“Filtered, as usual…”
“Naturally, you’ll want a shower after your sprint,” Du Barnstoker said to me. “It’s almost time for lunch…”
“Of course,” I said. “Please excuse me.”
I was very relieved to get away from them. I didn’t feel like I was in great form. They’d caught me off guard. All the same, it seemed to me that a famous magician on stage was one thing, and a famous magician in his private life was another. I made my exit and made my way up the three flights of stairs to the floor my room was on.
The corridor was as empty as it had been before. Somewhere billiard balls were still smacking dryly against one another. The damn shower was still locked. Somehow I managed to clean myself up in my room; I pulled out a cigarette and collapsed on the couch. I woke to the sound of someone shrieking and a sinister, throaty laugh coming from the hall. I jumped up. At that very second there was a knock at the door, and Kaisa’s voice purred, “Dinner is served.” I responded positively, yes, yes, I’m coming, swung my legs off the couch and stuffed them in my shoes. “Dinner is served!” I heard from a little ways off, and then again, “Dinner is served!” followed by the same sharp shriek and ghostly laughter. I even heard the rattle of rusty chains.
I combed my hair in front of the mirror, meanwhile trying out a few facial expressions, such as: polite distracted interest, the manly self-possession of a professional, a simple-souled openness to any acquaintance, and an aw-shucks grin. None of these seemed appropriate, so I stopped torturing myself, dropped a couple of cigarettes in my pocket for the kid and went out into the corridor. Emerging, I was struck dumb.
The door of the room across from mine was open. A young man was hanging in the doorway, right at the lintel, with his feet jammed against one side of the molding and his back against the other. He actually seemed quite relaxed considering how weird his position was. He looked down at me, flashing long yellow teeth, and gave a military salute.
“Hello,” I said, after a second. “Can I help you?”
He jumped down light as a cat and stood in front of me at attention, still holding his salute.
“I salute you, Inspector,” he said. “Allow me to introduce myself: Simon Simone, Chief Lieutenant, Cybernetics Division.”
“At ease,” I said, and we shook hands.
“Actually, I’m a physicist,” he explained. “But ‘Cybernetics Division’ sounds almost as good as ‘Infantry.’ Kind of funny, actually.” Suddenly he burst out with that same terrible sob-laugh, in which one could hear the dampness of dungeons, indelible bloodstains and skeletons in their rusty chains.
“What were you doing up there?” I asked, shaking off my surprise.
“Training,” he said. “I’m a mountain climber…”
“Dead, or alive?” I said, regretting the joke as soon as he unleashed another avalanche of his gruesome laughter on me.
“Not bad—not bad at all for a first try,” he said, wiping his eyes. “No, I’m still alive. I came here to scale the cliffs, but I haven’t been able to reach them yet. They’re surrounded by snow. So instead I climb the doors, the walls…” Suddenly he stopped talking and grabbed my hand. “To be honest,” he said, “I came here to recover. I’m worn out. Have you heard of The Midas Project? It’s top secret. I’ve been working on it for four years, without a single vacation. The doctors prescribed a course of sensual indulgence.” He laughed again, but we’d reached the dining room by this point and he rushed off towards the table where the snacks had been laid out. “Follow my lead, Inspector,” he shouted as he ran. “You’ve got to hurry if you don’t want the dead man’s friends and relatives to eat all the caviar.”
The dining room was big, with five windows. In the middle of it stood a huge oval table with space for twenty people; the elegant buffet board, blackened with age, sparkled with silver goblets and a large number of mirrors and multicolored bottles; the tablecloth was starched; the plates were fine porcelain, the flatware was silver with elegant niello inlay. Still, things had been set up in the most democratic way possible. The snack table was covered with… snacks. First come, first served. At another, smaller table, Kaisa was setting out two delftware tubs filled with vegetable soup and bouillon. Serve yourself, either one. For those who wanted a drink there was a battalion of bottles, including brandy, Irish gin, beer and a house liqueur (made out of Edelweiss petals, Zgut had claimed).
Du Barnstoker and the progeny of his deceased brother had already sat down at the table. Du Barnstoker, who was delicately stirring a bowl of bouillon with a silver spoon, glared reproachfully at the kid as it planted its elbows on the table and commenced to devour its vegetable soup.
A dazzling, uncommonly beautiful woman who I didn’t recognize was holding court at the head of the table. She was somewhere between twenty and forty years old, with soft, dusky-blue shoulders, a swan-like neck, huge, half-closed eyes with long eyelashes, voluminous ash-blond hair and a tiara that looked like it cost a fortune. The woman was so out of place at this simply set inn table that I knew she had to be Mrs. Moses. I had never seen a woman like her, except in glossy magazines and maybe at the movies.
The owner, who had a tray in his hand, skirted the table on his way towards me. On this tray was a crystal glass glowing with an eerie blue liqueur.
“Trial by fire!” he announced when he reached me. “I’d grab something spicy.”
I did what he said. I made myself a plate of olives and caviar. I looked at the owner and added a pickle. Then I looked at the liqueur and squeezed half a lemon over the caviar. Everyone was watching me. I took a glass, exhaled (there went another couple musty offices and corridors) and poured the liqueur into my mouth. I shuddered. Everyone was looking at me, so I shuddered only on the inside, and bit off half the pickle. The owner grunted. Simone also grunted. Mrs. Moses said, in a crystalline voice, “Now there’s a real man.” I smiled and tucked the second half of the pickle into my mouth, bitterly regretting the fact that there were no melon-sized pickles available. “Cool!” the kid said distinctly.
“Mrs. Moses!” the owner said. “Allow me to introduce Inspector Glebsky.”
The ash-blond tower at the head of the table swayed slightly, the extraordinary eyelashes rose and lowered.
“Mr. Glebsky!” the owner said. “Mrs. Moses.”
I bowed. I would have gladly doubled over, my stomach was hurting so much, but Mrs. Moses smiled, and I soon started to feel better. Turning away shyly, I finished off my appetizers and started on the soup. The owner sat me across from the Barnstokers, putting Mrs. Moses to my right—too far away, unfortunately—and to my left—unfortunately too close—Simone the dull fool, who looked ready at any moment to let loose with his ghoulish laughter.
The owner directed the table’s conversation. We talked about mysterious and unknown things—to be precise, about the strange events that had been happening at the inn over the last couple of days. Since I was new to this, they filled me in on the details. Du Barnstoker confirmed that, as a matter of fact, two days ago he had lost a pair of shoes, which were discovered that evening in the inn’s museum. A chuckling Simone explained that someone had been reading his books, most of which were on scientific topics, and making notes in the margins. The majority of them were utterly ignorant. The owner, overcome with pleasure, mentioned what had happened today with the lit pipe and the newspaper, adding that he was certain someone wandered the building at night. He had heard them with his own ears, and one time even saw a white figure making its way across the hallway from the front door to the stairs. Mrs. Moses willingly confirmed these reports, adding that yesterday night someone had been staring at her through the window. Du Barnstoker likewise seconded the fact that someone roamed the building at night, but added that he thought it was only good old Kaisa—at least, that’s what he thought. The owner remarked that this was completely impossible, while Simon Simone bragged that he slept like the dead and didn’t hear a thing at night. Nevertheless, he had noticed twice already that his ski boots were constantly wet, as if someone were running around in them in the snow at night. To amuse myself, I chimed in with the story of the ashtray and the St. Bernard, at which point the kid hoarsely announced to everyone that it, the kid that is, had nothing in general against all this weirdness, it was used to such hocus-pocusy stuff, but couldn’t stand it when strangers decided to lay down in its, that is the kid’s, bed. Upon saying this it pointed its sunglasses fiercely in my direction, making me glad that I had only just arrived today.