“Who is this Mr Aboleo?” — “Who, indeed!”

No, of course not – I thought to myself – it only seemed to me.

Happily getting out of the house, I saw my friends on duty in front of the house.

What could I say to Clem, when I saw him cold and looking as though he felt like taking a leak? Paying off and getting to a warm place as soon as possible was the very best thing we could do. The three of us went towards the place where our fourth was on duty in the mist.

But he was not there.

He was nowhere about. The main entrances of the houses were lightless and locked; not a single person around at the moments. Presently, it was clear that Gustav-Fredrik Silis, the partner of the detective Podaletsky, disappeared without leaving a trace.

"Too bad," Podaletsky said under his breath, or rather under his blond walrus moustache.

"You said he was a drunkard," I said.

"He needed the job." Podaletsky passed his hand across his forehead underneath his hat low over his eyes.

The mist spread chill. We felt utterly at a loss about our companion. Not a single person around to be asked. Only the bare teeth of the lamplight in the still street. To make the matter worse, according to newspapers, the crime wave increasing. I voiced my thought, remembering of the crimes which I happened to learn from newspapers. The series of undiscovered murders, when tramps were found dead. What about the Black Tulips Murders? The tulips Black Monk. Four tulips. Finally, I recalled the Bounty Hunter Story, when an unknown man, who remained unidentified, was found dead and beheaded. The head was found later, by chance, at a railway station, in a doctor's old sack, where there was a copy of Livlandisches Kochbuch, the local cook book.

My companions knew of the enumerated cases. In reply, Podaletsky said, by the way, that the famous House-Murderer was located nearby, down the street. The old building was named House-Murderer after several passers-by died stricken by heavy pieces of mascarons and other outside stucco work fallen from the handsome height. Several deaths, caused by a house. But Mr Silis was not a little thing to worry about. Then Clem and I paid off, and we parted company with our third.

My report about my talk with Aboleo was brief and strictly to the purpose. Clem was surprised that it took me the lot of time to learn so little.

Abed, I tossed and turned, unable to sleep. Kornelis Aboleo's face altering with his sentences was on my mind:

"...those, who love death like others love slumber, die as though falling down on a big soft bed of lotus petals."

"I abolish death."

"...the undead don't wish total destruction to humankind. For humans is food. Moreover, the undead is the only species that wishes to benefit humankind by showing the way in which one should disregard death."

"I don't want to abolish illiteracy. It's easy to rule the illiterate ones."

"...my intention is returning something vetustate abolesco."

"Mirrors of obsidian can reflect the undead."

I got out of the bed, found my notebook and wrote down the sentences and all events of the day. Then, abed, again, with my head heavy which could be a reason why weird visions rose before my mind's eye.

His golden eyes shining, brighter, brighter. The golden light seemed to engulf every thing in his room and next, transforming every thing and controlling in my bedroom. All looked important and inevitable; all seemed to serve to this light, the eyes and Aboleo himself. Aboleo seemed to be everywhere. But for this golden light, I could think that his eyes admired the produced impression. Apparently asleep, I felt benumbed with my limbs leaden, but everything around vibrated, and the vibration slipped into a ringing melody.

The melody snaked over my breast, reached my neck, and twined around it, like a thread of silk. Tightening, the thread strangulated my breath. A fume of ylang-ylang. It got warmer, warmer. Some brassy sounds and a weird chant faded in, from somewhere --

"…through the light and sound…

Be up…

Be up…

Be up to…"

Gulping for air, I opened my eyes and saw a dove-coloured cloud appearing at the window. Puffing, the cloud got red and golden sparkled, then iridescent, then peacock blue. The cloud changed, turning into a human figure.

The man was wearing a sheer tunic, gold embroidered, rather long. The man's armlets, wristlets and diadem were golden too. The man was young, and he could look like Kornelis Aboleo if it were not for his clothing, rouged mouth and penciled eyelids.

Gulping for air, I looked upwards and saw the blue sky overhead. Bright green grass swaying in a wind around me. The vision of nature gave me strength for an effort; my hand reached my neck and freed me from the silk thread.

The dark bedroom again. The man's cruel grin opened his pomegranate lips, and they spat out --

"Be up to…

Be up to…

Be up to... -- …barbe d'un loup!"

Hiss.

Rub-a-dub, and the brassy sound was heard again.

I felt giddy, like over a chasm, and then – darkness.

It was daybreak, when I opened my eyes. I was on the floor, cold and leaden-headed. Seeing my bed and the room in the flat of the Lisnyaks, I felt confused and only the fact that I slept alone was consoling. Getting up, I was about to have a glass of water, but I saw the decanter and glass broken on the floor.

"Barbe d'un loup." A ruff? The collar worn by the Elizabethans as well as clowns today. How silly… Remembering the night kaleidoscope of colour and pattern, I named my dreamful slumber a sheer consequence of my last night agitation, and yet I found my notebook to write down something.

No whirl of senses, but I remembered what I heard in reply to my question to my abuser from my childhood, "Humans fear time, and time fears me." Rereading the weird sentence, I felt surprised how it could slip my memory. "But I was a child on the day of the abuse. Either Aboleo was the abuser or not, I was but a child." Finally, I rubbed my forehead and temples with eau-de-Cologne and dozed.

Clem had hang-over, because he took too much cognac for good sleep. Seeing each other at table, we both looked pale and exhausted. Our lamentable state needed refreshment, which seriously delayed our departure.

When in the train -- eventually, on the way to Clem's home Estate, to his mother -- I took out the cream-wove paper scroll, the manuscript, which the author gave me, last night.

It proved to be incomplete and rather a typescript. The jest-book by "L'Endelel," the most interesting author of some bagatelles. Today, I have a copy of the book, which has all the humorous stories collected, that's why I can adduce all the stories of the author in my Notes. Part One has all the humorous stories mentioned above in my Notes. Part Two is titled "Histoire Restante."

The book or research -- which could be named "study in golden and black" – made a deep and fine impression and caused suspicion that the author happened to hear all the jokes by his own ears from those personages, being an eyewitness of the enumerated events.

On the way to the Lesyinesmagi Estate, when we were in the carriage, we saw Mr Simenon, who went to the railway station. We stopped our carriage to say hello to him and ask about our Hippolite, his pupil.

Everything was all right at home; the teacher was let go on the occasion of the landlady's return.

"What, Mr Simenon," I said, "you don't fear the murderer, who's prowling about? Do you remember the murder of the Negro? Have you heard anything new of the case?"

Wiping his forehead and nape with his handkerchief, Mr Simenon smiled and said, "They say, the Negro's death was accidental."

The forensic detective and expert reviewed the medical files in regard to the death, and stated that the results showed that the Negro singer from America lost his life by accident, unhappily falling from the tree while trying to get out of the fence by climbing the nearby tree and he got his throat pierced with the tip of the iron fence. Crikey!

I said, "Little wonder, the case is burked."

Mr Simenon slammed his hat on his head, and said, "And the unhappy Baron never escaped from the lunatic asylum, because he was not about do it, staying there quiet and meek."

So, the Baron, the Negro hater and main suspect, remained under custody. What the locals would say now?

We and he passed by each other, and Clem remarked that he never loved Mr Simenon too much.

I said, "Some Belgians trill the sound 'R', just like the French."

"No," Clem said, "There is something other about the old man." Clem sighed before switching the conversation, "Mother's home, at long last, what a kind relief! No more investigations or quests! So tired of all the problems. Tired of all those people, who I had to meet and inquire, those negotiators, Aboleos, Magnhuses and others… Confound them all, at long last!" He noisily sighed again and stretched himself with relish as far as the rocking carriage permitted.

I kept a deep-felt silence: really, the young man had taken a lot of lumps while doing what could be called his private investigation.

As Clem rushed in the manor-house he saw his mother going to meet him in the inner porch.

Afterwards, he said to me that he instantly noticed a change in his mother's look and manner though she was dressed in the sad colours as usual. A great gold clasp on her dark silk clad breast. She looked strikingly younger now than before, and he felt displeased, not realizing why. And I said that a reason could be the obvious fact that the change was quite unnatural.

"Mama!" Clem said, holding her hands in his and watching her new, youngish face, "Doctor Talvik told about all."

"About all?!!" she said.

"About the reason of your… leaving us."

"Ahh… Clement-Theophile!" she said, "I want you for a talk." Her voice didn't change, moreover, it sounded older now than before; when she began talking, her manner was quite of an old woman, which impression was outlined with her discreet hairdo.

"What, money question?" Clem said.

She sighed, "Money and our household."

He said, "Later on, all right?"

Coffee was served in the dining-room with curtained windows and lights on, as we could see, entering the room. Three guests at the table. Two clean-shaven gentlemen and a red-haired man with thick facial hair a la Emperor Franz Joseph I of Austria. Seeing the red-haired man, Clem would dash to come on the man but for my hand which clutched his. Taking my meaning, Clem took a hold on himself, and he had been holding out as best he could, till the end of the diner, which was not fated to be long.

Introduction. The red-haired man was Taylor the negotiator.

One of the clean-shaven representatives of bohemia said, "Greetings Mr Graf!.. Greetings, Mr Lisnyak!.. It seems to me that we happened to see each other lately among the guests at the Chest Tournament."

Indeed, I could see him or his mates there. One of new friends of my Aunt, he looked like the notorious protagonist of "The Man of Mode, or Sir Fopling Flutter", John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester. His name was Bruno Schwarzwälder; I recalled the advertisement --

Théâtre de l'Ambigu-Dramatique

HERNANI -- pantomime, tragicomedy in three acts

LE PAVILLON D'ARMIDE -- pantomime, a one-act romantic drama

RUY BLAS -- tragedy

OMPHALUS -- tragedy

on the bottom, the name: "Administrator Bruno Schwarzwälder."

He said that the Théâtre de l'Ambigu-Dramatique had changed the name to Theatre des noctambules on the occasion of settling in the countryside building in Est-Toila. He said that his friend, an actor too, was to come later today.

I felt indifferent today to any actors' presence. Meanwhile, the generous hostess regaled her guests with tea and sandwiches, and the guests regaled her with commonplaces about weather and stale jokes. Given a piece of cake, plenty for me, and a cup of hot coffee, I looked at the cake and saw it was Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte, in other words, Black Forest cake.

Several layers of chocolate cake, with whipped cream and cherries between each layer. The cake was decorated with whipped cream, cherries and chocolate shavings. Kirschwasser, the cherry liquor, was added to the cake. Schwarzwälder the cake -- Schwarzwälder the actor. Funny. Nobody at the table seemed to notice this coincidence. Placing a cherry from the top of the cake to my mouth, I thought to myself, "Coincidences and mazes everywhere."

In the meantime, the Cake-Man was asked to say once again what he told before our coming, and it was not a joke. They in the theater put a play into rehearsal and a female part had to be taken by one of actors. A reason was that the actress, who performed as the heroine, lost her life lately. The death was accidental. At the rehearsal, she came up to the footlights, and her light dress burst into flame. She ran, being hardly caught and pelted with rugs – but it was too late. Her breast and sides were deadly burnt.

"What about other actresses?" Kasimir-Theodor said.

Schwarzwälder, the man and not the cake, said, "Actually, our group of actors is rather small, and the late actress was our only." Then he said that the only young thing whose look permitted to take her part was the actor of the name of Valerian Anselm de Noitre, the very one who was to come later. "Acting as the girl, he's the prettiest damn one anybody's ever seen."

De Noitre. Stage-name, most likely.

The red-haired man mumbled something with a bow to the hostess, while wiping his mouth with a napkin, then he rose and turned to the hostess to make his bow.

Remembering something, after Mr Taylor left, I said, "I remember one de Noitre whose story I happened to hear from his grandnephew Étienne de la Roche; it's interesting. A man of convivial and amorous habits, the rest of his life he had to live in his remote estates, lonely and quiet. The family chronicle kept the memory of him infamous."

"De Noitres are many, you know, as well as de la Roches," Bruno Schwarzwälder said, looking either touched or absent-minded. He said he had a recent story about Valerian de Noitre, their art and Linus Yavorrsky, who was his mate at the table. Perhaps, it was what made the Cake-Man look absent-minded. Virtually, it was a story of Linus Yavorrsky who became a member of the Théâtre de l'Ambigu-Dramatique recently, thanks to some extraordinary circumstances. The teller named the circumstances "romantic."

One day, in the past summer, in Berlin, Bruno Schwarzwälder spent time sitting on a bench Treptower Park alongside the river Spree. A man sat down on the bench. A while later, Schwarzwälder heard the man turning to him, "Bruno Schwarzwälder! You seem to have become too absent-minded. Don't you recognize me?"

"What's happened to you, Linus? You are so pale, so ragged!"

In virtue of the mentioned impression, which was striking, Bruno invited his old friend Linus Yavorrsky, who was accountant by trade, to meal at a restaurant.

To make the long story short, Schwarzwälder accidently saw and read a note, which his old friend dropped from the pocket before leaving for the gentlemen's room. The note said:

"Sir. We regard the money question as quite acceptable for us.

34, *** Street, Apt 2. At 9 p.m. The state, invariable for you, is appointed.

The event will take place in the proper setting and with the most pleasant assembly."

No signature. Enigmatic. He began questioning Linus Yavorrsky who looked highly confused seeing the note in somebody else's hand. Driven into the corner by life as well as his table-mate's questioning, Linus told about dire straits: his illness, illness of his wife, dismissal, poverty and the bargain with the Boost Incorporated. The money was not cover on death. It was something much worse.

"You are kidding!" Bruno Schwarzwälder said, hearing all about the notification.

"No," his old friend said, "I did send a query to the Boost Incorporated, saying that I want to shoot at myself and I can do it on camera, selling my true suicide scene for 50 000. Rumours had it that the Boost dealt in bargains of the sort. The notification is about acceptance. What's wrong, Bruno? I was about to kill myself, at any rate. The husband, who can't afford medicines for his ill wife, is worth being sold and killed."

50 000. Linus needed the money for his ill wife. But he was not about to pass away with no assurance. He should not stay in, lest his wife suspected something was wrong. The day he spent rambling through the streets, agitated so much that he did not think of food. He began thinking of afterlife, but… he glanced at his companion on the bench and recognized his old friend Schwarzwälder who did not recognize him at first.

Listening to his friend's story, Bruno Schwarzwälder said, "You are fool! And the gentlemen from the Boost are mere felons! No, you are not going to them. I won't let you go!"

"And I want my well-being to my family."

"Well… all right. Give me the address of those tramps. They don't know how you look like, do they? Somebody else can take your place before the camera."

"But the man will die!"

"It's none of your business. At any rate, we, you and I, are dining at Del Monaco's, tomorrow."

"But… what about… the money…"

"Linus Yavorrsky!" Bruno Schwarzwälder always kept his word and his friend's suspiciousness looked offensive to him. In the pouts, he spent a moment silent, and then Linus had to reply to his final question, "Arranged?"

"All right," Linus said, "It's all arranged. But how could the substitute of mine shelter himself?"

"By an expedient. No kidding, Linus Yavorrsky! Address… Merci. Au revoir!" Bruno looked at his watch, "Only several hours remain. Go home, keep calm and start your To Buy First List."

The old friends parted company.

Losing Schwarzwälder's sight, Linus bethought asking himself how he could agree to Bruno's offer. Bruno could be mistaken about all the matter.

At home, Linus said that he failed seeking a job and he lay down on the bed.

It was dark, when the doorbell rang, waking him.

When he came, the door had been closed again. His wife was standing with a parcel in hand. Looking shocked, she said that she opened the door and saw a stranger, who said, "Are you Mme Yavorrsky?.. This parcel is for you." Giving the parcel and an envelope, the messenger left sooner than she came to herself. The message said:

"Madame. Your husband committed suicide before eyes of his old friends whose name are of no importance to you. Please, accept my regrets and the money (50 000) as my personal donation to you, the widow of my friend. His corpse is taken to the Hospital ***."

No signature.

Staring at her husband, the woman said feebly, "Dear!.. I'm unwell. The money… Your death…"

Catching the dropped note, Linus read it, and then he felt smitten with the thought of the death of Bruno or Bruno's friend.

No other explanation of the money. Trying to bring his wife round, he feverishly thought of Bruno Schwarzwälder, but the doorbell ringing made him dash to the door.

It was Bruno Schwarzwälder in person. Linus threw his arms round Bruno's neck.

Bruno told how he managed all the shocking and dubious matter. Firstly, he shared the story of Linus with his friend -- the very actor, who was to come to the Lisnyaks later, whose name was Valerian de Noitre -- they held a conference and designed a trick. The excellent actor De Noitre volunteered to go for acting as the victim for the Boost Incorporated.

When the camera stopped, the lying suicide moved, sat up and openly yawned. The two criminals at the camera stared at him in horror.The actor said, "Stop goggling at me. The side of my head hurts though. If you believed in my death, people will do, all the more." He bowed like he took a bow to spectators and left as he was in the costume.

The story-teller finished; I thought, "... and so, torture and murder for fun and profit. Cinematograph is becoming a sort of Roman circuses, today." In Spain, I saw a matador being killed, which was filmed too. In the drama No Place Like Home, an actor was drowned, which was filmed. Give free play to them, and film-makers will arrange a massacre or armed conflict and camera-men begin chasing duelists. "Boost Incorporated…" I said, "It looks like the technological progress gives birth to new vampires."

"Rather, leeches from show-business," Schwarzwälder said.

I permitted myself some ranting, by saying, "There what have we come to, with our devices, steamers, atomic chemistry, emancipation and futurism! Apropos, according to legends, vampires are the unhappiest things who have to care about their food all along, constantly, or else they are helpless. Luckily, neither I nor you are like the suckers. Thank you for the story, Mr Schwarzwälder. Nice to know that happy endings are possible in real life. How's your wife, Mr Yavorrsky?"

"She died," Linus Yavorrsky said.

"So sorry…"

"That's all right."

Kasimir-Theodor said, "Her illness was too serious?"

"Not exactly. Convalescent, she lost her life accidently. One day, alone in her room, late at night, she unhappily fell from her bed."

"Doctors could not help?"

"Nobody could help, because… she fell, her neck on scissors."

The poor woman fell on scissors and got her throat deadly cut. I said, "Did she bleed to death?"

"Actually, no bleeding . Doctors said it's happens like that, sometimes." The widower talked on the mournful subject evenly and meekly which was a custom in our part of the world.

Aunt Leticia said, "Hope she had time to enjoy the money?"

"Yes, she had. Three days, in all."

This last about the happy ending of the Film and Money Story sounded too sad.

I said, "What kind of a costume the actor had on?"

"Teniers costume," Schwarzwälder said, "The evildoers gave the actor to put on a Teniers costume before filming."

"Perverts," I said, "And what about a way the actor cheated them? Some details?"

"Secrets of the art," Schwarzwälder siled, "The way is totaly belongs to secrets of the art."

"Props, prestige, all that?"

"Yes, micro. In our art, Progress doesn't stand still."

"It never stood still in your art."

Bruno Schwarzwälder switched the conversation, beginning to talk about his theatre, "…We perform shows worldwide. Huge success here in Nyomanland. And the town of Est-Toila proved to be a place hospitable so much that we could find a nice building for our theater. A repertory theater on tour, we are thinking to be a repertory company in residence." He looked round the table-mates with the special look of histrionic inspiration as though he was on stage. "Purely commercial success," he added, for some reason, though nobody asked him.

Something familiar was in his latent cheerfulness and cheerful talkativeness. I asked myself what it could be, but…

…our coffee was interrupted by visitors who had nothing to do with a theatre.