst of unjustified extravagance, extended him my last five-franc bank-note. Now, the only thing in my wallet was a rumpled tenner and a few coins. "You really bailed me out."