The Stranger tloe-1 Read online

  “Who am I going to talk to, I wonder, besides you? Chuff?”

  “Well, yes—you can talk to Chuff, of course. And to me. But soon you’ll embark on a much stormier existence.”

  “You’re always threatening that . . .”

  “Wasn’t tonight enough proof for you? I would be glad to take you with me to the House by the Bridge, but things move slowly in Echo. I submitted the request for your appointment to the Court . . . yes, the day after our trip to the Glutton. As all matters in my department are decided with maximum efficiency and promptness, everything should be settled within two or three dozen days.”

  “You call that ‘maximum efficiency and promptness’?”

  “Yes, and so must you.”

  Then we were home. Juffin went to his room, and I stayed behind, alone, just the time to think about the darkness into which I was peering. Those dames had given me a scare! And then Juffin, with his lecture about the secret reasons behind the jumps and starts in my moods . . . arghhh!

  When I was in my own room, I pulled out the salvaged “box-in-distress” from the pocket of my looxi. Take it easy, sweetheart, Uncle Max may not be all there, but he’s kind and good! He’ll protect you from all misfortune; he’s just going to peer into the darkness . . . But at the very moment of the deepest flowering of my honestly acquired phobia, a warm clump of fur jumped out this very darkness: Max sad—don’t be sad! My little friend Chuff wagged his stumpy tail so violently that the devilish darkness scattered into little bits. I relaxed, banished from my mind the paranoid murmurings of the matronly sirens, and Chuff and I went to the living room to find something to eat while we read the evening news.

  As it turned out, I didn’t go to sleep before dawn that day. I waited for Juffin to talk over the events of the evening one more time over a mug of kamra. I must admit, I expected that from that moment on, Sir Juffin would be wracking his brains over the mysterious murder. In other words, like good old Sherlock Holmes, or the equally old and good Commissioner Maigret, he would suck on his pipe for hours on end, and wander about at the scene of the crime. And at the end of yet another sleepless night, and not without my help, he would crack the case of the “ABC Gum Corpse.” Then everyone dances with delight.

  I was sorely disappointed. Our morning conference lasted all of twenty minutes. The entire time, Sir Juffin speculated about my lonely future—that is, how I would survive the next three days without him. It turned out that the time for his annual friendly visit to the Royal Court had rolled around, and as this joyful occasion is granted by King only a few times a year, he was generally in no hurry to release his charming vassal. On average, according to Sir Juffin’s calculations, these forced circumstances lasted about three or four days. Then the cries of distress of his subjects, abandoned temporarily to the caprices of fate, would force the monarch to loosen his embrace and return his captive to the World again.

  I must say, I understand His Majesty. In the literature of the Unified Kingdom, the detective novel does not seem to exist at all, and newspaper articles and dry accounts of the courtiers about all the other courtiers cannot compete with the juicy worldly gossip of Sir Juffin Hully, Venerable Head of all that transpires.

  For my part, I coped fairly well with the loneliness. I walked a lot, gazed at passersby, learned the names of streets. At the same time I inquired about the prices of houses for lease. I was very particular about my choice of a future home. I wanted it to be close to the Street of the Copper Pots, at the end of which stood the House by the Bridge, the residence of the Headquarters of Perfect Public Order. At night I “did my homework”—again and again I grilled the objects of material culture about their past. It was pleasant to realize that I could already perform these tricks without Juffin’s guidance. Objects were increasingly willing to share their memories with me. Only the box from the bedchamber of the late Sir Makluk-Olli held its tongue with the obstinacy of a partisan of the Resistance, we observed no more outbursts of uncontrollable fear in it. Thank goodness for that!

  Late on the evening of the fourth day, Sir Juffin Hully returned, laden with royal gifts, fresh news (to me all quite abstract), and problems from work that had accumulated in his absence. In short, neither that evening, nor the next, did we return to the subject of the Mysterious Murder in the Empty Room.

  Eventually, life began to resume its normal pattern. Juffin started coming home earlier. We took up our leisurely dinner discussions again, and even our evening seminars. Two weeks had passed since the event of the murder in Sir Makluk’s house. That is to say, two weeks by my count—the locals don’t divide the year into weeks and months. They count days by dozens, and define their temporal coordinates very laconically—around such and such a day in about such and such a year. That’s all. So if we use the local method of calculating time, more than a dozen days had passed since our nocturnal visit to our neighbor’s house. This was too long to sustain the flame of my curiosity: it sparks like lightning, but it dies just as quickly if it finds no immediate sustenance.

  Oh, if only the balsam-filled box that I rescued had begun to talk before I forgot about it and turned my attention to more garrulous objects! Then Sir Juffin gradually began to teach me more captivating things. Who knows how humdrum this silly matter could have ended up, had it not been for my own amnesia?

  Somehow or other, the next sign of a fast-approaching tempest caught up with me early in the evening of what had otherwise been a delightful day. I was enjoying the masterpieces of the ancient poetry of Uguland, having dared for the first time to drag the weighty folio out of the dust of the library into the garden. I scrambled onto the branch of a spreading Vaxari tree, a wonderful variety of tree exceptionally well-suited for climbing by men of middle age who have fallen back into the habits of childhood.

  From this vantage point, I noticed a man in gray hurrying over to our grounds from the direction of Sir Makluk’s house. I remembered immediately the circumstances of our prior visit, and decided to go inside the house just in case. Sir Juffin had still not returned, and I was determined to hear the news firsthand. I descended the tree too slowly for my own taste; but all the same I crossed the threshold before Sir Makluk’s servant reached the home stretch—the path of transparent colored pebbles that led up to the house.

  In the hall I ran into Kimpa, who was already hurrying to admit the visitor. As soon as the door was opened, I declared:

  “Sir Juffin Hully isn’t here at the moment, so I’m the one to talk to!”

  Sir Makluk’s emissary was somewhat nonplussed, perhaps because at that time I still hadn’t gotten rid of the accent that so grated on the ears of the capital-dwellers. But my debonair appearance and deliberate manner, and maybe a sign from old man Kimpa that went unnoticed by me, had the desired effect.

  “Sir Makluk requests that I inform Sir Venerable Head that old Govins has disappeared. In fact, no one has seen him since morning, something which hasn’t happened in more than 90 years! In addition, Sir Makluk commanded me to report that he is troubled by dark forebodings.”

  I dismissed the emissary with a stern nod of my head. There were no two ways about it: I had to alert Juffin immediately. I had had no experience with this kind of situation until that moment, and while it isn’t so hard to use Silent Speech when your interlocutor is sitting right next to you, communicating with him when his whereabouts are unknown is an entirely different game. Sir Juffin had once tried to convince me that it didn’t make any difference. If it had worked once, the next time it would work just as easily. I was of another opinion, but perhaps I just lacked the experience or imagination.

  Of course, I could have asked Kimpa’s help. There were no obstacles to this—it was not classified information, and my own ambition wouldn’t have stood in the way.

  The truth is, it just didn’t occur to me to turn to Kimpa. And Kimpa, the most tactful of servants, wouldn’t have dared interfere in my affairs.

  And so I tried to establish contact with Sir Juffin. Withi
n the space of three minutes, I was wet with perspiration, disheveled, and on the verge of despair. It wasn’t working! I felt I was pinned up against a wall. That’s a short route to the conclusion that you’re a worthless nothing.

  When I had given up all but the faintest of hopes, I tried one last time. And suddenly—it worked! I made the connection with Sir Juffin, though I can’t imagine how.

  Juffin had summed up the situation in no time. What gives, Max?

  He had tried many times in the past, always unsuccessfully, to challenge me to this metaphysical problem for “the advanced learner.” So he had reached a corresponding conclusion—“If this blockhead has finally managed to get through to me, the circumstances that prompted it must be dire, indeed!”

  I gathered my wits about me and tried to explain it all in a single thought.

  Good, Max. I’m on my way. Juffin was almost curt—generously sparing my depleted energies.

  Having done my part, I sighed with relief and went to change—I hadn’t sweated like that in a blue moon! Kimpa looked at me with indulgence, but he tactfully refrained from making any remarks, God bless him!

  By the time Juffin had arrived, I was completely ready—but still I neglected our “witness number one”: the little box with balsam. I would probably have remembered it with time, but Juffin wasn’t alone when he arrived and I got distracted. He was with his second-in-command, Sir Melifaro, and believe me, meeting this gentleman is like being at the epicenter of an earthquake that registers 5 to 6 on the Richter scale. Sir Melifaro is not only the Diurnal Representative of the Head of the Minor Secret Investigative Force—he is the main traveling show of Echo. I’m sure you could get people to pay to see him. I’d buy a ticket myself once every dozen days if I weren’t forced to have this pleasure on a daily basis free of charge, as a bonus for good work.

  On that day, though, I still didn’t know what was in store for me.

  Into the living room rushed a handsome, dark-haired fellow—judging by appearances, of the same age as me. He was a “type” that was much coveted in postwar Hollywood, the kind that was recruited to play the “good” boxer or detective. However, the stranger’s attire made an even stronger impression on me than his face. Underneath his bright red looxi, an emerald-green skaba was just visible. His head was piled high with an orange turban, and bright yellow boots the color of egg yolk adorned his feet. I’m sure that if the daily costume of Echo-dwellers consisted of a hundred pieces, this clotheshorse would have chosen for himself every imaginable color and shade. But social custom did not yet permit him to blossom in his full glory.

  The newcomer flashed his dark eyes, and raised his eyebrows so high that they disappeared under his turban. He covered his face with his hands in a theatrical gesture, and wailed, “I see you as in a waking dream, O marvelous barbarian, and I fear that your image will haunt me in my nightmares!” Then he turned a complete pirouette on the shaggy carpet, as though it were made of ice, and collapsed into an armchair, groaning from the exertion. After that, he froze as still as death (he even seemed to stop breathing), and studied me with a penetrating gaze, unexpectedly serious and somehow empty, completely at odds with his recent acrobatics.

  I realized I had to greet him in some manner, too, so I covered my eyes with the palm of my hand, as one is supposed to do. But all I could utter was: “Okay.”

  Melifaro grinned and unexpectedly (as everything he did was unexpected) winked at me.

  “You, Sir Max, are quite a guy! The future nocturnal backside of our ‘Venerable Head.’ Don’t worry, I’m his diurnal backside, have been for sixteen years now. A person gets used to everything, you know.”

  “It’s just a matter of time before the reputation of our office is toppled once and for all in the eyes of Sir Max!” Juffin hurried to intervene. “All my labors will turn to dust. He’ll realize that I’m a humble director of a Refuge for the Mad and rush back to the Barren Lands, suddenly seeing the advantages of life in the fresh air.”

  I blinked helplessly.

  “Was that everything you knew?” Juffin asked me. “No more news?”

  “That wasn’t enough for you?”

  “Of course it wasn’t, old chap!” Melifaro retorted. “They failed to tell you where the fellow disappeared to, what happened to him, and who’s to blame in all of this. And they didn’t take the trouble to bring the criminal to justice. So now we have to do their work for them!”

  “Melifaro! Sir Max has already figured out that you’re the wittiest, the most irresistible, and the most magnificent of them all. He is beside himself with joy, having discovered the very source of the glory and might of the Unified Kingdom. And now we’re going to get down to work,” Sir Juffin commanded, somehow very calmly and tenderly. Melifaro snorted, then started issuing instructions.

  “Max, you’re coming with us. Three is a crowd. I signed an order granting Sir Lonli-Lokli and his magic hands five Days of Freedom from Chores, and he wisely left town yesterday morning. Melamori is relieved of duty, as her influential daddykins missed her. And Sir Kofa Yox is keeping watch at our Pleasure Factory by the Bridge, instead of methodically chewing a steak in some Sated Skeleton or other, the poor bloke. But we ourselves will have a little snack, otherwise Sir Melifaro will lose the ability to think once and for all. And you are always up for that, as far as I’ve been able to find out, aren’t you?”

  We snacked abundantly, but in great haste. Sir Melifaro, by the way, attempted to make it into the Guinness Book of Records in that category of strapping fellows who consume sources of nourishment in huge quantities before you could say Jack Robinson.

  All the while, he regaled us with questions, asking me whether it was difficult to get along without sun-cured horsemeat, and asking Sir Juffin whether it might be possible to get a sandwich with the meat of some pickled mutinous Magician or other. (I was able to appreciate this joke only later, when Sir Kofa Yox gave me a comprehensive lecture about the most enduring urban legends.)

  We walked over to Sir Makluk’s house in silence. Sir Juffin was thinking troubled thoughts, Melifaro whistled a tune absently, and I waited expectantly for my first slice of true adventure. I’ll say right off that I got much more than I had bargained for.

  The usual man in gray admitted us at a small side door. I immediately felt ill at ease—not so much frightened as sad and disgusted. I had experienced something like this before, in those rare cases when I had to visit my grandmother. In that hospital there had been a special ward for the terminally ill and dying. Sweet little place . . .

  Juffin cast a warning glance at me. Max, do you notice it, too?

  “What is it?” I asked aloud, confused. Melifaro turned away in amazement, but said nothing.

  Juffin preferred Silent Speech. It’s the smell of a foul death. I’ve come across this before. None of this bodes any good. He then continued out loud.

  “All right, let’s go into the bedchamber. My heart tells me that the old man couldn’t resist and popped in this morning to tidy up. Melifaro, today you’ll take Lonli-Lokli’s place.”

  “I won’t be able to pull it off. I can’t puff out my chest like he does.”

  “Never mind. You don’t have to, just throw yourself into the scorching fire; that’s all there is to it. According to instructions, I can’t subject you to the risk of being deprived of my company. And Sir Max doesn’t have a clue about what to do after you enter the room.”

  “So in that case, you won’t miss me, will you? I know, I know, you got sick of me a long time ago. Maybe you can just kick me out of the service and you’ll have a clean conscience? Think about it before it’s too late!” Sir Melifaro said with a smirk.

  “Yes, you see, I’m planning to take your place,” I explained. “And for your boss, it’s easier just to kill someone than to offend him without cause. So—”

  “Well, fine,” Melifaro replied with a sigh of resignation. “Of course, otherwise why would he have fed me? He was granting me my last wish.”


  “Gentlemen, could you perhaps be so kind as to shut up?” said Juffin.

  We bit our tongues and fell in step behind our stern leader until he halted by the door to the bedchamber.

  “It’s here, Melifaro. Welcome.”

  Melifaro didn’t try to pull any stunts in the tradition of a brave storm-trooper from the movies. He simply opened the door and entered the empty chamber. The epicenter of the “smell of a foul death” was right here—judging by how unwell I felt. But what must be done, must be done! And so I followed right behind Melifaro.

  For a brief moment it seemed to me that I had died many years before. Then I began to feel wracked with a longing for death—a peculiar kind of nostalgia; but a tiny part of the phlegmatic, sensible Max was still alive in me. So I got a grip on myself—or, rather, the sensible kid gathered up all the rest of the Maxes, all howling in a frenzy of morbid longing.

  Sir Melifaro, who until that moment had remained blissfully ignorant, was now also on the alert. He mumbled gloomily, “Not the cheeriest place in Echo, Chief. Why did you drag me in here? Bring on the music and the girls!”