by Pavel Kornev
"Are you getting ready?" he asked and nodded: "Yes, we can go too, I suppose."
We paid up and left the restaurant. Our new acquaintances were intending to continue the evening in a gambling establishment not far away, which they both assured me was marvelous. I didn't want to go anywhere, though. My hunger had retreated. My clarity of mind was back. And I suddenly realized that I didn't really know the first thing about my companions, and carousing all night long with random people was not the most intelligent activity in my position.
The gas lamps were burning everywhere but, when we returned from the side street to one of the radial boulevards, it was immersed in darkness. Light crept out of some of the electric lamps, but only nearer the square, between the buildings. The gas lighting there had been changed out already. The old lights were already screwed out, and there were new ones already in place, even including wires, but they hadn't managed to actually get them lit. There was a ladder leaning up against one of the posts. The worker at the top of it was attaching a loudspeaker under a dome light. On the road, there was a self-propelled carriage with an open trunk. It was piled high with tools, speakers and old gas lights; the driver was smoking nearby.
We walked up to the illuminated sidewalk and, there, I finally decided that I didn't want to go to any gambling house. I had to get to the train station and handle getting tickets to New Babylon, not piss away the night playing cards.
All I needed was a plausible reason to retreat, and I found it when we walked past the Three Lilies cabaret. At first, my gaze caught on the flashy playbill with the white ovular face of a mime and the tagline: "The Incredible Orlando," but it didn't occupy me for long. I was somewhat more interested in the drawing of a girl in a semi-transparent exotic outfit. She had on a turban and her face was covered with an Indian-style scarf. The artist had also depicted a fairly large boa constrictor perched on her shoulders. On the sign on the other side of the entrance, there were torn up legs, lavish dresses and colorful chorus-line outfits.
"Sirs!" I stopped. "I'm much obliged for the rescue, but I have to stop you. To be honest, I don't particularly enjoy card games. I'd rather ogle some dames."
My companions exchanged glances.
"You crazy young guys!" Yemelyan Nikiforovich drew out, taking out his pack of papirosa cigarettes.
"Girls on the brain all the time," Ivan Prokhorovich echoed him.
But my compatriots didn't try to talk me out of it or change my plans.
"Lev Borisovich, you won't reconsider?" Sokolov only turned when I had walked up onto the stoop, stopped in hope that I wouldn't even have to go inside.
I waved my hand goodbye and opened the unyielding door. A soft gloom reigned in the hallway. Through the curtain blocking the main room, I could hear a blazing fast melody.
"Entry is five francs!" announced a strong-looking ticket man with a black beard that went down to the middle of his chest.
"How much?" I was startled. "Why the devil are you gouging people like this, my good sir?!"
"Today, there's a performance by Black Lily," the man explained. "An exotic and mysterious dancer with snakes. She's a priestess of Kali. Ever heard of such a thing?"
"No," I admitted, but still took out my wallet. The drawing outside really had caught my interest, and it felt beyond me to turn and leave. I'm not sure why, but I was overcome with the desire to see the dance in real life. What was more, my new acquaintances were walking very unhurriedly after the large meal, and the last thing I wanted was to run into them again back outside.
I had to get five francs out of my wallet and hand them to the doorman.
"Welcome," snarled the man, smiling unevenly due to his knocked out and chipped teeth.
He was probably also the bouncer.
With an inexplicable curiosity – as if I'd never visited a cabaret before! – I slid the curtain aside and walked into the room. The bar stretched out along one of the walls. Behind it, a tall swarthy bartender was standing in a turban, either a real Indian, or a local worker dressed up for the occasion. All the tables were occupied. Scantily clad waitresses were bringing out appetizers and drinks. Some of the audience were seated along the walls. I joined them, taking in the beauty of the ballet troupe, stretching their toned legs on stage and shaking their fluffy white skirts.
The suspicion gradually crept in that the doorman had thought me a simpleton and swindled me, but the memory of the skillful drawing of the lady with a snake reassured and forced me not to come to any rushed conclusions.
It was hot in the room. It smelled strongly of eau d'cologne and tobacco smoke. My throat instantly dried out. I wanted to drink. And it wasn't only the sultry air and over-salted potatoes I’d eaten in the Russian restaurant. No matter how you spin it, watching a dozen nearly naked girls dance had a fairly predictable outcome; I even got the desire to leave the establishment through the back door. But then, the music went silent and the dancers ran backstage. To replace them, there came out a crimson-faced master of ceremonies in a checkered jacket, bright blue shirt and vulgar bowtie – pink with mother of pearl accents.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" he announced, talking over the viewers' conversations with surprising ease. "Say hello to our lovely and totally safe mummies! Not long ago, they danced in the court of the pharaoh, but now, they are here to sweeten your gaze with their unbelievable abilities!"
The MC made an unexpectedly deft jump from the stage and the light of the chandelier hanging from the ceiling suddenly went dim. On the backdrop of the black velvet curtain, there appeared two white figures. The orchestra started playing an unfamiliar melody and the dancers, wrapped head to toe in bandages, started imitating an Egyptian dance to the best of their ability and understanding.
The audience looked on with bated breath. And that was no wonder! The beautiful ladies weren't wearing any clothing at all other than the several layers of bandages. In the gaps between the fabric, there was white skin shining through. I finally started feeling unwell.
Fortunately, after that, the tap dancers came on stage, famous figures from the New World. That said, the color of their skin was explained, probably, more by a wax than a natural blackness. After that, there came a Persian fire eater and, after him, Chinese acrobats. The next act was a fakir, a snake charmer.
The swarthy old man in a colorful Indian garment sat down on a cane mat, crossed his legs and started playing a quiet mournful melody on an exotic flute, which grew thicker in the middle. Silence immediately came over the room. The harmless canvas sack before the charmer suddenly started moving, and the head of a snake poked out. There was no trickery, either – it really was a cobra. It darted from side to side, flaring out its hood threateningly, allowing me to make out the eye-glasses-like pattern.
The master of ceremonies had a fearful respect for it and got up on stage only after the old fakir had tied the bag shut with a rope and started to roll up his mat.
"Ladies and gentlemen! Say hello to the Incredible Orlando!" he cried out. "He can do everything that Harry Houdini does, but without wasting all that time on chit-chat!"
Laughter was heard.
I took a look and noticed with a certain surprise that the address "ladies and gentlemen" was no exaggeration. There were plenty of women in the crowd. And these weren't the promulgators of commercialized intimacy out for a night-time prowl. These were decent ladies, accompanied by no less decent-looking gentlemen.
The mime came out on stage. His dark outfit dissolved in the shadows. His whitened face had brows drawn on it, making it look like he was wearing a mask. His white gloves flew on the backdrop of the black curtain like frantic birds. For a moment, I lost my place.
The mime's very broken movement was spellbinding; despite all his eccentricity, it seemed he didn't make a single movement out of place. Pigeons flew out of his white gloves and objects appeared miraculously, their owners at the other end of the room. But there was no magic in this at all. It was just sleight of hand. The mime wasn't even illustrious; I caught the gaze
of his hazel eyes on me several times.
While Orlando distracted the public, taking burnt cigarettes, game cards and flowers from the viewers' pockets, his assistants rolled out a decently sized barrel on stage and started carrying buckets, filling it with water; I heard a splashing, and some water spilled on the stage. When they were done, there was a small puddle on the floor.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" The master of ceremonies suddenly announced, attracting the audience’s attention. "I'm sure you lot would be quite happy to delight in these tricks until morning but, today, just as every Friday, we're going to have a visit from Black Lily, so Orlando's time has come to an end. And, you know something...?" the MC asked, walking along the edge of the stage, "our wordless friend charges simply exorbitant fees but, today, we won't have to pay. Judge for yourselves: why pay a dead man? Orlando, if you please!"
The mime returned to stage and I caught my breath with relief. The thought that he would walk up and pull a lit cigar from my ear was making me nervous.
With Orlando was standing next to the host, two assistants emerged from back stage. One was carrying a tray with a pair of handcuffs. The other was carrying the lid of the barrel. The master of ceremonies asked the mime to extend his hands and cuffed his wrists in the steel shackles. After that, he did the same procedure to his legs and joined the cuffs with a short chain, as is done with the most dangerous prison-dwellers.
"No tricks, see for yourselves!" he proclaimed after that.
A few people came on stage at once. One of them, a strong middle-aged man with a crooked nose, assured the audience that what we had just seen were nothing less than standard police handcuffs.
"God knows I've been in them a hundred times," he added with a smirk.
"Is it easy to get out of them?" the master of ceremonies asked insinuatingly.
"For some," the audience volunteer answered significantly.
"Well, of course!" the master of ceremonies laughed. "Such a capable man as the Incredible Orlando can be free from fetters with no effort! But will he have enough air to do it?"
The host pushed the mime in the chest, sending him into the barrel. He fell back-first into it. His shoes fell in, and water splashed out onto the stage. The master of ceremonies hoisted the lid and set it in place, sitting on top for good measure. A drum roll rang out. A pocket watch appeared in the artiste's hand.
The room froze in muted delight. An incredible mixture of different emotions rolled over me, generously topped off with fear. The lid received a few strong bumps from inside, but the master of ceremonies was in no mood to stand, and just kept glancing down at his watch. Only when the audience's nerves were stretched to the very limit did he jump up and announce:
"The five minutes are up!"
Then the drum went quiet. The lid was no longer moving.
Someone touched me on the shoulder. I frantically waved it off and suddenly discovered that, by some incredible turn of events, I was at the center of attention. I turned. The mime was standing behind me. There was water dripping from his clothing and his hat looked glued on his head, but his makeup hadn't even run.
"The Incredible Orlando!" the master of ceremonies barked at the top of his lungs. Then, he overturned the barrel, and water gushed on stage.
People were whistling in the room, and legs were thrumming as people clapped and shouted. The mime, in a mockingly practiced motion, pulled a jack of spades from behind my ear, and waved the card, demanding I let him through. I moved aside mechanically. Only when Orlando had walked up to the stage did I feel the blood returning to my face. How many times had that happened today? But now, it wasn't embarrassment, but anger. And no, not even anger – just pure unmitigated rage. My lips pulled back to bare my teeth. My fingers clenched into fists. I wanted unbearably to grab that jackass by the shoulders, knock him off his feet and stomp on his arms and legs, then pick him up by the chest and slam the back of his head into the floor a few times...
I shook my head, chasing off the flood of emotion and hurried to get lost in the crowd so I could stop feeling the derisive gazes of my neighbors. My legs carried me over to the bar. I asked there, without particular hope, for a lemonade; the Indian barman, looking composed, filled a glass from a bulbous carafe with a thick glass bottom, and filled the glass generously with chopped ice.
I paid up, tried the lemonade and nodded in approval.
"Great!" I told the bartender. The Indian remained calm.
Unhurriedly drinking the refreshing beverage, I looked for a free spot at the wall and leaned against it, waiting for the show to start back up. The custodial staff on stage were proper sluggards, taking their time to dry the spilled water. Soon, they were hidden back stage, and the girls from the ballet troupe came out to replace them. The orchestra started playing again. I glanced at my watch and winced: it was late already. But I didn't want to leave. I'd lost too much time to leave the cabaret without watching the performance of tonight's star. For some reason, the image of the dancer at the entrance had lodged itself in my memory like a harpoon in a whale.
After deciding to wait another five minutes, I downed my lemonade in a few gulps and raised my empty glass to a passing waitress. She gave a playful wink, and I pretended not to notice. Near the end, the pleasant sourness of the drink had been overtaken by a sugary sweetness, and I got the urge to drink again. But I'd learned my lesson. I was not planning to throw my money to the wind! Swindlers! Nothing but swindlers around here!
After undoing the top button of my vest, I took yet another look at my watch, and then the music went quiet. The dancers left the stage and the master of ceremonies came back out.
"And now, the reason you're all gathered here today!" he announced. "A performance from the brilliant, enchanting and mysterious Black Lily, a priestess of Kali herself!"
A viscous melody started playing. The musicians were trying to imitate the snake charmer, but it was none too convincing. A flute was soloing. After that, a svelte woman slipped out from backstage, wrapped in semi-transparent silk robes. All I could see were the curves of her figure, her bare feet and thin-fingered hands, her bright illustrious eyes and... a fairly large boa constrictor, which was perched on her shoulders leading its head and tail from side to side smoothly.
Instantly, all conversations fell silent. The only thing audible was the rustling of clothing and breathing of people. Then, the girl said ceremoniously:
"In the name of Kali, Mother of the Universe and Goddess Most High!"
A woman's scream was heard – one of the exulted ladies at a table near the stage lost her senses; I remained composed.
India, Kali and her ritual stranglers had been all over the front pages of the papers, and these bohemians were simply mad for the topic. As such, one would be hard pressed to find a more captivating opening to a performance.
Black Lily walked forward fluidly. Her robes fluttered up and instantly fell back down, streaming over the seductive curves of her feminine figure and it became clear that I was in for much more than a typical belly dance. The girl started gradually increasing the speed of her fluid motions and soon, in the dusk of the stage, it started looking like the constrictor on her shoulders had turned into a second pair of arms. The audience was simply entranced.
The dancer's eyes were glowing softly in the darkness but I’m sure almost none of the audience took her for an illustrious lady. Beyond all doubt, the girl was now using her talent, but she was doing it so subtly and unconsciously that I couldn't even sense the presence of any external force. Just an influx of power. And I wasn't the only one to feel it.
People started blushing, their eyes burning in elation. One gentleman even tried to climb on stage, but a bearded bouncer pulled him back deftly and dumped water on him from a specially prepared bucket.
Then, Black Lily crawled back behind the curtains. The room erupted into applause and whistling. My head started splitting in pain. In expectation of the dancer's return for an encore, I wiped the sweat off my reddened face
and ordered another glass of lemonade from the Indian. The cold drink and chopped ice slightly mitigated the roasting heat of the room, but it was ultimately powerless. My head was spinning.
Black Lily didn't return for an encore, and the viewers started to disperse. I placed my unfinished glass of lemonade on the bar and also headed for the exit. There, I discovered the Incredible Orlando. The mime was trying to get the attention of the people leaving the theater, scrambling to entertain any and all.
I didn't want to catch his eye and once again find myself an object of public mockery, so I went past the stage to the back door. I felt as if everything around was wrapped in a cloud. The floor rocked underfoot. It felt like I was skipping breaths. A wave of nausea rolled over me, but I gathered my will into a fist, walked past the dressing room and turned down a side hallway, dark and unpeopled.
The bearded doorman popped up like a jack-in-the-box.
"You can't come back here!" he announced, placing his wide palm to my chest. "Back!"
I was rocked. In an attempt to maintain my balance, I pawed at the bouncer, and at first even hung off him. After that, I carefully lowered down onto the floor and unclenched the fingers from my thick throat. Everything happened on its own. I had no thought of depriving the doorman of his consciousness, I just wanted unbearably to leave the building and get some fresh air. And also – my head was spinning with a constantly increasing speed.
Nearly losing consciousness, I took a step past the doorman and walked to the back door. The floor kept rocking underfoot with greater and greater intensity. Something in my head was swaying in time with it, and I tumbled right out into slight chill of the summer evening.
It was as if I tumbled out of a boat into icy water.
A moment later, I was well...
Chapter Two or Old Friends and a Bit of a Riddle
LIGHT is pain.
I realized that as soon as I opened my eyes. So, I quickly squinted, but the pain didn't retreat. It just burrowed deeper and deeper into my head, pressed against the crown and knocked on my temples.