by Pavel Kornev
The girl turned away and strode off for the exit with such blistering speed that I was barely able to call back to her:
"And why are you so certain that I will sink to the bottom?"
"You smell of death," Elizabeth-Maria answered simply and went out the door.
I took another cookie and, mug in hand, walked over to the window and spent some time looking at the night-enshrouded city without a thought in my head. Nearer the downtown, the darkness didn't look quite as impenetrable. There you could see the glow of street lights warming the air. And on the top of every tall tower there were flashing signal lights. Then, very, very high up, you could just barely make out a dull orange flickering lost in the stars. That was the lights of a freight dirigible.
I smell of death?
Balderdash! It's just smoke.
Smoke and nothing more. But still, it couldn't hurt to wash up.
So I headed for the bathroom.
First, I locked the door behind me, then set my chronometer, wallet and both pistols on the shelf. I walked up to the huge copper tub, which stood in the middle of the room on wrought-iron claw-feet.
A weariness came over me from an unknown source. I leaned against the cold metal and suddenly realized that I was burning up all over. The Diabolic Plague, which hadn't been bothering me all day, had returned and I had the feeling that I was running down the fire-filled corridor once again. Only now, there wasn't a water-soaked curtain around me. In fact, the flame was inside.
Pustules on my body lit up with a crimson glow; I turned on the cold water faucet and stuck my arms under the frozen stream, but that didn't bring me any particular relief.
My heart was beating nervously and unevenly. I could taste blood in my mouth.
Then I lied down in the empty bathtub like a vampire climbing into a coffin, and the cold copper quenched the fire burning inside me with an unexpected speed. It grew chilly; I gave a little shiver and opened the second faucet, its pipe leading to a bulbous tank under which the little flame of a gas burner was trembling. I adjusted both streams, popped in the wooden stopper and relaxed, enjoying the silence and calm. I no longer felt either cold or hot. Gradually, I was overcome with calm and drowsy relaxation...
I was forced awake by a blast of cold air.
"Hey! I locked the door!" I said with reproach, not turning my head.
"Didn't anyone ever tell you how dangerous it is to fall asleep in a bath?" Elizabeth-Maria wondered with a quiet giggling. "You might fall asleep and not wake up again. Not ever."
"Eventually, we all fall asleep and don't wake up. Life is full of surprises."
"... said Judas Iscariot, as he took the thirty pieces of silver," the succubus added on to my utterance, continuing with a smirk: "'But it must be said that it has a very predictable end,' he added while throwing a noose around his neck."
"Is that so?" I snorted.
"That's what they say," the girl sounded off carelessly, placing her thin little fingers on the back and top of my head, messing up my hair, pressing, and massaging my skin. "Just think, Leo, how easy it would be for me to apply a small modicum of effort and hold you under the water for a minute or two..."
"Drop it!"
"You're not afraid of that at all?"
"Drowning in my own bathtub is not one of my biggest fears, no."
"Oh, tell me what they are," Elizabeth-Maria purred softly into my ear. "I want to know you better so badly..."
"Be gone," I demanded.
"Sooner or later, I'll unravel all your secrets."
"You're wasting your time."
"Then just tell me." The girl went away from the bath and stood opposite the mirror, admiring the reflection of her own naked body. "Start with how you became a murderer, Leo."
"I'm not a murderer."
Elizabeth-Maria let my answer pass right by her ears.
"How many souls do you have on your conscious, huh?" she asked. "How many lives have you taken, Leo?"
"If you want to talk about my conscience, it's clean. Yes, I've had to kill, but it was only ever in self-defense."
"Is that so?" the girl laughed uncontrollably, totally sincerely this time, with her whole heart. "Do you really believe that? You killed a man today. Was that also self-defense?"
I went silent. I wanted to answer that it was, but I remembered shooting him in the back, so I just said nothing. The robber with the flamethrower had already left; he was guilty of many deaths, but to be honest, he was not a threat to my life at the time I killed him.
I simply wanted to get revenge for my fear and pain. I wanted to kill him, so I did. I took the role of high judge on myself.
And I didn't want to admit that. So I didn't.
But just after I opened my eyes, the succubus splashed me in the face with a handful of water.
"If you don't plan on talking with me, would you be so kind as to get out of the tub?" she demanded. "Taking a bath together is too fraught with potential loss of control for you, and you're so delicate and vulnerable. Or do you think you can risk it?"
I cursed wordlessly, got out of the bath and rubbed around my thighs with a towel. Making a show of not looking at the girl's naked body, I scooped up my things from the shelf and sloshed my wet feet out of the room.
"How did a young boy become a murderer, Leo?" came her next question, this time at my back.
And I stayed silent again.
I closed the door behind myself, carefully leaving it slightly ajar and headed off to sleep.
7
ALL NIGHT, SOMEONE was scratching at the blinds trying to break in.
All night, someone was messing around in my cabinet, moving my things around and cursing.
All night, a dead chef washed bloodied silver tableware.
All night, Theodor colored in a photograph of his twin brother with colored pencils.
All night, the naked Elizabeth-Maria danced circles with the saber and a huge kitchen knife.
But all in all, it was nothing out of the ordinary. I was just having nightmares.
All night, straight through.
IN THE END, I WOKE UP feeling beaten down, with a headache and a brokenness in my whole body.
Expending a certain amount of effort, I peeled my eye open. I extricated my hands from under the comforter and took a breath with relief. The bumps were asleep. My skin, after being singed by the blood of the fallen one, had returned to its normal color, and my palms no longer felt like they were on fire.
Now that is excellent!
To be honest, after such a sleepless night, it wouldn't have surprised me at all to find myself covered in the glowing pustules of the Diabolic Plague from head to toe.
The only thing that worried me was my leg. I hurt it in my jump from the second story. A painful broken feeling had now taken up residence. But it would never be a problem: I had the habit of recuperating from any ailment like a stray dog. I hadn't even gotten a cold since I was a child.
After going into the bathroom, I got dressed, flung open the scratched-up blinds and looked from the hilltop onto the city, enshrouded in a layer of hazy smog even at this early hour. The sun had just begun to rise over the horizon and was coloring the gray smoke every shade of red, from the pale pink of rosé wine to the deep crimson of arterial blood.
Blood again? What in the world was that about?!
I swore to myself and went down to the first floor. I'd had no appetite since morning, so I went directly to the garden where the dead trees were stretching their denuded branches up to the sky. For a long time, the only thing remaining of the grass was dust. Just shrubs remained, shaking their dried-out flowers, black and fragile. The presence of the curse could be felt here even more unmistakably than in the manor, and I felt prickly little ants crawling up my spine.
But I didn't go back into my house. Instead, I walked a confused little path to a field containing a bare rock slab. I spent some time standing there in silence, then walked around the prickly bushes and stopped at the seco
nd gravestone. I stood next to it.
After that, I returned to the manor, took a seat on the upper step and nodded thankfully at Theodor, who had brought me out a saucer of tea and a little dish of marzipan candies.
"Thank you."
"Think nothing of it, Viscount."
I picked up yesterday's paper from the porch, shook it off, smoothed it out and took a look at the top headline.
"Engineer Disappears Mysteriously!" the headline shouted. My interest caught by the flamboyant delivery, I looked at the article over, but was not able to figure out exactly why the disappearance of a certain Rudolf Diesel from a locked train car had caused so much commotion.
After turning the page, I studied the unfortunate story on the "event" in the Judean Quarter, but didn't glean anything new from it. Then, for interest's sake I read the article about the conductor's suicide and found another reason to be convinced that the psyche of all these art people was quite unstable. One falls into depression from losing a class ring of no use to anyone, and another offs himself over losing something as banal as a conductor's baton.
I wish I had their problems.
I took a look at a photograph from the conductor's funeral and suddenly saw the familiar oval of a pale face in it. Then I reread the article, ineffably more carefully this time. It seemed the coroner had discovered that the conductor did not have any close relatives, and that his colleagues had all gone off to tour in continental Europe. Then, with a modicum of sympathy, I asked my butler to take the saucer, mug and candies back to the kitchen. A nasty suspicion visited my mind. And I would have to check it at once.
But before heading for the city, I went up to the bedroom and clipped my Roth-Steyr holster to my belt.
A Cerberus is good, but next time, three rounds might not be enough.
SLIGHTLY LIMPING ON MY injured leg, I went down the hill, turned into a stationary stall and acquired a notepad and a couple of slate pencils. After that, I headed for the sewing parlor. The tailor surprised me immensely after agreeing to sell a suit for half price. And yes, it was just as unbearably fashionable and dashing as my last one! I immediately changed into it, while I asked for the stinking char of my old clothes to be sent to the cleaners.
I went outside feeling like a new man.
I stood a bit on the porch. Not seeing any admiring gazes from passers-by and, slightly vexed at that, I went off to the city library. But when I happened upon a banner reading "Knives from around the world," I couldn't resist and took a look inside. And it wasn't at all about the advance burning a hole in my pocket. It was just that my old knife had been left in the ruins of the collapsing chapel, and there was no reason to bear this slight inconvenience, given that I now had the ability buy a new one.
Alright, alright! The advance was burning a hole in my pocket. Are you happy?
The knife shop turned out to be empty. I mean, there were more than enough bladed instruments and various other objects, but there were no customers, so the salesman immediately swooped down on me.
"What is it that you desire?" he asked, not so much brown-nosing as being overly polite, letting me know imperceptibly that he could recognize my expertise. After a barely noticeably pause, he confidentially informed me: "We just got a new shipment. Nepalese kukri are back, as well as authentic African machetes"
"Not interested," I shook my head. "I need a medium-sized pocket knife."
"Clasp, or switchblade?" the seller clarified, looking at my fashionable attire and twirling his mustache pensively. "Or perhaps something more elegant? Mother-of-pear handles are quite in fashion right now."
I took a look at the glass case with collector's models, exotic numbers from foreign craftsmen and expensive ornamental pieces and clarified my needs:
"I need a functional folding knife with a titanium blade."
"Is that so?" the seller took up the challenge and pointed me into the neighboring room. "This way, please."
The small room was laden with racks and racks of all different kinds of implements of death and destruction. And implements they were; many were lavishly decorated, but all of them were very reliable and functional. No ornate shapes, no mother-of-pear handles.
Cutlasses, daggers and strong hunting blades.
The seller led me to a glass case with a few dozen pocketknives and, as if apologizing for the lack of selection, said:
"It's all here."
I didn't hesitate long and immediately pointed at a knife that looked exactly like the one I had lost. The lock held in the simple gray blade firmly. The blade then gave way smoothly to a thin, ravenous edge. Its comfortable handle was decorated with two bars on each side made of ivory and polished red wood.
"How much?"
"One hundred francs," not batting an eye, the seller asked for the same amount I'd just spent on the suit.
But I didn't hesitate; the knife was worth every centime he was asking.
It was titanium and reliable. What's more, it was even beautiful. A combination that was impossible to resist.
With a heavy sigh, I parted with another one-hundred-franc bank note and walked out of the shop. Right on the porch, I took out the knife and a pencil, sharpening it to give my new tool a spin. I didn't have to cut through any paper. It had already become clear that the blade was as sharp as could be.
Well, what now? Limp on, I guess...
THE HUGE BUILDING of the Main New Babylon Library with marble sculptures on its gables, was only slightly smaller than the Newton-Markt, but it didn't impose on its surroundings in the same way. It didn't look so gloomy and oppressive. All around the small shady square before it, the streams of water coming from its fountain burst into the sky, sparkling in the sun. Meanwhile, the many benches under the trees were occupied by students from Imperial University. Those who couldn't find a spot in the shade were sitting with their books and abstracts directly on the marble steps of the portico.
Getting inside was no problem. I simply flashed my badge to the on-duty guard and asked where I could find their file on the Atlantic Telegraph.
The good-looking old man looked me over skeptically from head to toe and pointed at one of the corridors leading away from the foyer.
"Over there," he waved his drooping hand.
I took a step in the direction he was indicating and soon found myself in a spacious reading room. Its silence was only broken by the shuffling of paper and the creaking of iron quills. The students were preparing for their inexorably approaching exams and, differently from normal, were not playing their usual stupid games, so the matrons, who were slowly ambling between the tables had nothing better to do than meet the new visitor and ask about the purpose of my visit. In two words, I explained my problem and soon found myself leafing through newspapers, paying particular attention to the obituaries section, and the part dedicated to ups and downs in the lives of New Babylon's upper crust.
The newspapers were tacked to a board. The table they were on was in the darkest corner of the library, and I was burning myself out trying to find just any confirmation of my theory in their yellowed pages. The board did nothing to stop the resourceful students from cutting out bits of paper for hand-rolled cigarettes, and quite often, the most promising places were gaping with holes, but all the same, after flipping back a few months’ worth of pages, I hit upon news of a similar event. Also, in the January edition, I found another mention of a no-less-strange death.
Were they actually strange, though?
I mean, would a normal person be surprised if a dancer fell into depression and suddenly stepped out the window, or a singer who abused alcohol took a bath, but instead of bringing a wash bucket and soap, brought a bottle of aspirin and a sharp razor?
Not at all! And even I could only shrug my shoulders on the occasion of reading of such an event in the paper. Such things happened to creative people all the time, but I personally would not like to read such a story on Albert Brandt, no matter how angry I'd gotten at him in our last encounter.
&nb
sp; But the poet, judging from what I could see here, was devilishly close to blasting a bullet into his own temple or jumping from a bridge. After all, every one of the art people who had left us before their time had lost some little trinket that had once been dear to their heart, not long before dying. In the words of their friends and relatives, the very thing that pushed these artists over the edge every time was losing such a precious object.
And though the tiniest amount of critical analysis caused my version of events to come apart at the seams, I did not dismiss the suspicions or write them all off as coincidences. A few hours later, I left the library with my notepad filled with names and addresses of people to interview.
BUT FIRST I HEADED for the Rome Bridge. It had once been built to connect the old city with the Embassy Quarter and, as a result, this shallow tributary of the Yarden had a stone slab put up over it. As time went by, the bridge became a favorite spot for artists, caricaturists and street musicians.
It was a surprising place, where life abounded. A place where it was never quiet day or night.
I didn't like it.
I was annoyed by the beggars, gypsies, fortune-tellers and charlatans that had occupied the area, trading in counterfeit relics of the Renaissance era and colored water, sold by them as the blood of the fallen. I felt a nervous shudder, looking at the muddy stream bursting out of one stone tube and, fifty meters later, disappearing without a trace into another. And I also couldn't bear remembering the month when this bridge had served as the roof over my head.
I even would have liked not to have come here today, but I simply had no choice.
A TALL, EXHAUSTED-LOOKING old man, was sitting in his usual place, beneath the statue of Michelangelo. Before him was an easel. In a box, there were a dozen very sharp pencils waiting to be used. None of the locals seemed bothered by the fact that artist's eye sockets were empty.