Suslov knocked on the screen separating him from the driver, and the stagecoach pulled off. There were still plenty of other things on his agenda.
Chapter XXIX
The cellars of Vilnius, Evening
25 04 1905
Solomon stirred before cautiously opening his eyes. His eyelids were heavy as if made of steel, and his head was gripped by a splitting headache, just like the one he had after finishing off a bottle of herbal vodka, sold to them from under his jacket by a Jew from the Blots to celebrate a successful operation. The boy slowly opened his mouth. His swollen tongue, like some potato latke, felt out of place in his mouth, the sensation amplified even more by nearly unbearable thirst. He closed his eyes again, trying to recall where he had been and why. He remembered daubing the Town Hall walls with slogans, then some tunnels, an assault by rats... This thought sent shivers down his spine. And then the weird man in the cellars... and nothing more, just the fog.
Solomon opened his eyes again and, although feeling very dizzy, tried to sit up. He looked around.
He was lying on a wooden bench in a dimly lit room. Light came in through the closed iron-barred door. The other side of the room was buried in darkness.
For a minute the boy stared at his legs. Just like his head, they were bandaged in a crude but careful manner.
A few minutes later Solomon decided to start slithering off the bench, but the sound of voices behind the bars made him lie back down with his eyes closed.
What sounded like some general muttering at first, later developed into two separate voices; the first sounding somewhat familiar, the second, never heard before.
“When can I go back to hospital?” asked a thin squealing voice. “It’s nice and warm there and they give you soup, while here it’s cold and damp. When I was collected, you told me I would be able to go back as soon as the trial was over. I liked that place.”
“Soon, it will be really soon, Pranciskus,” replied the second, deep and gentle voice. This pleasant sound helped to ease the headache gripping Solomon’s head. “They are nearly finished setting up a laboratory for you. Just wait a little, and you can go back. I’ve promised it to you, haven’t I?”
“Yes, you have,” an older man’s voice agreed. “And have you brought the drink, guardian? My supply is coming to an end, while I am completely helpless without it. I don’t understand what is happening to me.”
“Of course, I have. Here you go,” said the man who had been referred to as the guardian. Then something tinkled. “And here is some hot soup, sent to you by Aunt Marina together with her warmest wishes. She worries about you, keeps asking if you have everything you need.”
“Yes, I am fine.” The voice had become muffled, as if the man was speaking with his mouth full. “But I want to go back to hospital now. When can I do that?”
“Soon, soon,” the guardian repeated patiently. “But before you can do that, you’ll have to do something else.”
“Again?” moaned the man with a swig of something in his mouth. “I don’t like it and it makes me feel poorly afterwards. It takes away all my energy and I become unsteady on my feet. I feel completely drained. Couldn’t it be that we do it too often?”
“And that’s why you need the drink. When you have it, everything goes back to normal, right?”
“Right,” admitted the voice. “But it gets scary anyway.”
In his head Solomon pictured a man who wasn’t yet old but had already begun to shrivel. He was talking while eating at the same time. But his efforts to draw the second man in the eye of his mind were fruitless.
“Don’t worry,” reassured the deep voice. “It will all be fine.” Your piece is very near perfection indeed, all we need to do is a few more trial runs. Maybe even today. Have you thought of the ways to increase the section precision?”
The voices faded away, and the boy was no longer able to differentiate between the speakers or discern what was being said. Even more so because a barely-heard thrum began from another room. Something rustled and when Solomon turned his head, his eyes stopped on wires strewn across the floor, as thick as a hemp rope.
He had a strong urge to jump and run away from this weird place but didn’t dare. The metal bars obstructed his view of the inside of the other room. Could the people have become quiet on purpose and were now waiting for him to make an attempt at fleeing, when they could grab him and... The boy had no idea what harm they could possibly cause him but his imagination was running wild, painting pictures that ranged from awful to gruesome inside his head. And that strange thrum now as well.
After waiting another minute, Solomon cautiously pulled himself up on to his elbows and examined his surroundings. He told himself that it was now that he had to do something to escape. He had almost convinced himself that the two people were really gone, when suddenly another sound reached him from the dark side of the room, knocking the wind out of him.
It was the sound of clanking metal, as loud as a good dozen gigantic gears setting off to turn at the same time.
Solomon’s eyes filled with shock and moved slowly to one side.
There was a stir and two red flashes shone through the dark. Overwhelmed by this unearthly horror the child flung himself down on the bench and closed his eyes. The clanking did not subside, and now accompanied by a dull thud, as if someone was poking the floor with a metal-tipped stick. One more thud, and yet another, really close this time. It was steps. Someone was walking in the dark, and he was getting closer and closer to Solomon.
Stiff with horror the boy began to pray, repeating in his head a little prayer that his now deceased grandmother taught him when he was a little boy.
Angel of God,
My guardian dear,
Thud, thud... The heavy steps now came with a threatening growl. The creature was right beside the boy, within reach of his arm – he could clearly feel it.
To whom
His love entrusts me here,
Solomon was affronted by the pungent smells of oils, metal and something else.
Another thud and the walking ceased.
The creature stood within striking distance of Solomon. Something creaked. The boy could swear the beast was staring at him.
Ever this day, night
Be at my side
His eyelashes involuntarily twitching, Solomon was a second away from jumping off the bench and fleeing as far as his body would carry him.
Thud. Thud. Thud. The creature moved toward the barred door.
Surrendering himself to some inconceivable instinct the boy opened his eyes and looked up.
To light and guard,
To rule and guide. Amen.
A monster stood in the doorway. It was massive and petrifying, from the world of the worst nightmares. As if it had sensed his stare, it slowly turned its head to face the child. Solomon now realised what the red lights actually were. They were its bloodshot eyes, burning in flames. The child’s tormented mind could not bear it any longer, and the thin thread of consciousness snapped, releasing a wild vortex of demented thoughts.
The monster turned away and made a clanking exit through the barred door.
The youth once known as Solomon, looking now like a somnambulist, lifted himself up from the berth and, rather unsteady on his feet, followed behind the creature.
He came into the room from which he had heard the voices earlier, but he staggered through it without stopping or noticing a berth with a man on it. Coiling from his head were multi-coloured snake-like wires, their free ends hanging in vessels brim-full with dark bubbling liquid, a quietly humming machine the size of a wardrobe, or reaching across the floor as far as Solomon’s room. His eyelids rapidly blinking and his body jerking, the man’s raised arms moved back and forth through the air as if trying to catch or touch something invisible. But Solomon did not notice any of this – he left the room to pursue the monster, sluggishly lumbering ahead, through the tunnels.
The rats of Vilnius sewage, who had cleared the
way for the metal beast before gathering back in one pack again, followed the shuffling little somnambulist with their flashing eyes. Several times he slipped and fell down in the stinking sludge, but the rats did not gather the courage to come near him.
Chapter XXX
Vilnius, Evening
25 04 1905
The hall was permeated with heavy smoke. Clouds of inferior tobacco coiled under the ceiling and floated above the sweaty head of the inn-keeper, hastily pouring out beer and herbal vodka. The smoke also curled around the billiard balls strewn on the green baize. Young players saw it as an impediment, while the experienced aces couldn’t care less, and were depositing balls in the pockets with their eyes closed, cigarettes dangling in the corners of their mouths.
“The third from the side – to the fifth one, and number five is down”, they would announce before the ivory balls hit one another, the fifth one ending up in a fabric pocket. The action was followed by thin applause and another dupe, lured into the trap by the billiard princes, was sighing deeply as he counted. In free Vilnius it was prohibited to play billiards for money, just as it was with roulette and dice. But in most people’s mind billiards was the most innocent of pastimes, and so consequently, Vilnius billiard halls were open to everyone, while roulette wheels span and dice rolled in halls only accessible to those who had proved their particular trustworthiness and reliability. A billiard hall with the pretentious name of Versailles and a petite joy house had become yet another symbol of the Troubles, with legends about it spreading around town. Here the ball pushers lingered around tables, waiting for the broceurs to lure yet another victim into their trap. There were always plenty of rams ready to get their fleece of gold sheared at any time, never mind during the blissful days of the Summit.
The hall was packed with people as closely as herring in a barrel, leaving limited space for the players circling around the green baize upholstered tables, forcing them to be very careful with their cues.
“Just like that! Over here!” a bearded man yelled triumphantly, banging his fist on the table. From tension or some other cause his cheeks flamed red. “Nine to six! It is the game! Ha! Don’t you dare stick your fingers in Vojciech Swaczyk’s mouth. Greater aces suffered defeat at my hands in Lublin!”
“You couldn’t be more right,” Grigas Ceciotas – the highest bidder and the number one billiard ace in Versailles and possibly all of Vilnius, politely agreed. He pulled out his wallet, gave a few exasperated sighs and counted out a pile of banknotes, before extending them to the bearded guy. “We should really stay away from Lublin, if that’s what the players there are like. I have a feeling it’s not going to end in anything good for me today. I think I’ll call it a day.”
“But why, why?” bellowed some drinking buddy. “Don’t you dare give up, Grigas. You aren’t going to surrender to that Pole now, are you, man?”
The bearded Vojciech beamed from ear to ear.
“It’s not my evening today. I’ve already lost two games and I don’t feel like losing my last shirt,” Ceciotas mumbled sadly, his shoulders hunched forward.
“But I have a feeling it might be third time lucky,” someone at the bar offered their point of view. Everyone’s eyes moved in that direction. Elbowing his way towards the players there was a short blonde man with one of those instantly forgettable faces. Having reached the table, he threw a pile of folded banknotes on its green surface. “I can’t play myself, but I put my bet on Grigas. I have a good feeling about him. What do you think, Mr Vojciech?” he addressed the Pole, whose cheeks were now flaming even more.
“Ho-ho-ho, państwo[34],” the bearded man laughed. He had had no idea Vilnius was so much fun. “I can see you are oblivious to the fact that brain, and not luck is the crucial factor in playing billiards. Fine! Challenge accepted. You go first,” he urged Ceciotas before turning to the innkeeper and summoning him with a lively gesture. The innkeeper pulled a face and went to look for a clean glass.
Watching this scene from a remote corner, the provocateur Suslov laughed out loud. He wasn’t an expert in billiards himself but was very good at spotting con artists and so was absolutely confident that Ceciotas, the blonde with an instantly forgettable face and the innkeeper were actually co-conspirators putting on a show to clean out the cocky Mr Vojciech from Lublin. That night the man would be returning home incredulous of how he could have been so badly out of luck.
But the Troubles old-timers’ pranks was the last thing on the Russian’s mind. Turning his back on the men, he advanced towards the stairs, at the foot of which men of Herculean build rested in armchairs either side. Suslov glowered at them and they squinted back at the visitor wordlessly. Suslov went up to the first floor.
There was another bar there, conveniently located for talking and watching the men playing downstairs. A few bored joy house goddesses were slumped at the bar, in readiness for love games with anyone who would take them to a cosy little room. There was also a second floor, which, however, was out of bounds for any stranger. A heavy oak door, which was always kept shut, and two muscular, grim-faced men separated it from the rest of the building.
“I am expected,” Suslov said politely, as he reached the second floor.
One of the guards got up and stretched, revealing a pistol stuck inside his belt, then opened the oak door to peek inside. Turning his head back to Suslov, he gesticulated for him to go inside.
The office was not large. On the contrary, it was rather small. And it was plain, with no sign of luxury – no pictures on the walls or exquisite knick-knacks on the shelves. A modest wardrobe, two arm-chairs, several tiny windows opening out towards the shining Navigators’ Tower, and a small table with a spread of foods. And, the office host.
“Sit down... erm... dear Sir,” spoke Motiejus Kairys, the king of Vilnius criminals. “Please forgive me, I can’t recall your name.”
“Suslov, Mikhail Andreyevich,” the Russian introduced himself solemnly before perching on the edge of the arm chair. “Our mutual friend sends his regards.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” mumbled Kairys, preoccupied with something else. “I’ve heard that you are working up a sweat. I mean, feeling quite at home in Vilnius.” Some steely overtones were obvious in his voice but even if they did reach Suslov’s ears, they did not appear to strike him as worthy of concern. He had seen more than one of these self-important and puffed-up kings of local thugs, but he always managed to find some common ground with all of them. He complimented them, bribed them, made promises, but there was nothing more to it than that. It was pretty simple.
“Great place,” tweeted Suslov. “Safe, stylish. If I were...”
“I don’t care,” Kairys rudely cut him short. This gave Suslov a start, as he did not expect this conversation to begin like that. “Our mutual friend has mentioned that you wished to meet up and discuss something. Possibly something mutually beneficial. We have met. I am listening.”
“So the little thug is pretending to be a tough nut,” Suslov thought to himself, but out loud he said, “Of course, of course, time is money, and even more so at the time of the Summit. I won’t keep you long, only as much as it takes me to tell a story.”
Kairys nodded and poured himself a drink. He didn’t offer one to his guest, though.
The Russian narrowed his eyes.
“The rich and the poor live alongside in the city,” he continued. “Some of them are smart, others are stupid. The smart rich...” he nodded his head towards Kairys, as if illustrating what he was trying to say. “...buy and sell things, keep abreast of the situation and reap the fruits of their labour. The stupid rich draw gold handful after handful, suck in money, run the poor dimwits ragged, thinking that the feast of life will never end. The stupid poor submit to being exploited as they think that this is God’s will and it is here to stay. But then there are also the smart poor who realise that the city is ruled by injustice and are not going to put up with it. As I have already mentioned, the smart rich are well aware of th
is situation and are racking their about brains how to turn it to their advantage. So that’s what the people in the city are like.”
Kairys placed his glass on the table and used the metal hook of his left hand to scratch his chin.
“What a captivating story, Mr Suslov,” he said in a voice devoid of emotion. “So it appears you can see through people. Tell me,” the criminal reclined in his arm-chair. “Which group do you include me in?”
Suslov heaved a sigh of relief. Oh that’s what it was. He was conscious of his status. These people, conceited as a barber’s cat, were worse than children. Once you’d stroked their hair and given them a sweetie, you could take them any place you like.
“Strange question, honourable Kairys,” he smiled. “Do you think I would be sitting here if I didn’t think you could benefit from my story?” The Russian paused for his message to reach the thug, before continuing. “Vilnius is now in a state of discontent. And it will get worse. The poor are getting smarter, they do not want to bend their backs for a few copecks. They will soon start demanding what they are entitled to by law. Factories will stall and strikes will ensue. And where there are strikes, there is tension. And tension needs to be released. The wisest thing for them to do now would be to vent their fury on the stupid rich, who have been asking for a chastisement for long enough. It’s about time they were pushed off their pedestal with a message: from now on the smart people will call the tune in the city. Isn’t that right? When there’s a fire, someone always gets burned. And he who remains untouched can buy out his neighbour’s house. Aren’t I right?”
Motiejus Kairys kept quiet. He got off his chair, walked over to the window and fixed his gaze on the wet roofs of the Troubles, glistening in the dim light. Suslov used this opportunity to remove another thick envelope from his pocket and place it on the table. He lost count of how many of these envelopes, thin and thick, he had handed out today.
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