23 Scarabs

Inside, leaving the lit table behind and ignoring the glee, in a hurry, I was quick to find our room door. The room seemed pitch dark, and it took my eyes a lingering minute to adjust.

A quiet snore was heard from the bed, where I left Clem. The smell of cider in the air was yet warmer mixing with fumes of another sort of alcohol. Actually, the air was fusty and ill-smelling. Apparently, the boy sent for more drink for himself. I moved towards the chest of drawers in search of a candle, but…

The chest of drawers showed black on the left, peacefully and routinely; the way to it was not long, but at a distance of one step from it, I stepped on something stiff… Something like a stick, a thick stick which slipped out from my boot… A bare bone!

A big picked bone. Slimy to the feel.

Feeling aversion I hardly suppress my wish to throw it to a corner. Dimly delineated at the curtained window, the sofa looked peaceful no longer, but it looked familiar and I went there in order to draw the curtain open, thinking on the way: the wrong room? I didn't believe so, when coming in, besides, I instantly recognised the snore of Clem, so familiar to me, that's why I didn't leave the room, but...

What if my first sensation was wrong? What about the bare bone? Whose bone it was? Should I leave the room as soon as possible? Should I run away and call help? Only the sound of Clem's snoring stopped me, but…

Was it Clem lying on the bed? It's so dark, in the room. What's going on? -- I thought to myself, when I heard… Somebody's deep measured breath from the sofa!

A sleeping man.

Feeling certain about the room no longer, I had been so far onward of my way to the window, the uncanny bone was somewhere on my way to the door, and I needed some light, therefore, I reached to the curtain -- drawing it open carefully, as noiselessly as possible.

Lying on side, the sleeping man looked like a big formless mass. He was dressed, with no coat, his hair was dishevelled and he had a short beard.

Outside the window, a black and white figure flashed by and vanished in the dense shade – apparently, a chambermaid in her white apron. No candle on the top of the chest of drawers – never mind, the dimly lit room looked familiar, and I dashed to the bed.

Clem was on the bed, sleeping but… the boy was not alone!

A bearded elderly man was his bedfellow lying on side, back to him. Another snorter!

Nothing supernatural, at least. Clem was abed, sleeping, as before, and two strangers were evidently humans, senseless but not lifeless, merely drunk, for both of them were positively stinking of alcohol which made the air ill-smelling. Putting two to two together, that is, putting the two beards together, I summed up: Mr Memel and Mr Munich. Our fellow travellers, cheerful and elderly, had arrived.

Most probably, the bearded strangers were Mr Memel and Mr Munich, who we left behind on our way to the Borsky House. What a kind relief! I perched on the sofa arm. The room was allotted for them, and we, Clem and I was settled along with them. Perfectly natural. But I found myself in the most disadvantageous situation. Late at night, in the manor house, which I had had time to forget, with no bed or blanket. The candlestick was on the bedside table. Even if I lit it, even if I woke up my sleeping fellows, a bed for me could be found only with the help of the hostesses, who were somewhere in the big building.

Arriving, Mr Memel and Mr Munich were ushered to their room, saw Clem, and presently, the three of them arranged a spree, sending for food and drinks, and the bare bone was remains of leg of veal or mutton. Perfectly natural again, but… what I was to do? True, the ballroom might be found unoccupied, but I had no blanket. Even if I had a blanket, it would not be enough for spending the night in the cold ballroom. And my clothes should be carefully hang out, for I hate the possibility to look like a tramp wearing crumpled clothes, next day.

Downcast, wishing to see the room in details, infused by the elderly revellers, not in the least, I didn't hasten to light a candle. All I wanted was undressing and going to a warm clean bed, but it proved to be impossible. Taking a bottle from the top of the bedside table I smelled it. Anisette de Bordeaux. No, it's not time to drain the drags.

Wrapped up in slumber, the three snorted. Wrapped in anxiety, I left the room.

A lonely star shone out against the black sky. Some joyful noise at the scanty lit porch.

An excited group gathered around something, discussing something, with Doctor Talvik and Mona making the exultant charivari. Approaching, I saw the centre was a case. An opened suitcase full of packs of cards. Then I was told about the latest happening.

While taking the air, Doctor Talvik and the group of ladies reached the road, and there a carriage-and-three rushed by them and disappeared in the distance. Apparently, the passengers were Russians, since they produced an awful noise, playing accordion and singing a cheerful song. One of the ladies was the first seeing the wild carriage lose something. A case on the moonlit road.

The suitcase should be returned; therefore, it should be brought home and examined in order that some address or names could be found out and read by lamplight. The suitcase was heavy; when the Doctor lifted it, it opened and all the contents fell out. The suitcase was packed again and delivered to the manor. In the light of the porch lamp the examiners could see no names or addresses inside or outside over the suitcase. Nothing but the funny and playful contents: the lot of new packs of cards. Seeing this, Mona wanted to use the cards tonight.

Everyone in rapture, especially the Doctor. Only my reaction cooled their ardour, because I said, "It's a usual trick of shufflers."

Everyone stared at me.

I went on, "They hire a carriage and several men, who are to pretend participants of a spree. The carriage noisily rushes past a country house, where a big reception takes place. The carriage drops a case, as though accidently, before some people's eye. The case gets to hands of the house owners. Unable to return the case, the people open it. It's full of packs of cards. The game begins presently or the next day, no matter. The main thing is that pockets of the guests and landowners are cleaned out at the card playing, because all the cards are marked, and the shufflers are among the guests."

While I spoke, something went out, before my eyes. Afterwards, I understood it was the twinkling eyes of Doctor Talvik. Shrugging his shoulders, downcast, the Doctor kept silence, looking either thoughtful or disappointed.

Mona exclaimed, "Shufflers among our guests?!!"

One of the ladies turned to me, saying excitedly, "Are you about to accuse anybody of us, sir?!"

Oh rustic simplicity! Ah, troika, troika, swift as a bird, driven by a rogue! -- I thought to myself, but a familiar male voice behind my shoulders made me jump, "Mr Graf is right. It's their usual trick."

The familiar upside-down U-shaped moustache, thick and trimmed, and the undone collar of the khaki jacket… Colonel Denesvije.

Colonel Valentine Denesvije, the ex-military man, who lived in Retusari Estate, patrimony of twins von Hahn-Hahn, his far cousins, being officially something like their manager. Looking at his face, I averted my eyes in search of his setter Pish-Tush -- but no, the man was without his dog at the fest. Wearing his khaki jacket with his stand-up stiff collar undone, slightly and quite decently, the man was good-looking, as usual, and lustful for anything that moved his eyes, or it only seemed to me. I both loved his look and hated it, because this mature, attractive look suggested a possibility that the man used females when he was sexually hungry and not males alone. The next reason to hate females.

If he didn't support my exposure, I'd prevent Mona from using the fake cards, anyway. Now, leaving the group to think the matter over, I turned to the Colonel, "I'm homeless tonight."

"No problem," he said, "Come to spend the night at mine."

"Great. But I'm too tired."

"No problem."

Thus, I went to his, that is, to his accommodation at the fest.

On sides of the moonlit alley, some wooden buildings were seen through the trees, charity-schools and homes and building for a possible billeting garrisons. His room was in this last building.

It could not be said that we walked there, hand by hand, because both of us wanted to find a right place to stop and take a leak. Doing it, in a cold breeze, we saw the wanted building through the branchy trees, with leaves wafted along by the breeze.

His room was small yet enough for a bed and sofa, pegs for our clothes, and a night-pot underneath the bed. He did let me sleep myself, but first we made love. He had a flask with cognac about, and we could have our nightcap.

At dawn, I didn't resist when Denesvije's fumbling hands turned me on side. Sleepy, with my mind hazed, I didn't felt refreshed, even more tired, as though doped, therefore the second lovemaking seemed something obscure to me. For my part, it was but a friendly help to the Colonel, and it was not our first time. Really, the handsome man was so hot, so, why not? As much I felt languishing, so much my bedfellow seemed invigorated. Satisfying his own manhood, he satisfied mine. Two middle-aged males, the ex-military man and globe-trotter, we had to subdued our moans and groans with our blanket and pillows.

A reason why we woke the next time was our hunger. Finding myself naked abed with another naked man, I hardly could understand anything, but recognizing the moustache and thin lips of my bedfellow. Today, Denesvije had a white metal chain of amulets on his strong neck. The amulets were a dozen of tiny white metal ikons, crosses and there was a bullet among them, a "Scottish spellbound bullet," as he said, "When my dog is not with me, then, these amulets." Perhaps, every amulet of the necklace was related to a happening or attributable to a luck or protection from a misfortune. We didn't talk much and I could only suppose that he was extremely superstitious. Perhaps, the he-man feared someone's evil eye, Fridays, getting up with his left foot, humpbacks, being the third to light a cigarette, soldiers with eyes of different colours. Superstitious people had a head full of contradictions from their childhood. I felt duteous about Clem, who didn't know where I spent last night and who should get the good news about his mother as soon as possible, so, I hastened to get out of the bed and began dressing.

In addition to my desire to get my morning meal as soon as possible, I wanted to take a bath, or to wash my face and change, at least. Overwhelmed by the "desires," while dressing, in a hurry, I recalled my dream.

Strangely, in my sleep, I saw Doctor Talvik. The Doctor had a big fish on his shoulder in the manner like one had a parrot or a cat on one's shoulder. The fish's grey shark-like body moved in the air like underwater. Seeing me, he pointed at me and aimed the fish at me like a droll gun on his shoulder, and the fish left his shoulder and began moving towards me, my face, slowly in the air. Closer, closer, opening and closing its mouth on the move. The mouth bared teeth, turning into a monster's mouth, maybe, a wolf's. A fish with a mouth like a wolf's. It was ready to chatter teeth at my face, but something made it to pause as though giving me a chance to escape by waking.

Some signs of life were heard in the building. Abed, Denesvije said that the building was full, with the jazz band musicians being among the tenants. We synchronized my Wilsdorf&Davis wristwatch and his Mappin&Webb wristwatch. Afterwards, it seemed ominous to me, since I remembered that while dressing I both awfully hurried and mentally hesitated about spending some time on winding up my watch, thinking of a possibility to go to Clem without knowing the time. Just early in the morning, what about that? And yet, I made my mind and did it. Surprised what an unearthly hour it was, before leaving my casual bedfellow and his room, I stayed a moment longer to ask him about his finger-ring, which interested me since the moment I saw him last night.

Ancient, beautiful, it had a big exquisite engraving. He replied, "Neptune drawn by two sea-horses, cut in beryl. Author: Quinctilius the gem engraver." Enough said. Nice. He asked, as though by the way, "Have you ever heard of one necklace… Necklace of twenty-four scarabs." I said simply no, never heard. He asked me to let know, as soon as I heard of it during my stay in homeland. A necklace of twenty-three scarabs, turquoise and gold, unquestionable ancient. I said why not, thinking it was the next amulet, which the superstitious man wanted to have. Then he gave a piece of advice: if I had an evil-thing, at home, I should try to keep it in my ice-house or ice-box.

The cold morning freshness was quite bearable outside. Clouded sky seemed low and endless. Beauty of autumn is bright, varicoloured. Next, after all leaves fell, the new beauty would come: the clear view of tree trunks with all knots and branches and the clear distance.

The dead leaves stopped rustling underfoot, creating standstill around. Straightening my scarf around my neck to protect my skin from the cold, I felt benumbed like all around. Byron knew this state of mind --

"...Vacancy absorbing space;

and fixednes without a place...

...Silence, and a stirless breath

which neither was of life nor death;

a sea of stagnant idleness,

blind, boundless, mute and motionless!"

But a crow fluttered past low overhead. In my view, crows' behaviour was always worth observing and taking into consideration. The birds were quiet in the parkland, forecasting a nice weather. The knotty greyish trunk of a tree on my right, going skywards, slipped into naked silvery branches. However beautiful, a tree cannot be symmetric; it is the chaos itself in its all splendour. Getting a lungful of the air, I was about to go on walking, but… a scream of terror echoed between trees. The scream sent up a cloud of crows wheeling and crying over the parkland. A centre of the stir seemed to be behind the building, where I spent the night. I turned and hastened there.

A man wearing as a servant, perhaps, a gardener, benumbed, was standing still and staring at a motionless human body hanging on the lanceolate fence. "Brother… Never fear. I am one of the guests of Mme Borsky." Saying my name I had to repeat it several times before it reached the gardener's ears. "Did you cry?" Seeing the shocked gardener had slightly relaxed, I looked at the dead body.

A man's body was hanging back to us, but there was not a rope. High above, the old tree's bough was broken, but there was not a rope either. The dead man's throat was pierced with one of the fence lances Perhaps. The man's red coat and chequered trousers reminded of something familiar… the man's skin… luridly gray.

The dead man was a Negro.