by Iliazd
The little man arrived in a city carriage—God knows how he’d made it through on the local roads—and hired a room from one of the tavern keepers for an unspecified time after declaring to his host that he’d come to collect the butterflies called Apollos, so abundant in this locale, but, supposedly, not sufficiently studied, and after settling in, he actually did head off, armed with an enormous net, to ramble over the surrounding area. But in the evening, while he was dining in the tavern, he would listen attentively to what was being said around him, and when he caught Laurence’s name uttered at one of the tables, approached those conversing and minted the most astounding news: “You’re mistaken, comrades! Laurence hasn’t been lost. He’s just fighting his way slowly through ranks of police and their minions. But he’ll be here, I assure you.” And clasping his hands behind his back, the stranger turned around and exited
The next day, the drinking companions, on gathering together, had not yet managed to get to continuing their exchange of views as to yesterday’s intervention by the butterfly lover when the tavern was rocked once more, and to a greater degree, by the advent of Laurence himself. No one had ever seen or expected to see him like this. He had grown up and into his manhood. His dark beard was not distinct from his face, dusty and sunburned. Of his splendid attire, only rags remained. His boots were torn, and only his rifle looked new. But there was such valor and magnificence in the whole setup that those in the tavern stood up and doffed their hats. Laurence, without replying, looked at them scornfully, passed through to the middle, and demanded food
The ensuing silence would probably have been broken by none present, despite the overwhelming urge each felt to address Laurence, but the new arrival, with his glasses and net, raced into the room, looked around, and when he noticed Laurence, rushed toward him with outstretched hand, jabbering: “Are you Laurence? I recognized you right away, though I’ve never laid eyes on you. Congrats. Glad to meet you. Basilisk. Just call me Basilisk. There is such an imaginary monster, but believe me, I resemble it in name only…You’re golden, young man, and how! Don’t get the idea it’s just the government, we—I—we are also keeping tabs on you day after day as you push your way through, so elusive. And the folks here didn’t have a clue, they thought you were a goner, the simpletons…We’re all friends, right? Mine host, some wine! What kind would you like?”
Laurence had seen his fill of people during a month sitting in the port town and another month retreating. But he’d never met one like this. While the stranger’s appearance was unimpressive, altogether small, round-shouldered, with a graying beard, and the net and glasses even made him comical, his eyes had such an iron cast that they immediately reminded Laurence of Galaction’s, and he wasn’t sure whose were more frightening. Just as then he had trusted solely on account of the eyes and paid handsomely, so now, also on account of the eyes, he couldn’t just dismiss this little man, ridicule him, refuse to speak with him. The stranger gazed at him steadily, charmed him, and, without waiting for his reply, kept on speechifying
“You don’t believe that not one detail of your remarkable retreat has slipped from my notice? And you’re wrong not to. You ask how I know it all? That’s my secret, for now. But I know not just that after executing the owner of the coffeehouse (a well-earned lesson for the traitor) you spent forty-eight hours shaking off gendarmes in the woods, laying out about twenty without losing anyone—the whole world knows about that—but also that afterward you were hidden in a cellar by a housewife who was boiling some nut jam when you showed up. Do you think she hid you because she was afraid of you? How wrong you are! What would it have cost her, when the police were literally digging everything up, to point out that you were, she might say, down below? And they would have nabbed you in no time…I’m the one who gave her the order to save you. There it is! And when her people carted you later to that cave where you managed to descend with the help of some ropes, who sent the ropes, if not us—in a word, me? And the warning that gendarmes were hurrying toward the village and that the only way out was by attending a church service, since the dimwits would never get the bright idea of bothering people at prayer, on whose orders, if not mine, was this thought suggested to you? And in that burg, who prompted you to head for the commandant’s reception, not just to let the asses ransack the pub, but so you could meanwhile find out their further asinine plans—who gave you this assignment you so brilliantly carried out, if not me? Now you see I know a thing or two. And in step with your retreat, I arrived at such rapture not just because of your manliness, but also because of your active mind, that I hurried so we could meet and reason together. You are an Apollo, young man. We—I—can, along with you, accomplish such great deeds as no one ever dreamed of. Give me your hand in token of our alliance and friendship. I’ll explain everything to you right away, and although you’re very worn out from that long manhunt, we’ll get to work tomorrow, since the matter brooks no delay. As it is, young man, you’ve taken too long pushing your way through”
This mysterious city fellow named Basilisk was speaking an astounding truth. Laurence assumed the adventures that followed his withdrawal from the port town had been a chain of accidental events, and explained the locals’ help exclusively by his own influence. And now it turned out, someone unseen had been guiding Laurence and guarding him, someone unknown, but omnipotent, and it was this puny little man, a gabby butterfly collector. What was he after now, a reward for helping? Or maybe his spying was a game and Laurence had been allowed to get away so many times just to fall into a snare in his native village? Laurence grabbed his pistol. But Basilisk didn’t let him think or act
“From how far can you hit a dog with a stone? One hundred paces? Excellent. How many of your comrades are fit for action? Quick, tell me, how many?…Fine, that’s quite enough. I’ll leave you for now and advise you to rest and catch up on your sleep. Come see me this evening, I’m staying upstairs right here in this building, and we’ll come to terms. By the way, the police won’t be any threat for another twenty-four hours. I arranged for them to be led off track and sent after a false trail. And in twenty-four hours we’ll already be far from here. Isn’t that right?” Basilisk turned on his heels and, waving his butterfly net, exited
For a long time after he was gone, Laurence couldn’t get his thoughts in order. What did this unbelievable babbler want from him? Why did he want to use Laurence’s strength and agility when, to hear him tell it, the upshot was, if Laurence had succeeded in anything at all, it was only thanks to Basilisk? And who would attest that this strange being didn’t threaten him with the same thing Galaction had?
He, Laurence, had fled compulsory military service so as not to kill against his own free will. And what had come of it? Had he really wanted to kill Luke? Had he really wanted Galaction’s death? Had he been free to choose his steps while falling back from the coast? Hadn’t he been, right up to the present, goaded first by the stonecutter, then by the coffeehouse owner, and now by Basilisk? What worse servitude had he elected when he ducked military service?
By the sea he had blamed Ivlita, and for no reason, seeing in her an unwitting instigator. But now he was burning with desire to see her as soon as possible, and something, with only a few paces left to go, was driving him back. What was this power speaking through Basilisk’s eyes? What was this new prodigy he had to contend with in order to win back his lost freedom? Ivlita didn’t have anything to do with it. He, Laurence, was the one who had taken the wrong road, beginning with Brother Mocius
And unexpectedly, the tavern’s customers, sitting around him, not daring to budge, seemed like family to Laurence; he wanted to embrace and kiss them all, call for an accordion, dance, bawl, and drink with joy that now, indeed, he had returned and seen his dear ones again, to recount his adventures deep into the night and vocalize together until dawn; to see, instead of snuffed-out faces, avid ones, catching every detail, to see a peasantry afraid for him, to sense that he was theirs, dear to them, that they were ready to d
efend him, lonely and weak, and make sure Galactions and Basilisks would not harm him
But Basilisk’s disclosures killed any relish. The consciousness that he, Laurence, had been and was still a mere plaything rendered all his complaining hateful and all his criminal exploits wastrel. Why hadn’t he been killed during the attack on the train or before that, during the attack on the post, or even earlier by gendarmes! You could taste and forget everything, as though none of it had ever been, emerge unharmed from irreducible agonies and consuming pleasures and sense death repeatedly. One thing did not pass without leaving a trace and, once settled, ate at his mind, bitterness alone, gnawing until it ruined him irreparably. And was ever there such bitterness
Bidding his landsmen farewell without even banqueting? And where was Ivlita, what happened to her, and how had he not yet asked about her? Laurence had only to pose the question and everyone reverently flocked together in haste. Ivlita? A number of people who’d been up there conveyed conflicting information. It was certain, in any case, that her father had been found dead in the ruins of his house, but had, apparently, died much earlier. Ivlita found him. They say she went mad. Everyone counted Laurence for lost, and bandits’ widows, well, you know yourself. On account of her madness, mind you, it seems she was spared. Jonah, however…
The fellow who’d been speaking, before he could finish, flew into a corner from a terrific punch in the face. “Bull-fuck your mother!” roared Laurence, “I would have killed you, but I’m sick of getting dirty. You lie, tell me you’re lying,” but without waiting for a reply, he collapsed onto the table and started wailing like a professional mourner. The man he’d hit got up with some effort and, trying to wipe the blood from his eyes, muttered, “I don’t know, that’s what people say, don’t take it out on me…” He was led away, supported under the arms, and the tavern emptied out. Even the owner stepped outside and left Laurence alone
It wasn’t true, Laurence knew it was false—Ivlita wouldn’t allow anyone, let alone Jonah, near her, even if she was a bandit’s widow. But the shame she was slathered with just thanks to her situation glutted Laurence with brutal jealousy. Jonah, well, he’d sung his last aria. On account of her madness, you say, they haven’t slept together yet. But they forgot about him, Laurence? Lost, you say? What crap!
And he grabbed his rifle and started shooting up the bottles on the bar, the glasses, all the glassware, riddled the ceiling, and ran out onto the square. Not a soul. Going on to waste more bullets, Laurence smashed all the windows he could see, shot up a flock of geese waddling near a puddle, wounded a pig that ran away squealing, and rampaged until he ran out of ammunition. He sank to the ground and lay there until dusk, just as lonely as before, in the dead-silent village. When it got dark, not a single light caught fire, neither in the sky nor in the windows. Laurence, after sitting up, stared for a long time into the darkness and listened intently, as though a sound or a ray of light would have been a support for him, when suddenly one of the upper rooms at the tavern was lit. The young man grabbed his rifle, but remembered he had no bullets left to shoot. In the light of the burning lamp, he recognized that morning’s acquaintance. He could see Basilisk, hunched over with his hands behind his back, running around the room; he would come up to the window, glance out, and start running around again. Laurence watched the demon-possessed man, not merely without feeling any revulsion, but even drawn to him, ready to rely on him. He stood up, set off toward the tavern, groped his way in the dark for a while, until he made it to Basilisk’s little room
When he heard footsteps, Basilisk forcefully threw the door wide open. He was frenzied and crackling with a speed exceeding that morning’s: “You’ve gone nuts! Raising such a ruckus when the police are digging around the neighborhood. Even if they hadn’t wanted to come calling, they’ll probably drop in, and most likely before dawn, since your shots must have startled the whole surrounding area. I thought you were smart, Laurence, but get this, you’re an ignoramus. I’ve just been to that baffling hamlet, wasted my whole afternoon making inquiries about your wife. She’s out in the pastures with the old wenny, under no threat, and all the more since I arranged to let her know that you’re alive and well. And you, instead of changing your clothes—take a look at yourself—got up to the devil knows what on account of some groundless gossip. Still, it’s good you came here, or I wouldn’t know where to look for you—these swine, your fellow villagers, are such cowards that no one wanted to go out looking. And if you hadn’t shown up, rest assured, young man, this time you wouldn’t have outrun the police, out here in the boondocks, they wouldn’t hesitate to shoot you down to spare you from judicial red tape and unsound prisons
“Sit down and listen,” Basilisk went tearing on, incessantly pacing. “I would have liked to explain everything at leisure, humanely, but now there’s no time,” and, after pulling his watch from his vest: “We have no more than an hour until our departure. It’s a matter of looting, you see, but not the train, we’ll take the train to do the looting. We need to relieve the administration of a much larger sum than you can imagine, and not a load of gold, even, since gold is too heavy to offer much value, but a load of paper money, incomparably lighter. The administration keeps its money in houses you have no notion of, but you’ll soon get familiar with, called treasuries. So I’m inviting you to take part in looting the treasury. Get it? Now, here’s the plan. The treasury lies in the city, consequently, you and your comrades are riding with me to the city. Further: I can’t say exactly how much money we might get our hands on, but your cut will be one tenth. Although the share I’m offering you is modest, it’s entirely fair when you take into account that, first of all, we—I—we are taking upon ourselves all preparations for the operation and are supplying you, so to speak, with the means of production; second, we will take all measures to guarantee against your capture and get you into the mountains. And third, and this is the most essential point, since the matter has to do with the progress of the party”
Basilisk stopped pacing and broke off his speech to see what impression it produced on Laurence
“Now, give me your undivided attention. The party is a society something like your association with the wennies, but more many-headed and in pursuit of somewhat different goals. You take money from those who have it or from the administration in order to enrich yourselves. We strive to take everything from the rich so there won’t be any rich people and everyone will be equally poor. You liquidate bureaucrats, since they harass you; we want to liquidate the bureaucracy, since the system it upholds leads to the emergence of rich people, and so the bureaucracy eradicates us. You don’t give a hoot what goes on in the world; you sit in your den and only go out after spoil. Our only concern is the world, where we want to establish equality and expedient coercion. You seek freedom, but necessity propels you, the party strives for what is necessary and is therefore free. Even if you don’t understand this last point, I hope, all the same, it’s clear we have a common enemy, and so our collaboration is entirely admissible”
Walking up to Laurence and taking advantage of the fact that Laurence was seated, the little man placed his hand on Laurence’s shoulder and enthusiastically continued: “Laurence! A great exploit awaits, you alone are worthy of it. You will recover the loss that was Galaction’s fault and will fall under the protection of the mighty party. The history of your retreat vividly demonstrates how valuable this patronage is
“Now, change your clothes. Here’s your outfit: as you can see, I’ve given it some thought. As for the wennies, they escorted me to the hamlet and I relayed in your name that they should be ready and waiting behind the church
“Regarding your wife: believe me, you’ll already be back before she has time to come down from the pastureland. You understand there’s no sense returning empty-handed,” Basilisk concluded, emphasizing each syllable, and rushed out of the room
At last! And Laurence, instead of changing, collapsed on the cot. What a flood of words, and he’d understo
od almost none of it. But Basilisk’s eloquence had a refreshing effect. There was no refusing, he’d have to give it a try; anyway, it was more amusing messing around with this smooth talker than with hillbillies. And then there was the new ambit, with new and very promising possibilities
And Laurence felt himself brought to boiling at the thought of new crimes. He’d just managed to return, but after so many shootouts, he felt like fighting again, no longer retreating, but attacking, murdering, again and again. Once upon a time, he’d failed to get rich, now he would succeed
“What are you lolling around for?” Basilisk screeched, hurrying in, “The gendarmes are already in the village,” and he rushed over to blow out the lamp. “They can’t find their bearings yet only on account of the pitch darkness, and since no one’s out and about”
But on this point Laurence needed no prompting. After scooping up Basilisk, he ran down the stairs and, without dropping his burden, raced to the church. Behind the church, the wennies actually proved to be assembled and ready, and the company made its way toward the forest, where they could wait out the night in safety. From there they could hear, first, firing, then shouts, and then, through the foliage, they began to make out purple: the police, frustrated that they didn’t happen to catch their prey and that now they never would, since he had reached the mountains, decided to console themselves by resorting to pillage and arson. Basilisk forsook his garrulousness. The others were also silent. Laurence broke the silence:
“I cannot, Basilisk, stay here doing nothing while that’s happening there. Our flight is shameful. It’s paying me tribute, the village, and it’s my village. I ought to defend it—my people are there. I’ll be back, wait until morning”