Peculiar Worlds and Circular Illusions

by Walter Winch

  * * * *

  The following morning Alex entered a large, poorly lit room which smelled of stale cigar smoke and unwashed bodies. A solitary policeman sat at a desk stamping a stack of forms. "Good morning," Alex said softly. "I'm here to meet Count Nicholas Herzen."

  The policeman wiped his mouth and stamped another form. He glanced up at Alex. "A Count Herzen you say?" Alex nodded. :"Here?"

  "Yes. At nine o'clock."

  "Hm. Wait here." The policeman got up, shuffled down the hall and disappeared into an office. A minute later the officer reappeared and called out to Alex. "You're to wait in that room," he said pointing to an unmarked door down the hall.

  "Is Count Herzen here?"

  "I don't know any Count Herzen."

  The room which Alex entered contained a table and two chairs. On top of the table was a pen and some ink. He looked at his watch. Ten minutes later Alex was about to get up when a well-dressed man probably in his late thirties entered the room and sat down. "Good morning. I am Grigori Alekseev, with state security."

  "I, er, expected Count Herzen."

  "He will not be joining us this morning."

  "I spoke to him yesterday. He told me—"

  "I understand. His plans have changed."

  "Changed?"

  Grigori Alekseev gave Alex a friendly smile. He pulled out a paper from his inside pocket. "Don't worry. You are here to sign a statement, am I correct?"

  "Yes, but—"

  "Good." He placed the paper in front of Alex, took the pen from its holder and handed it to Alex. "All it says is that you are not a member of any designated anti-government group and you are a loyal subject of Tsar Nicholas the Second. Go ahead and look through the organizations."

  Alex read quickly through the document. "I'm not a member of any of these groups."

  "We know that," Alekseev nodded reassuringly. "All I need is your signature and the date."

  Alex signed and dated the paper. Grigori Alekseev folded the paper and put it in his coat pocket. "When will Count Herzen be in?"

  Alekseev stood up. His smile faded away. "Who?"

  "Count Herzen. "Alex got to his feet. "He is a close friend of my mother."

  Nicholas Herzen was executed yesterday afternoon," Alekseev informed Alex without any noticeable expression.

  "Executed?" Alex did not understand. "What are you saying? Of course you're mistaken."

  "I can assure you, Alex Kovalevsky, I am not joking. I was present when he was shot. Nicholas Herzen was the second in command of the Battle Organization."

  "What? No. Battle Organization? That's a terrorist group. Count Herzen is an official in state security. A high official. A member of the Russian aristocracy for god sakes. He, he told me only yesterday he doesn't believe in terrorism. Nor revolution." Alex had to sit. He thought he was going to be sick. "This is all a mistake. Of course it is. He loves the Tsar."

  "Really? He's been a leading terrorist for a long time, Kovalevsky. Let it be a reminder when deciding who your real friends are. We live in dark time, Kovalevsky. Nothing is the same anymore." He indicated that he wished for Alex to go. Alex started out of the door. "I almost forgot. We will require your services in two or three weeks," Alekseev said. "There is a student group we would like you to join. Good day."

  Alex remained in the hallway, unable to move. He watched Grigori Alekseev stride rapidly down the corridor and go out the front door. The uniformed policeman sat at his desk stamping forms. Alex thought the stench of stale cigar smoke and unwashed bodies had gotten worse.

  Casa Luminosa

  He took two nervous puffs of the cigarette, then threw it to the ground and crushed it beneath the heel of his worn black loafer. His left hand knocked impatiently against the door, while his right hand clutched tightly a small, inexpensive coffee-colored suitcase. He coughed once and straightened his shoulders.

  He could have been in his early thirties, of medium height, swarthy complexion and hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. He knocked once more, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. No response. He then turned the doorknob and pushed the door gently, letting it swing into the room. "Buenos tardes," he said. Only silence greeted him as he stepped inside.

  The room was large and airy. In its center was a long white sofa, coffee table and several upholstered chairs. Through an open window with iron grill-works he viewed a narrow, deserted street which faded off into the distance. A lion-colored ceiling fan turned silently above his head. A clean room he judged.

  He put the suitcase down and studied his surrounding for only a moment. With his left hand he snatched a cigarette from his shirt pocket, while at the same time pulling out a dented metal lighter with his right hand from his pants pocket. He lit the cigarette, took two quick drags then ground it out in an ashtray on the coffee table.

  On the other side of the room was an open door. He entered cautiously and found himself in a long, dimly lit hallway. On both sides of the hall were six closed doors. Five of the doors had nameplates on them.

  He returned to the living room at the same time as someone knocked on the front door. He hurried to the door and opened it. "Oh. Hello," a woman said.

  He studied her for just a moment. She was tall, slightly pale and most likely a European, plain but not unattractive. "Hello."

  "This is the Casa Lum—"

  "Luminosa. Yes." He gestured for her to come in.

  "My name is Deborah Wickman. I have a reservation." She held a beige suitcase.

  Probably in her late thirties or early forties he thought. "You are English?"

  "Yes." She put her suitcase down. "Do you work here?"

  "No. I am a guest."

  "I see. Is there anyone else here?"

  "I think we are the only ones."

  She glanced around the room. "It's quite lovely, in its own way."

  "My name is Carlos Guzman. I saw rooms in the back, for the guests. The doors have nameplates."

  "Then I'll go to my room."

  "Yes. Er. Your suitcase—would you like me to carry your suitcase?"

  "No thank you, I can manage. If you could just point the way."

  "The way? Oh, through that door."

  Carlos watched her leave and then snatched a cigarette from his shirt pocket, while at the same time pulling out the dented metal lighter with his right hand from his pants pocket. He was about to light the cigarette when someone knocked at the door.

  He opened the door and found himself staring up into the face of an attractive black woman probably in her mid-thirties. "Do you speak English?" she said.

  Her voice was nearly masculine he thought. "Yes."

  She entered the room. "I have just one suitcase. My name is Angela Lake." She gestured at the door. "If you could show me to my suite." Carlos picked up the suitcase by the door and placed it on the floor. "My room? You said you spoke English."

  "English? I am a guest," he responded.

  "A guest? Oh ... are we alone here?"

  "No, not alone. I have not seen anyone, but the rooms are in the back. I will show you." Carlos picked up the suitcase and Angela Lake followed him to the hallway where he deposited the suitcase by her door. She thanked him and he returned to the living room, where he found Deborah Wickman staring out the window.

  "Another guest," Carlos said.. "An American from New York. I think the others will be here soon."

  She turned to look at him. "Are there others?"

  "Nameplates are on two other doors."

  She nodded and went to the sofa and sat down. "Where are you from, Mr. Guzman?"

  "Not in this country. A university lecturer. Are you from London?" He sat down on the sofa.

  "No, not London."

  "Your work?"

  "Once a surgical nurse."

  "Oh. A hospital?"

  "No. A small twenty-two bed clinic run by irritating identical twins."

  Angela Lake entered the living room and Carlos stood up. "We have another guest. Deborah Wickman,
Angela Lake," he said.

  "Hi," said Angela. "My god it's quiet. I didn't see anyone on the street." Carlos went over to the window.

  "You're an American from New York I understand."

  "How did you know that?" said Angela.

  "Mr. Guzman."

  "Hell, it must show."

  Carlos turned to the women. "Two more will come."

  Both women stared at him. "How did you both hear about this place?" Angela asked Deborah.

  "Well, a friend I suppose," Deborah replied.

  "Mr. Guzman?"

  "An acquaintance."

  "Acquaintance?" said Deborah looking at him curiously.

  "Acquaintance?" He chuckled softly. "No. Carlos, my name."

  "I see," said Deborah. "And, and what do you do?" turning to Angela.

  "A high fashion model," Angela replied. "But about to stop. Over the hill."

  "The hill?" said Carlos.

  "Too old."

  "Then perhaps a start of another career," said Deborah.

  Angela smiled. "Really? Hadn't thought of that. But why not."

  A sudden knock on the door startled all of them. Carlos opened the door quickly. "I, I don't have a suitcase—but I do have a reservation." The woman, slightly overweight and perhaps in her mid-forties, looked at Carlos with pleading eyes. "Hello. My name is Terry Simmons. From Kansas."

  "I am Carlos Guzman." He thought he smelled witch hazel. "Welcome to Casa Luminosa."

  Terry Simmons merely stared at the three of them for a moment and then came into the room. "Um-m. My husband was supposed to come, also. But at the last minute ... he couldn't. I'm sorry. I'm still a little—"

  "Of course you are," Deborah said. "It's understandable. Let's sit down shall we." Carlos watched as Deborah guided Terry to the sofa.

  "Mistakes happen, I guess," said Angela.

  "Es absurdo," Carlos muttered. He wanted a cigarette, but decided not in