Amberville

by Tim Davys

Like a siphon, the alcohol sprayed right out over the bar, and in my throat there burned a hellish fire. I was sixteen years old. I had never even tasted red wine at home.

  I dried the corrosive liquid from my lips and prepared to scold the bartender when I realized the obvious.

  This was what Eric drank. He was already abusing alcohol. When I ordered a soft drink, the bartender thought it was a joke.

  Still bewildered, someone tapped my shoulder. I turned around. There stood a chinchilla.

  “Table twenty-three,” he said. “It’s urgent.”

  I understood nothing. I said nothing in reply.

  “Urgent,” said the chinchilla with irritation. “Get a move on.”

  I shook my head. It was pointless to pretend to understand what he expected of me.

  “It’s a dog, he’s been winning a good while now,” said the chinchilla in order to acquaint me with the situation. “We’re talking big money. I’ve been looking for you.”

  Finally my surprise appeared not to be out of place.

  “It was Dove who located you,” said the chinchilla, nodding up toward the ceiling, as if this dove were Magnus Himself.

  The chinchilla placed a hand on my shoulder and shoved me away from the bar. I still said nothing. This seemed to make him nervous.

  “Dove is watching,” he whispered in my ear at the same time as he continued to push me ahead of him as if I were a plow.

  “Stop the dog. Quickly.”

  With that we were at what must have been table twenty-three, for the hand on my shoulder was suddenly gone. I turned around. The chinchilla had vanished. In front of me there was a tall table where three animals were playing cards. One of them was a dog, and in front of the dog was a mountain range of chips.

  I knew nothing about gambling games, but I wasn’t stupid. I realized that the chips were money; I realized that my—or, rightly stated, my twin brother’s—task was to play against this dog and defeat him.

  I sat down at one of the vacant chairs at the table. The rooster who was dealing out cards immediately pushed a few piles of chips over to me. Then he dealt out the cards; we each got two cards.

  The player to the right of me nodded, and the rooster set a third card in front of him. I didn’t know what that meant.

  “Card?” the rooster said to me.

  I nodded.

  On the day the green pickup delivers us we are all good. That is my conviction. After that we are exposed to temptations that lead to actions which have consequences which, if we aren’t thoughtful, come to be experienced as evil. We all carry within us the conditions for developing into a Dictator, a Sadist, or even a Psychopath. That is why I live as I do at Lakestead House. Carefully.

  This sounds bombastic. I’m not ashamed of that. I have devoted my life to goodness. The consequences became infinitely more extensive than I thought, but I regret nothing.

  The walls in my room are light blue. I live a great deal of my life in this room. That wasn’t the idea, but it’s logical.

  Evil is found in experiences. Never in intentions.

  A classic problem is how evil the evil intention which leads to a good action really is. This line of reasoning can be turned around. It can be asked how good a good intention which has evil consequences really is.

  For me this is of no importance. This is the sort of thing Archdeacon Odenrick can figure out. My definition of evil is simple.

  Evil is what the victim experiences. Nothing else.

  The Dictator, the Sadist, and the Psychopath are not driven by evil intentions. They are out for material gain, emotional gain, or else they’re following an instinct without any intention whatsoever.

  Their victims are not interested in intentions. Their victims experience pure evil. If the victim knew about the Dictator’s plan, the Sadist’s bent, or the Psychopath’s childhood, the victim wouldn’t describe what he withstood as evil. He would talk about fate, about bad luck, or explain it by his “getting in the way” of something.

  Pure evil is a result, not an intention.

  Pure evil must be “unjust” from the victim’s perspective.

  Pure evil is an experience.

  There was already a six of clubs and a queen of spades in front of me on the table. The rooster gave me the eight of clubs when I asked for one more card. Then that round was over.

  My plan had been to figure out the rules during the course of play. That didn’t work. On the other hand, it seemed to me as though the dog was getting rid of more chips than me.

  The rooster continued dealing out cards. We pushed out our chips. Took our cards. Then it was time for the next round. I had no idea what was going on. But the dog, like the others at the table, became more and more furious.

  The fury was directed at me.

  “What the hell are you up to?” hissed the dog.

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  But before there was time for anything more to happen, the chinchilla suddenly showed up by my side. With a discreet nod he got me to leave the table and my chips. He placed the same question as the dog, although in a lower voice.

  “What the hell was that?”

  We kept each other company away from table twenty-three.

  “Are you out of your mind?” he asked. “A few rounds more and they would have had to carry you out.”

  I didn’t answer. We walked slowly in order not to attract attention. Everyone moved slowly inside Casino Monokowski. The heat, perhaps the alcohol, but above all the mass of animals meant that you were forced to take it carefully. We turned to the right into a long corridor bordered by slot machines giving off an ear-splitting din.

  “Take this,” whispered the chinchilla right next to my ear, slipping me a small package.

  He did it so discreetly that the package was in my hand before I noticed that I had gotten it. It was no larger than a matchbox. White wrapping paper and thick, beige tape.

  “It’s for Otto. He’s sitting farthest in, in the Twilight Room.”

  “Otto?” I said.

  “What are you taking this evening?” asked the chinchilla with irritation, and stopped me right before the corridor of slot machines ended. “Otto Orangutan. In the Twilight Room. Shall I lead you there?”

  Before I had time to accept his offer, he turned around and left.

  There I stood with a small white package in my hand, not knowing what I should do. The clatter was ringing in my eyes, I was still bewildered by my experiences at the gaming table and the taste of alcohol still remained on my lips.

  Should I give up and go home?

  That was a possibility. Events were running away in an uncontrollable manner, and I was feeling physically ill from the greed and bewilderment that were in the air. True, I hadn’t run into Eric, but perhaps that was just as well?

  I had uncovered his secret.

  It filled me with shame and disgust.

  I decided to go home, but it wouldn’t be that easy.

  That fateful evening at Casino Monokowski was a foreboding of the rest of my life. Psychosomatic illnesses, pre-destination, and religiosity; it’s all about faith. Having sufficient imagination in order to be able to twist reality into faith’s more limited framework. If I spend my days searching for signs, I’m going to find them in the end. Perhaps it’s the same way with that night at the casino. Perhaps I attributed greater significance to it in retrospect than it had?

  Perhaps not.

  At first glance, Casino Monokowski looked like a single, gigantic room. It proved to be more than that. To make your way from where I stood to the exit was a real hike. Slowly I walked against the current, with my gaze to the floor in order to avoid all the “acquaintances” who knew Eric but not me.

  My strategy was simple. I walked along one of the outside walls. That must lead me to the exit.

  Golden sheets of cloth were hanging along the walls. They muffled the sound in the place and gave the miserable reality a certain degree of class. I assumed that the walls behind the
draperies were unfinished cement. Thus I was surprised when the golden drapery was suddenly pulled to the side.

  Out through a gap in the drapery a gazelle’s head appeared. The gazelle’s right horn had come off in the middle. His eyelashes were so long that for a moment I wondered if I had been mistaken, if he actually was a she?

  “Come!” whispered the gazelle, indicating behind the drapery with his hooves.

  For a moment or two I considered ignoring him and continuing toward the exit, but it was easier to do as he wanted.

  I stepped in behind the drapery. There was yet another large room. Here, however, the dimensions were more normal. Animals were sitting at round tables playing cards, and the only bar was traditionally located, along the short wall.

  The gazelle shoved me to the side so that we ended up in the shadows, at a respectable distance from the card players.

  “Sweetheart. You’re not Eric,” said the gazelle.

  The tongue-tiedness I’d shown signs of up till now continued.

  “You’re not Eric,” he repeated.

  He didn’t sound angry, if anything surprised. His voice was sharp and considerably lighter than I had guessed.

  “We’re twins,” I finally forced out.

  “What a surprise, sweetheart.”

  An ironic gazelle. His laughter sounded like little bells.

  He observed me for a long time in silence. I didn’t dare move.

  “But you’re not particularly alike,” he said at last. “Other than in appearance.”

  I nodded. I agreed. After this evening, I knew that the abyss between Eric and me would never close up again.

  “I need that package you got,” he said.

  “You…” I stammered, “you’re not Otto Orangutan.”

  “Sharp-eyed as a cobra,” mocked the gazelle. “Give it here.”

  The gazelle attacked me. More or less. Before I had time to react, he had his hooves in my pants pocket, and I pulled back in terror. I must have gotten a bit of the drapery under my foot, because I stumbled and fell backwards. It was not a violent fall, it was more like I sat down.

  The gazelle seemed not to care if anyone saw us. In his eyes shone the same desire that I’d seen in each and every animal in here. I admit that it frightened me.

  “We can do this in one of two ways,” said the gazelle. “Either you just give me the package. Or else I have a little fun with you first. Then I take the package.”

  I shook my head. The glow in his eyes was so intense that I was forced to look in a different direction.

  That was how I discovered my salvation.

  Eric came walking toward us.

  Before I had time to answer, my twin brother put his paw on the gazelle’s back and murmured something I didn’t hear. The gazelle smiled, an ingratiating, repulsive smile. Then he backed into the shadows of the drapery and disappeared.

  My brother extended his paw to me. I took it, and got up. With that I had used up my last bit of strength.

  We stood staring at each other without knowing what we should say. In my soul a cry was being formed, a scream for help, and I understood that it belonged to Eric. It was Eric’s scream that was screaming inside me.

  I knit my lips together. Not a sound.

  Then I turned around and ran as fast as I could, running toward the exit. I continued to run when I came out onto the street, I ran the whole way home, not caring if Mother and Father heard me. I ran up the stairs to my room.

  Eric maintains that I’m still running.

  CHAPTER 10

  Tom-Tom Crow dropped the screwdriver. It fell to the floor with an audible thud.

  Eric Bear stopped in his tracks, paralyzed by fear. He could see how the silhouettes of Sam Gazelle and Snake Marek remained standing a few meters farther away in the dark room.

  They had broken into Hotel Esplanade less than a minute ago. The weather was past midnight, and the Chauffeurs had neither been seen nor heard for several hours. They ought to be safe. But they were breaking into the house of death. If they were discovered here, neither police nor prosecutor could help them; then they were doomed.

  The seconds passed.

  The sound from the screwdriver spread through the dark building. Only when the sound had forced its way into every nook and corner without anything happening did Eric dare to set his paw down on the floor.

  “We’re going in,” he whispered to Tom-Tom, who was standing closest to him.

  The big crow nodded, and along with the gazelle and the snake they went straight into the hideout of the Chauffeurs.

  A few days after the sensational discovery that the Chauffeurs were hanging out a wing-stroke’s distance from Yiala’s Arch, the four stuffed animals kept Hotel Esplanade under observation. The hotel was an ordinary building with a spackled gray and white finish, but with a peculiar feature. It lacked doors and windows on the street level. Apart from the secret garage entrance, which was a part of the façade itself, there was nowhere to go in.

  “But we have to get the hell in,” the crow declared wisely. “How else are we going to get hold of the list?”

  “It’ll work out,” replied Eric Bear. “We’ll lie low a few days, map out their routines, learn how the opposition looks. Snake is going to think up a plan. Aren’t you, Marek?”

  Snake grunted. He was unsure whether Eric was flattering or teasing him.

  They drew up a schedule. Because the Chauffeurs only worked at night, the four at Yiala’s Arch were forced to alter their daily rhythms. Eric returned the cars he’d borrowed, but kept the gray Combi. It was perfect to use for surveillance work, neutral and boring beyond recognition. They parked the car kitty-corner from the camouflaged garage door and took turns spending hours in the driver’s seat, making note of every observation.

  But nothing happened.

  In the twilight, the door to the secret garage was opened and the Chauffeurs drove the red pickup out. Right before dawn, they returned after completion of duty. In between: nothing.

  Before the third night, Eric acquired a camera with a massive zoom and a lens that worked in the dark.

  “Let’s find out who they are, these Chauffeurs,” the bear said to his friends. “Tom-Tom says that they’re stuffed animals just like us. Perhaps we can find them in one of the windows? If nothing else, we ought to be able to get a picture of them as they drive in and out of the garage.”

  “Okay,” said Sam, shrugging his shoulders. “But why?”

  They sat, having breakfast at the kitchen table. A crumb from a piece of toast with orange marmalade was stuck to the corner of Sam’s mouth, and his long, red tongue captured it and made it disappear.

  “I don’t have a real plan,” Eric admitted. “But the more we know, the better, right?”

  “Maybe,” said Snake. “Maybe not. There are occasions when a lack of information can be the thing that—”

  “Besides, I’m damned tired of just sitting and staring at that wall,” Eric interrupted with irritation. “But anyone who feels he’s so occupied with other important matters that he doesn’t have time to deal with the camera can just let it be.”

  “You have a point there, darling,” giggled Sam.

  Snake sighed. He knew that he was the one who would be forced to process the photographs; only he could do that sort of thing.

  The following morning they had the first—and as it turned out only—razor-sharp visual portrayal of ChauffeurTiger. It was a fortunate chance, light reflected toward the hood of a car, lighting up the driver’s seat of the pickup at the same moment that Snake happened to snap the picture. He’d set the camera on the dashboard above the steering wheel. But it wasn’t until he developed the picture the following evening that he realized what he’d photographed.

  The image that slowly appeared in the developer bath became sharper and sharper. He took the photo paper from the solution and hung it up to dry, but couldn’t continue with the rest of the roll. From the drying line ChauffeurTiger was staring right i
nto Snake’s narrow eyes and beyond, into his soul. Tiger’s face was enormous, his fur gray and battered but his gaze hard and cold. It was a gaze that could kill; these were eyes that had seen everything. During his entire adult life, Snake Marek had struggled with doubt about his own artistic abilities. Faced with ChauffeurTiger’s unmerciful gaze, he could hide nothing.

  Snake recoiled, shocked and afraid, and wriggled out of the bathroom which he’d turned into a darkroom. During the ensuing night, the friends determined that there were apparently only three Chauffeurs, the tiger and two wolves. They probably went in shifts, and these three would be replaced by three others at some later time.

  The wolves were no charmers, either, but despite their sharp, yellow teeth and their scornfully pulled-back upper lips, it was still ChauffeurTiger who gave Sam, Eric, Snake, and Tom-Tom nightmares.

  And it was the thought of being caught by ChauffeurTiger that meant that they hesitated another few days before they dared break into Hotel Esplanade.

  They came into a kind of all-purpose room which was large, dark, and deserted.

  “Snake and Sam, you take the right side, we’ll take the left,” whispered Eric, making a gesture.

  They didn’t know what they were looking for. The Death List could be a coffee-stained scrap of paper on a nightstand, but just as likely a document in a leather folder locked up in a safe. They had also discussed the risk that the Chauffeurs took the list with them in the red pickup.

  Eric took a few steps toward the door to the left. He heard Tom-Tom directly behind him. The snake and the gazelle were still standing beside him.

  “We’ll do this as fast as hell,” hissed Eric. “Then we’ll get out of here.”

  They worked efficiently for the next few minutes. The bear side by side with the crow. It was easier to search through the premises than Eric had thought. The Chauffeurs had hardly any furniture and very few personal effects. The dust bunnies revealed that they weren’t interested in cleaning, but there were nooks where things could be hidden. When, after less than a quarter of an hour, Eric and Tom-Tom went back out to the large room where Snake and Sam were already waiting, they were rather certain that they hadn’t missed anything.