‘Are you not feeling cold, Antoine?’ Erasmus asked. ‘Perhaps a drop of porto with cognac?’
‘But it’s summer outside,’ I said, amazed. I don’t always grasp certain elementary things straight away. ‘Ah … but then … it’s so cool in here. Thick walls, right? Thanks, I’ll gladly take a drop of porto with cognac.’
A look of relief appeared on Erasmus’s face.
‘Why, of course, you’re from Musco … Russia!’ he said delightedly. ‘Drinking in the morning wouldn’t bother you!’
‘It’s almost lunchtime already,’ I said diplomatically, making myself comfortable in the deep leather armchair.
‘Damn the porto!’ Erasmus exclaimed. ‘Fine, old, warm-hearted Irish whiskey!’
Well, after all, three centuries is quite long enough, not only to acquire part of an abbey in the centre of London, but also to become an alcoholic.
From out of a wide sideboard with shelves concealed by little doors of cloudy matt-glass, Erasmus took several bottles. He examined them fastidiously and selected one that had no label at all.
‘A hundred and fifty years old,’ he told me. ‘I have whisky older than that, but that’s not really important. What matters is that in those days petrol engines had not yet polluted nature with their stench, rye was rye, malt was malt and peat was peat … Would you like ice, Antoine?’
‘No,’ I said, mostly out of politeness, in order not to make Erasmus go to the kitchen.
‘Quite right!’ Erasmus said approvingly. ‘Ice is for the uncouth yokels in the colonies. If required, I have pure Irish water …’
He splashed out a tiny drop of whisky for each of us. I touched my lips to the dark, almost black potation.
It tasted as if I had taken a sip from a peat bog.
And then it felt as if I had drunk liquid fire.
Erasmus watched me, chuckling quietly.
‘It takes a bit of getting used to,’ I said, putting down my glass. ‘It’s very … very unusual.’
‘Do you like it?’
‘I can’t say yet,’ I admitted honestly. ‘But I can say one thing for certain – it’s a unique drink. Lagavulin doesn’t even come close.’
‘Ha!’ Erasmus snorted. ‘Lagavulin, Laphroaig – all that’s for pampered modern folk … But you’re forthright, Antoine. I like that.’
‘What point is there in lying to a Prophet?’ I asked, shrugging.
‘Well, what kind of Prophet am I …’ Erasmus said and sipped on his powerful drink, suddenly embarrassed. ‘Just a petty Clairvoyant … Yes, I’ll try to talk in a way that you can understand, but I don’t see people very often – if I seem excessively old-fashioned, please tell me straight away.’
‘All right.’ I picked up the plastic bag I had brought and held it out to Erasmus. ‘The head of the Moscow Night Watch asked me to give you this.’
‘His Eminence Gesar?’ Erasmus asked curiously. ‘And what’s in it?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said.
Erasmus took a small paperknife off the mantelshelf and started opening the bag with the enthusiasm of a five-year-old child who has found his long-awaited present on Christmas morning.
‘How have I merited the attention of the great warrior of the Light …’ Erasmus muttered. ‘And why have I been favoured with a present …’
I realised that the retired Dark Other was playing the fool. But for someone who lived practically locked away from the world in the centre of London, that was an entirely forgivable weakness.
Eventually the package was torn open and its contents displayed on the low coffee table. As I had anticipated, the plastic bag had contained far more than could have fitted into it naturally. There was a litre bottle of vodka – and old vodka at that: the spelling on the label was pre-revolutionary. And there was also a three-litre glass jar, filled with grainy black caviar. Illegal, poached goods – no doubt about it. But then, that was hardly likely to bother Gesar, and it would bother Erasmus even less. And, finally, there was the flower pot that I was used to seeing on the windowsill in the boss’s office. Growing in the pot was a terribly ugly, crooked little tree that any bonsai master would have grubbed up out of pity. I recalled with some embarrassment that during a certain meeting that had dragged on for a long time, when Gesar had said that anyone who wanted to smoke could do so, I’d stubbed my cigarette ends out in the tree’s pot, for lack of an ashtray. And I wasn’t the only one.
Erasmus set the vodka and caviar on the floor without a second glance. Then he placed the pot with the little tree in it at the centre of the small table and sat down on the floor to gaze at this botanical misunderstanding.
The tree stood about fifteen centimetres high. As gnarled as an ancient olive and almost completely bare – there were only two little leaves protruding optimistically from one branch.
Erasmus sat there, looking at the little tree.
I waited patiently.
‘Astounding,’ said Erasmus. He reached for his glass and took a sip of whiskey. He turned the pot slightly and looked at it from a different angle. Then he screwed up his eyes – and I could tell that the old Other was looking at the little tree through the Twilight.
‘You’re not aware of the essential significance of this gift, are you?’ Erasmus asked, without looking at me.
‘No, sir,’ I answered, with a sigh. And suddenly it occurred to me that Erasmus was probably a Sir in the original meaning of the word.
Erasmus stood up, walked round the plant pot and muttered: ‘Well, damn me … Anton, please step back or protect yourself … I’m going to use my powers a bit.’
I thought it best to move back and also put up a Magician’s Shield, taking the glass of whiskey with me, just to be on the safe side. This proved to be the correct decision – it was a quarter of an hour before I moved back to the little table. Erasmus spent all that time tussling with the bonsai. He plunged search spells into the plant, observed it through the Twilight, even withdrawing as far as the third level. He crumbled a pinch of soil from the pot between his fingers and ate it, sniffed at the leaves for a long time – and actually seemed delighted at that: his face lit up, but then he gestured in annoyance and poured himself another whiskey. He spent the last minute standing there, toying with a fireball on the palm of his hand as if he was struggling against the temptation to incinerate the pot and the bonsai, together with the table.
But he restrained himself.
‘I give up,’ Erasmus growled. ‘Your Gesar is truly great … I can’t work out the meaning of his message. Are you sure he didn’t ask you to communicate anything in words?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
Erasmus took off his jacket and threw it across an empty armchair. He sat down in another chair, rubbed his face with his hands and muttered: ‘I’m getting old … Well then, you wished to talk about tigers, Antoine?’
‘Yes, and you were expecting me, Erasmus?’
‘It’s all interconnected …’ he said, still unable to take his staring eyes off the bonsai. Then he said: ‘Antoine, move the plant to the mantelshelf. I’ll deal with it later, try everything I possibly can … I’m sure I’ll be able to solve Gesar’s riddle eventually. But meanwhile I can’t bear to look at it, it annoys me. Tell me, how did you find me?’
‘The story of your childhood is no secret, esteemed Erasmus,’ I said.
‘But it is not so very widely known …’
‘It’s described in a little book that my daughter was reading.’
‘Oh!’ exclaimed Erasmus, keenly interested. ‘Did you think to bring it with you?’
‘Damn,’ I said, embarrassed. ‘You know, somehow it never occurred to me – I could send it to you.’