A Handful of Cherry-Stones

Needless to say that Clem and I were in a hurry too much to discuss anything and that our way out of the station was longer than usual -- but we should be happy that we eventually went out to the city and never were taken to the police station along with some men, more or less suspicious.

In the Lisnyaks' flat we were said that yes, Mme Leticia had been home, but she had left for her Estate, two hours before our arrival. Oops…

Clem and I could do whatever we wanted in the flat. We might hasten to the railway station or take a rest before leaving. But our curiosity was enkindled, and we agreed that we should use the invitation to see Mr Aboleo once again. Really, learning more of the fantastic trick, the trick to the nihilists and bombers, the most dangerous of men in the world, was worth putting off the meeting with Leticia who was said to look quite all right.

Besides, I had some work to do in the city, before the night fell.

When we began changing and brushing up for going out, we saw some tucks of our clothing full of confetti. We were about to go out two hours before of the appointed hour. To thin my pencil, I approached the window in my room. Glancing out of the window, I saw a flyer that now flew in the evening sky, drawing hieroglyphs, now nearly touched the pavement like a fallen leaf in a wind – that moment I saw a lady in black standing opposite the house. Looking and dressed seasonable, the lady might be waiting for somebody's coming: her veiled face did not permit to see more.

Clem had changed his mind to go to Mr Lundstrom, and yet, when we left the flat, outside, we paused to look at the old gentleman's house. The lady in black was nowhere about. No ladies in the street. A landau stopped at the mansion's gate, and it seemed to me that I recognized its occupant. The features of the old gentleman's pale face was so perfect that they easily could be mixed with many others, but for the familiar eyebrow-less profile and silvery moustache underneath the dark silk hat… The King of Cyprus.

The world is small. The visitor was let in the gate of the mansion. Big deal: one old gentleman came to pay a visit to another. Both of them were something like fine art experts, living in a small way, so why not? Apropos, I promised to tell his life story. Here is all I knew of him --

40 to 50 years ago, his name sounded enviable to men and exciting to women. At the court of Napoleon III, King of Cyprus was the most elegant nobleman. Compared with him, the ordinary figure of the Emperor of France paled into insignificance. Virtually, the fact that the King of Cyprus, old, brought to ruin and forgotten, was living the rest of his days in poverty, suggested a cruel consistency. For the dynasty of the Lusignans, dethroned for centuries, robbed of their territory and subjects, robbed of everything with the exception of the title, for this wandering dynasty, the whole world was a "furnished apartment."

The kingdom of Jerusalem-Cyprus, the Crusader kingdom, was ruled by the French House of Lusignan, in the high and late Middle Ages, after the King Richard I Lionheart either sold the kingdom to his relative Guy of Lusignan, the ex-king of Jerusalem, or simply gave the territory as a gift. But the dynasty was homeless for the last 6 centuries. The Lusignans got married to princesses from mighty homes; princesses from their own home got married to foreign princes and dukes; but the connections gave nothing more substantial than a decorative gloss. The Lusignans used hospitality of the old castles in Italy, France, Austria, but again, those gothic buildings, with the museum-pieces, were but the next gilded "furnished apartments." The grand scale and royal appetite with no money, therefore, the castles passed to hand of the overseas rich men, European bankers and other merchants, and the Lusignans knocked about the world, throwing somebody else's money around – donations and charity from friendly courts – wearing the beautiful uniform of somebody else's armies and diplomatic corpses, fighting under foreign flags, defending interests of foreign cabinets. It looked like a perdition looming over the old European dynasty. From time to time, the mighty relatives gave a small, vacant or new-made throne to one of the Lusignans -- which implied thousands of subjects, power, crown, marshal, army-generals and army of his own – but at the last moment: frustration. Either the other, more worthy abeyance was found, or the freedom-loving people of the small country declared republic and the Lusignans were driven out. The perdition seemed looming large, but the last of the Lusignans was luckiest of all his predecessors.

In the late 1860s, the Empress Eugenia, favourably disposed towards the King of Cyprus and Jerusalem, appointed him ruler of a South American small republic. The cheerful careless widower, he left for the republic where he went as though to a picnic, with his retinue of several high ranking seekers of adventure who were appointed to honorable position at the new court. They went by a French battle-cruiser. The swarthy people of the small coastal country, speaking a Spanish dialect, had been loyal to their King while the formidable cruiser with cannonry erect towards the main city stayed in the roads – for 4 weeks. The Franco-Prussian War burst out, and the cruiser left for the French shore. The swarthy mulattoes stirred up a rebellion, slaying the retinue and guard of honour. The King was saved by a miracle, in disguise, plunging down in water. Only on board of a Spanish merchant ship, Lusignan felt more or less in safety. In two months, after disembarkation in Marseilles, he took command over a squadron of zouaves, then he courageously fought against the Germans, got wounded and became a chevalier de la Légion d'Honneur. His only son, Prince Ludovico died young, in the 1880s, when fighting against the Zulus.

As time went by, in society, the interest to Jacques de Lusignan, the last of kings of Cyprus, was fading out. His crown-bearing friends' bounty became less; a little more and he became half-starving, because the only work he knew was crown-bearing. Gold glided, like thawing snow, from his hand. The careless King began incurring debts – till his creditors stopped trusting him.

He could sell his ribbons and medals, for some of them were so exotic, and there were lots of numismatists and collectors of orders and medals, especially among bankers and parvenus. The Lusignans, the lackland kings with no subjects, still had the time-honoured right, acknowledged by all the rest powers, the right to award the Order of Blessed Justinian. The white enamel cross with gold on the red silk ribbon was one of most impressive neck orders. The King of Cyprus was highly selective conferring the Order of Justinian, and he refused selling the Cross of Justinian, once and for all, reckoning this kind of trade low and disgraceful.

Society got tired of him, news stars, much brighter, were rising, and his waned – he went out of fashion. Not because the King of Cyprus was too notorious, annoying or importunate – far from it. He was proud, that very king and very gentleman. Tall, always in good trim, with silvery hair, clean-shaven chin and silvery straight moustache. But society doesn't forgive anybody's longevity. If anybody lives too long, society forgets of him, burying his name in oblivion in his lifetime. People did it to the King of Cyprus. The old man, who used to shine in Tuileries, being a polonaise partner to the Empress Eugenia, desirable guest in castles of dukes and kings, a month-long ruler in the South American republic, spending millions, was living the rest of his life in furnished apartments. He lived on milk, boiled carrots, eggs and cereals. Cheap, healthy, and clean.

Highly selective to friendship, in the hotel, where I first saw him, the last of Lusignans granted his friendship to one old lady, one elderly gentleman and me, "un demi-homme des lettres", reckoning us people of his circle. We talked in French and Italian. Time glided away. The King was a living chronicle of the European royal life for the last several decades. What had he not told about… About his friendship with Duke d'Aumale, son of Louis-Philippe, about his military service in Algeria with the Duke, about the customs at the court of Napoleon and Eugenia, about his relationship with Duke de Morny and Count Walewski. With humour, he described his 4-week reign in the costal nook of South America, calling his guardsmen "my praetorians". His description of the revolutionists, bloody revolt with fires, gunshots and the slaughter was so vivid. Personally I learned some curious facts about the Franco-Prussian War hitherto unknown to me. To crown the impression, his storytelling was illustrated by old documentary evidence: yellowish papers, time-faded photographs, soft water-colours, subtle miniatures on ivory and porcelain, old manuscripts written on parchment – all what survived from the fairy-like past. In the old pictures we could see the King in different moments of his long life. In a water-colour, he was an angel-like child in laces and cambric. In the other, he was a young man dressed in the fashion of the late 1840s. In the next group of photographs, he was among army generals and monarchs… His portraits depicted de Lusignan wearing now the Italian army uniform now the French, now, and finally, the uniform, which could be called his native, made for his appearing before eyes of his South American subjects. The foreign ribbons, stars and medals all over his chest, bicorne hat with white plume. He said, with a smile, "Tutto indorato, the uniform looked much like from a vaudeville, maybe, but those yellowish-gray savages must be impressed. They could accept only all colourful, pretentious and kitschy."

Becoming good friends with the elderly gentleman, de Lusignan loved talking with him so much that he proffered to confer the Order of Blessed Justinian on him. The elderly gentleman heartily thanked. His refusal could be a most tactless action ever; moreover, it could be cruel. "I shall grant the patent…" de Lusignan said, "As for the award itself… I'll write to Paris, and they'll send it." With that, he found a sheet of parchment among his paper and began carefully writing in French a patent, which began traditionally and properly:

"We, Jacques IV, by the Grace of God, of Cyprus and Jerusalem and of His other Realms and Territories King, confer the Order of Blessed Justinian on the nobleman -- "

Turning pale, with a frozen face, the elderly gentleman kept silence. The point was that the elderly gentleman was a scholar but not a nobleman. We kept silence too. Why to rob the old man of the pleasure to give this award, perhaps, last in his lifetime? Let the King have the fun. Let the old man have the illusion, one more illusion – he had lost most of them, so beautiful and ephemeral.

My thank you note and payment to Podaletsky I delivered to him personally, because I wanted him and his detective agency's service. Next, at the post office, I sent a telegram to my Julian.

Clem and I needed a quantum of consolation, and we went to La Belle Chocolatière cafe for refreshment. Next, we went to the cinema to while away the time and for distraction.

Cinema Parisiana. The movie ANGEL OF LOVE, MONSTER OF JEALOUSY. While watching the main character of the movie, a dumb girl, who became a ballet dancer, I got immersed in thoughts of my own, for really, the starlets, whose images in the post-card pictures could be confused with each other, never could catch my fancy.

In my young age, I had got a twist in my mind, so-called sense of irony, which dubious attainment helped to see all the weak and funny points and hypocrisy of the state, religious and family traditions in society. Spending a while in England, I had become reasonable enough not to leave all of the traditions and the life helped me to become a good pretender. I believed that I learned what to do when our mind was required something more than our mocking observation, when of two possible solutions we had to choose one, and at the awkward moments when we were utterly at a loss. Life taught me not to trust my own sense of superiority, not to create illusions for myself, and to get rid of the habit to examine every intention on my mind and seek a reason of my own every action, which habit could be unbearable for me as well as others. Now, by my early forties, I realized all the chaos of the world, regardless of aspirations and urge towards discipline and order. By my early forties, I forbade my own thoughts of the fact that I was to die as a human; I quitted the thoughts of my own death – like an inconsiderate boy. Not exactly, since I think of it now when writing this. Anyway, one's artificial indifference to one's death is often like a perfectly made dress for a man with a badly set, ugly body. Hiding the physical defects, covering up one's thin parenthetic legs and sunken breast, the dress cannot free of the essential: one's eternal, chilling fear of death. Out-of-body experience.

The out-of-body look of the main personages on the screen, both male and female, was to stir our imagination, depict the heat of the sleepless night passions and suggest the movie-maker's intention to unveil some eternal mysteries before our eyes. Laughable.

Next, the movie BARON MUNCHAUSEN'S DREAM, I happened to see the movie in Paris -- Les Aventures de baron de Munchhausen – a year earlier, in November, when it was released by the famous filmmaker Georges Méliès. I always appreciated this book. The cherry stone -- a handful of cherry-stones -- Munchausen shot a cherry stone at a deer, and later a cherry tree grew between the antlers. A deer with a cherry tree on its head. Blazonry.

So, Magnhus called the fantastic explosion "Aboleo's latest trick". Then I asked myself, if the sending my old, almost destroyed topi could be regarded as someone's trick. Was it one of Aboleo's tricks? On the day, when I saw the topi in the box, I was far from regarding it as a mere trick, because the unexpected emergence of my old topi, earlier lost in the ocean of verdure, looked truly supernatural.

So, a skilful trickster, no more. The tricksters have wits, but their wit is of the static sort that it's rather their power to know and use somebody else's helplessness than their true strength. Nowadays, we know a lot of tricksters like he, and all their performances are too kitschy and mundane to be quite fit into what Claude Adrien Helvétius softly remarked about. Translation is mine --

"…In society, we regard only the funny side of Superstition, but Superstition has rooted dip in minds and hearts, and the philosophy, which doesn't take it into consideration, is worth being called shallow and bold. Nature didn't doom Human to agriculture and procreation alone, and Human has the constant and inanimate relations with others minding something more than a mere need alone. There are other important relations between individuals. No human, who never felt an inexplicable and indefinable agitation while contemplating the endless skyline or walking along a plage and contemplating the sea-waves or while looking upwards and contemplating the star-spangled sky. At the moments, some voices seem to descend from the heaven and cliffs, whispering with the aid of the noise of waterfalls and the rustle of forests, or ascend from depths of chasms. Something prophetic is in the heavy flight of a raven, in a plaintive cry of a night bird, or in a distant growl of beasts. All what is not cultivated by fine arts and what is not subjected to the fastidious power of Human corresponds to his heart completely. Dumb are only the things, which he made or arranged for his usage. But the things got their own enigmatic life after time destructs their utility. Touching them with his mighty finger, Destruction restores their relation with Nature. New buildings keep silence; ruins are eloquent. The World talks to Human in an unspeakable language heard from his heart, from the part of his being unknown to himself, which language works with both wit and feelings. Could we conclude that this coming of the visible and palpable Nature in the innermost area of Humankind means something mysterious? Could the innermost vibration, which can be a display of all hidden from us in everyday life, have neither reason nor meaning? Consciousness alone cannot explain it. For Consciousness, this inconceivable substance vanishes. That's why it belongs to Poesy. Painted by Imagination, it finds every respondent heartstring. The fortune-telling, stargazing, scrying with mirrors or glass orb, dream-seeing, predictions, all the dim shades of the future, around us, are known to all countries, centuries and religions. Lots of people listen to something vague what they believe a voice of fate before beginning something truly important in their life. In a sanctuary of one's thoughts, each of us interprets the voice to the best of his abilities, and each of us keeps silence about it when talking with others, because no words for expressing to others what exists only for an individual."

Next, Helvétius is right, saying, "…Thanks to the unquestionable dissemination of enlightening ideas, the last remains and most tenacious traces of the previous barbarian time and morals are gradually effacing, and the terrible medieval heritage with the series of pitiable superstitions, whose yoke is oh so known to all nations and states of Europe, make way for common sense."

And so, why supernatural? Poesy alone. Or tricks of our imagination and lack of information.

Today, I am not sure.

As we left the cinema, it seemed to me that I saw the same lady in black among the people, the black hat swirled with tulle and the veiled face, but I disabused my mind and returned to my thoughts about some precautions against something vague which my suspiciousness could dimly suggest.

By my design, the four of us were to go to St Benedict Street: Podaletsky and his partner in his detective agency, who I hired earlier that day, Clem and me. To Aboleo's, I was about to go alone, and my three companions were to remain outside awaiting my return. Two of them, Clem and Podaletsky were to wait openly, before the house main entrance; Podaletsky's partner Mr Silis was to be at a distance from the two and watching them secretly, just in case, ready to see a signal of distress or hear their call.

The night mist permitted the ex-impresario Silis to keep a respectful distance from the main entrance. In the misty night, the corner of the city looked like London more than ever. Today, recalling all about it, I regard the main entrance of the apartment building in St Benedict Street as a portal to the legendary Malpertuis, the Fox' den.

At the threshold of the portal, our lively human spirit pauses, shades of secret impulses are brought together in a single powerful surge, our consciousness leaves all colorations of the past and begins dream-seeing. The Fox is cunning and sinister, but unlike a wolf, he doesn't let his fangs be on view. Actually, nothing striking. His fiery skin, fleetingly tracing the dusk, is not shuddering in a banal way, but it gives a sense of yearning and angst that makes you see the entire oddity of the dusk that engulfs you regardless of your mind, and the oddity of the thickets, where you wander out of your way, believing that you've not strayed -- denying the obvious and believing that you keep on walking on a beaten path. The precinct Malpertuis is forbidden to young adults. Does it mean that the Fox is antagonistic to youths? Laughable. But the genre of fantasy, in the Fox' view, is so sharpened that a little more and it gets worn down. Those trite metaphors and ideas, beaten turns and predicable endings. Unlike those who love the standing dish, the Fox wants caviar to the general, if not singularity -- contrary to the commonplace and habitual. He welcomes a wild, gaudy and branchy style. The plots in the mystery and horror fiction are few, that's why he appreciates every attempt to flesh out some abstractions. He loves gothic and decadence; either is to his taste, but… Is there any use to stay at the threshold? Come in and give your eyes some time to get adjusted to the mysterious light from dark sources. You'll be rewarded by contemplation of wondrous, hitherto unknown objects.

Anyway, in reply to my ringing, a livery servant opened the door.

The manservant's face was goggled, he had a white wig on, and his rich livery was yellow and black -- the colours of the Russian Empire flag as well as House of Hohenzollern, which could be a mere coincidence, a nice combination of colours, no more. The entry was dim and the apartment was perishing cold, which was familiar to me and far from encouraging. Like the dwelling in Red Abbey Road, this place could give bad vibrations to anyone; an instant tingle made me think of that as I was led through several shady rooms lit by the moonlight alone. Now, I found myself in a room with a blazing fireplace.

The fire alone lit the carved panelled walls and furniture, flickering over the glossy floor, and playing in crystals of the lamp-brackets. The red embers crumbled in the blaze, crepitating, letting go blue and yellow flames and emitting a smell of orchard. The only thing about him, unquestionable for me, was that he was of my ilk in regard of a sexual orientation; that's why I reached to the fire without ceremony and began rubbing my hands. From the fireside, the desk at the curtained window was hardly seen in the dense shade. The draught suggested an opened door somewhere nearby. Distinctive sounds, dry and sporadic, heard from afar, suggested a billiard-table and cueists.

"Came to ask about or solicit for Doctor Fridland?" I heard from the desk.

"Fridland…" I stopped short, peering in the shade.

"Surprised?"

"Surprise is a child of ignorance and parent of cognition, Mr Aboleo. All I wish to Doctor Fridland is a way from his nihilism to his own deepest despair."

One of the lamp-brackets was switched on. In the soft electric light, I saw Aboleo, with his moonlight-coloured hair, at his desk with a gleaming Underwood, but with no lamp. In the next room with the door ajar, someone went on knocking the bagatelle balls about, strangely, with no intention to switch on the light. He said, "No need in a bed-room. No need in lamps either. Demons are not in need of sleep, but they can imitate any biological need. And they often need a den."

Rubbing my hands, I said, "To say truth, Doctor Talvik interests me much more than Doctor Fridland, that silly unfortunate, or any demons."

"My adept. Talvik can kill for me," Aboleo said, sitting half turning on the chair.

I nodded, thinking to myself that every charlatan named his collaborators "my adepts". I said, "His wife?"

"She's his servant. Vassal of my vassal is not my vassal."

"You are sincere."

"Generally known that all sins are to be remitted to kings, writers and women, if they do at least one good deed. Do you remember? My good deed is my sincerity… at this talk with you."

"So, you are either King or Writer or Woman?"

"All together."

Arrogance, always the hellish arrogance. Something familiar in his manner to answer questions… usual, either for men of my ilk or for me alone – not sure. His look and arrogance seemed dimly familiar, making to think, asking, what if it sounded and looked like mine, years ago, when it was my manner of talking to youths? My manner of the time when I was immensely interested in youths and I spent plenty of time talking with them. What if I happened to see him in my sleep, years ago? What if I saw us in my sleep? Like he, I used to be nice-looking and sexually attractive. Like in his case, arrogance used to be my trait. Like in his case, retrospectively, something in me didn't let name me "un beau ténébreux," however dark I sounded and looked.

But I didn't sleep when talking with him on the night, at his. The fire warmed my front or back, every time I turned. "Mr Aboleo, you may be an author of books and a king of your financial empire, but… why Woman?"

"Mr Graf, you made a mistake, saying that, and you jolly well know it."

His sincerity seemed only a turn of speech. Oscar Wilde said: Give Man a mask and he will tell you the truth. I didn't believe in sincerity of the man with no mask. "So, Mr Aboleo, you may be a sort of a mystifier… pardon, mystic or medium, or one of those who name themselves a mage?"

"Nothing of the kind, but go on," he said.

The arrogance and the air of importance seemed something that I hear and saw much earlier than I first saw the man -- but what was it?

He said, "Your meaning was the other. Faker or jangler. If so, then… With the faker or shuffler of the class, there is the only way of talking: shut up, go aside and admire the shuffler's play from the distance. If you don't let the shuffler involve you in the play, win by your surviving. Go on."

Really, I had a chance to know the arrogance much earlier… A gleam of recognition. Remembrance of things past, and eventually I remembered what it was.

The attempt of seduction --or sexual abuse, if you like --by a blond young gentleman man, when I was a young boy. It goes without saying that I can call the blond man young retrospectively, not on the day, for it happened by day. My reaction and emotional resistance was so intensive that the blond young man failed, people arrived to the scene, and afterwards I saw him never again. A quick episode, that's why it slipped my memory --forgotten thoroughly, though not so easily. Today, he had the other clothing on, there was the other lighting, situation --and my own point of view had changed --but he might be the very youngster. Having not changed for the 35 years. I, his 7-years old victim, was aged 40, to be more exact in the early forties, and he remained looking 21. Could it be so? Confusion, Aversion, Whirl of senses, like that when I experienced the molestation. Hardly able to recall my abuser's look, I remember his eyes that the shady place made look hazel and impassive, but the eyes could be yellow or golden and bright, in fact. The pupiles of the hazel eyes were usual and not a demonic cat's. Same with the yellow eyes of Aboleo, as far as I could see.

The second thing about him, clear to me, was that the arrogant, stale rich man seemed to be fond of various sorts of fun. Taking this artistic habit into consideration and admitting a possibility that it was an erroneous impression, I was about to continue the talk as though nothing had happened.

"Indeed," I said, "I have two or three question more… to clarify something. For example… The estate and manor house of my cousins is ill-reputed, as simple people say. Why?"

He looked falling to thinking; he even closed his eyes. The silence lasted two moments, no more, but it strangely ipressed my imagination.

It happen like this; in our everyday life, we have a moment when the whole vanity of the whole heavy burden of our knowledge is suddenly revealed for us, suddenly but not for the first time in virtue of our knowledge, and we feel tired, awfully, with the tiredness seeming incurable and infinite, but the next moment we heave a sigh, stand up and go to continue our work as though nothing had happened.

It looked like this was with him as he touched his forehead with his hand for a moment and said without opening eyes, "The old witch is right," with me never mentioning the Witch's opinion, "It's one of the ancient things."

"A reason is one of the old things in the household? There are lots of old things in the manor! Take the blazonry or rather the adornment in shape of the round old bronze shield with the left-facing swastika. The ancient Thunder Cross. Perkonkrusts, as natives call it. But it's an amulet."

He opened his eyes, "You are right about it, unless the fact that a reason, you asked about, is one old thing which is not an amulet. The object, the artefact cannot serve as an amulet, because it doesn't protect, on the contrary, it does harm to humans by causing depression in minds of dwellers. The depression is always false, thoroughly unfounded, or rather it's founded on phantoms and visions, procreations of the dwellers' fancy. But the artefact can attract an actual evil too."

I felt like at a spiritualist's. "Fleshless phantoms, unfounded visions, and an actual evil? Awful… Horrific to our minds."

"Say Save Our Minds and see what happens," he said.

"Could you name the object?" I said.

"Why not? It's the Yule lantern."

"But there are several Yule lanterns in the household, as far as I remember…"

"One of them. It makes your house and dwellers especially attractive for some… No matter."

We talked about the earthenware candlesticks, 8" tall in shape of a mountain or a tower with a hole at the top for a candle, called Yule lantern or Tower lantern. Julleuchter, Turmleuchter, in German. Traditional to my homeland and having relation to celebrations of the winter solstice. The candlesticks looked much like ceramic bottles with cut hearts on sides.

Aboleo said, "The objects have the Hagall rune and a heart symbol on all four sides. But this one has an Elhaz rune motif instead of the heart symbol."

I began understanding his meaning and it gave me a shiver.

Aboleo went on, "The Elhaz rune, the rune of life, is written inverted on this object, which makes it the rune of death."

It was within my grasp. The evil ceramic bottle should be found and destroyed as soon as I was at the Estate.

"Anything else?" he said.

"Yes…" I asked about the phenomenon of the uncommonly young look of Mlle Delamarche.

"It's simple," he pressed out like an Englishman, and he began explaining, "Another artefact, in her case too. Something truly unique, but she has not a slightest idea of it. She has a looking-glass among her things. Old, a simple frame, it was made by Cellini."

"?" I had heard of the power of Cellini's mirror, but I believed it a legend. A human who had the mirror and used it every day remained young-looking till the end.

"It's not a legend," he said, and I didn't get surprised that he perhaps read my thoughts, "A simple looking-glass, in a simple cupper frame. Thank you for your question. It reminded me of a fun. It could be fun. Imagine, if she takes the simple looking-glass away, now, when she's so rich…"

It took my breath away: most probably, the information made me having a power over the promising lady of society.

"Anything else?" he said.

"The case of Elisabeth Medovsky…"

He nodded and rose.

Without looking at me, he went to the curtained window. "You are with someone," he said, removing the curtain and looked in, "You have the right to do it."

It could be silly to deny this or keep anything from this gifted extrasensory individual. I rose to do what he did, that is, to take a look out.

The wet pavement outside the window reflected the street lamp light. The trees looked like bunched up birch-rods sticking skywards. The space between the sky and pavement seemed filled a whitish mist, cold and chilling – but it was so nice to see the figures of my two friends in the mist. The third could not be seen at the distance. Either a cab or coach passed by the house and vanished from sight.

At the opposite end of the window, Aboleo said, "The only thing you need to know about the case of Elisabeth Medovsky is that those, who love death like others love slumber, die as though falling down on a big soft bed of lotus petals."

Before I had time to say that personally I had not a chance to see humans who loved death, even among dark-minded thinkers, he left the curtain and went away from the window.

The room was rather small, and it was simple to see where he paused. Standing at a Regency mahogany glazed bookcase, he turned and looked at me.

I wanted to know all about the trick with the old topi and the hat box; I wanted to discuss the naughty lilac top hat and the issue of the magazine At Fireside, and I said, "The voley of my questions is not over…"

He said, sounding somewhat absentmindedly, "Of course not, but next is a little bit later. I'll quench your curiosity later, and now I have to leave you for a little while. Meanwhile, the books are at your service…"

Surprisingly, the dim light was enough for me to see the titles on the bookshelves. Adventures of Arthur Gordon Pym… A rebours, by Joris-Karl Huysmans… Hadrian und Florus, by Franz Eyssenhardt… Carmina Burana, a hardcover copy of the manuscript of the 11th or 12th century. From the new, three volumes of The Forsyte Saga… Some book titles unknown to me. Travel Impressions and, Among Other Things, a Pot of Gentiane Blanche, by Julius Ravensable, published in the 17th century. Old Masters: Their Art and Soul, by Julius Ravensable, published in the 18th century.

"My favourite, if you ask me," Aboleo said, apparently following my eye.

"Pen is mightier than money?" I said without looking at him.

"Pardon?" he said.

"Some say pen is mightier than a moneyed pack." To say truth, my remark was as little comprehensible for me as it sounded for my companion.

Infernal Kaleidoscope, the jest-book by L'Endelel, recently published. L'Endelel… I loved the author's humorous stories in the newspapers. Next, an old manuscript…

Aboleo said, "The manuscript is opuses by one funny damsel whose diary could be entitled A Handful of Blossoms. Otilia von Hortz."

"Never heard the name."

"Pen-name. A forgotten literary figure. A handful of linden blossoms, simple and fragrant like the funny young thing, who is no more. Her death was natural, a century ago. By her mature age, she eventually succeeded in becoming one of German secondary authors. These are her published works… Glimpses and Gleanings. Stolen Enamels or Joie Inconnue. Imagine, one of her tales is entitled Histoire de qui n'est pas arrivé -- History of What Never Happened. Say just Fiction – no? She called herself Confidante of History. So funny. -- And this manuscript is but a copy." He said about the next book on the shelf. "Its original exists in a single exemplar and it belongs to me as well. Written in blood instead of ink."

"What's written in blood?" I said.

He said, "The original manuscript. In a human's blood."

I didn't know what to say.

He said, "Seemingly, it's a medieval handbook on wellness, but in fact the book makes he who can read it a Lord of Tempests, Elements and Calamities."

"May I?" I reached for the copy of the ancient manuscript.

He nodded and said, "Time showed that the only one who could read it was me."

The book was rather thin, with a new cover. Aboleo said, "By the way, that stupid girl Otilia von Hortz was the very one who succeeded in concealing the book from me. This very book, my book. To be more exact, her husband did it. To be more exact, nearly succeeded. Only for a while. Her husband, the husband of the sham wife, succeeded in that, shortly before his death. When the day of her death came, she asked a priest to place the book – my book -- under her head in her coffin. In her hands she was to hold her book of prayers. Unable to read my book, she never dared destroying it, in her lifetime, you know. Her husband told her to do it to the book and he said that I was not able to reach the book in this case, and he was right in a way, but I succeeded in taking the book from her grave. You should have seen the priest when he saw my men on the road in the night dusk!.. She died at the venerable age of 50. Venerable!.. She was so stupid that I never felt like offering her immortality."

"Immortality?.. Aha, you could make her a vampire."

"The last of vampiresses was killed in the 18th century, in Europe. Not without my aid. They were a few, and I hated all of them. My rivals, if you like."

"Unbelievable. Forgive my words, but it's too unbelievable for me."

"In disbelief? As you please, Oscar."

As I opened the book, someone came in the room, appearing in the dark doorway, seen peripheral vision, and the comer distracted my attention from the pages written in an incomprehensible language -- no, not in Arabic or Chinese, and it didn't look like Egyptian hieroglyphs. Aboleo's proud boast stopped, and he said about the comer, "My son will be entertaining you… The austere wine, the bookshelf, the young companion. I'll shoot then, if it's all right."

This arrogant peacock was unexpectedly quick and spirited when telling about his leave as well as taking it. The manner looked vaguely familiar for me and his promptness and the lightness of his motions much more corresponding to his age, seeming or real -- now the arrogance, now the roguish manner.

To entertain? Me? In this quaint place? Not waiting till the youngster, who watched me with his blue eyes as though seeking to mesmerize from the shade, began doing it, I began entertain both of us.

Reaching for the bookcase, I said, "To say truth, I am a huge fan of Oscar Wilde's poetry and his only novel. That's why the book "A rebours," by Huysmans, is the most attractive for my eye on the shelves. Against the Grain or Against Nature. Oscar Wilde's favourite. Did you know of that, Mr Tottenheim?.. May I call you Cecil?"

He gave a nod and enfolded his own shoulders. Coatless, wearing a snow-white shirt, ruched and poet sleeved, with his neckband undone, his waistcoat half-unbuttoned too, the beautiful, dark-haired youth straddled, watching me and listening to. Freeze-frame. I could not see his fingers, but obviously, he could be the cluist from the next room where silence fell.

Taking the book in hands and opening it, I said, "The book always sounded so suggestive for me. Something in the book suggests that the main character of the novel is either a vampire or noctambulant or something of the kind. Never thought of it? But Des Esseintes, with his all eccentric, is a person or entity that definitely lives a nocturnal life. I can prove it by means of some citations… Just a moment…" I began promptly turning the leaves in search of the familiar, while talking, "…His daily activity begins only after 'a deep silence wrapped the little house that lay asleep in the darkness.'

His first meal he has in the evening –

'At five o'clock in winter, after dusk had closed in, he ate an abstemious breakfast of two boiled eggs, toast and tea; then came dinner at eleven; he used to drink coffee, sometimes tea or wine, during the night, and finally played with a bit of supper about five in the morning, before turning in.'

The windows are designed in some oddish way in order that the daylight could not come in the rooms freely –

'The dining-room in question resembled a ship's cabin with its wooden ceiling of arched beams, its bulkheads and flooring of pitch-pine, its tiny window-opening cut through the woodwork as a porthole is in a vessel's side.

Like those Japanese boxes that fit one inside the other, this room was inserted within a larger one,--the real dining-room as designed by the architect.

This latter apartment was provided with two windows; one of these was now invisible, being hidden by the bulkhead or partition wall, which could however be dropped by touching a spring, so that fresh air might be admitted to circulate freely around and within the pitch-pine enclosure; the other was visible, being situated right opposite the porthole contrived in the woodwork, but was masked in a peculiar way, a large aquarium filling in the whole space intervening between the porthole and the real window in the real house-wall. Thus the daylight that penetrated into the cabin had first to pass through the outer window, the panes of which had been replaced by a single sheet of plain mirror glass, then through the water and last of all through the glazing of the porthole, which was permanently fixed in its place.

At the hour when the steaming samovar stood on the table, the moment when in Autumn the sun would be setting in the west, the water in the aquarium, dull and opaque by daylight, would redden and throw out fiery flashes as if from a glowing furnace over the light-coloured walls.'

Even the moonlight cannot penetrate the rooms unless through the bottle-glass –

'Outside the snow was falling. In the lamplight, ice arabesques glittered on the dark windows and the hoar-frost sparkled like crystals of sugar on the bottle-glass panes speckled with gold.'

His nocturnal mind hates the nature's look in the daylight –

'As he used to say, Nature has had her day; she has definitely and finally tired out by the sickening monotony of her landscapes and skyscapes the patience of refined temperaments. When all is said and done, what a narrow, vulgar affair it all is, like a petty shopkeeper selling one article of goods to the exclusion of all others; what a tiresome store of green fields and leafy trees, what a wearisome commonplace collection of mountains and seas!'

which is absolutely unnatural, if you ask me. Thus, we can see that the hero's habits, loathings and likings look much like a bat's. If a bloodsucker, then a bloodsucker-aesthete. Take this citation as an example –

'…a single book, bound in sea-green morocco, the Adventures of Arthur Gordon Pym, specially printed for his behoof on pure linen-laid paper, hand picked, bearing a sea-gull for water mark.'" Finishing the citation, I looked at my companion and then meaningfully turned my eye to the shelf where the named book, Adventures of Arthur Gordon Pym, was in sight of mine and my companion's. And then I looked at him again.

The youth's look remained impenetrable, his blue eyes simply watched me, and his lips never parted.

I said, "Bloodsuckers are different. Some of the known or renowned ones I like. Some I dislike. To Vampire Des Esseintes, if he ever was such, I feel indifferent, for really, the author did not do much in his book to make us love the main character. Any thoughts?"

He cast his eyes down, turned away and went to the door. At the doorway, he paused, and without looking at me, he said, "So he told you about all…"

"What do you mean?.. It's but my speculations, idle speculations, inspired by the book, which both Oscar Wilde and I loved."

He looked at me, from afar, "Come to see my little lovely collection of side-arms and fans."

"No, I'd rather not," I said, looking round the room, "Those on these walls is quite enough. I wonder what makes a youth like you a vampire. How could it be? What it was? Have you ever thought of it?"

The reserved youth began simply, in a quiet voice, "What it was? A mere chance. It could be a mere chance." While speaking, he began slowly walking from the doorway to me, "It could take place hundreds years ago. The 18-years old human… the warrior, who loved to fight, could be benighted in a forest, one day. The human could be wounded and betrayed, losing his way in the woodland, by night, walking with difficulty, using his sword as a staff. Now, in the forest, he could see a carriage and motionless figure of a human wearing a long dark cloak… The vampire could show mercy and bit the wounded youth before the youth died bleeding. That's how it could be."

Although his story sounded unexpectedly romantic and genuine, it left me cool, and I said the limerick in reply –

"Twinkle, twinkle, little bat!

How I wonder what you're at!

Up above the world you fly

Like a tea-tray in the sky."

- which was my big mistake, since the outwardly reserved youth proved to be hot.

Before I finished saying the last line of the limerick, he grabbed one of the swords on the wall and the point of the sword rushed towards my breast.

The book "A rebours" in my hand was the only thing to deviate the incoming blade of the opponent. The sword moved aside, the youngster stepped back for the next assault, and I had time to grab a tall candlestick from the bookcase, the first thing to come to hand, because the youngster was between me and the place with swords on the wall.

"What the?.. Stop it!" we heard the voice of Aboleo, who came in noiselessly.

Cecil lowered his sword. Keeping the point of the sword alone in my sight, I didn't see his face, and now I could look at it. The youngster's beautiful face remained inexpressive; he kept on watching mine.

And so, I was in a murderers' den? Right, leaving my companions to wait outside.

"Cecil," Aboleo said.

"Kornelis," Cecil said.

"Cecil," Aboleo said.

After the young man left the room, I noticed Aboleo's excited look and it seemed to me that his hair over his large forehead was mist-moistened. This urged me to look at the curtained window, and my thoughts were switched over.

Feeling concerned, regardless of his view and intention, while he placed the candlestick back on the bookcase, I went to the window to look out.

Everything looked as before outside the window. My two friends' figures loomed through the fog as before. Their faces could not be seen, but they both obviously were all right, merely shifting from one foot to the other – too cold to spend the while on the misty September night.

"You make a mistake, mon bien-aimé, and you jolly well know it." I heard the voice behind my shoulder and smelled ylang-ylang. I turned my head and saw Aboleo's face so close. His nostrils move, and he said about my perfume, "Fougère Royal? Good choice. Take a seat."

My friends were all right, Aboleo's fragrant and seductive presence was not exciting to me -- his Manager with the hot handshaking was always more to my taste – so, I went to take a seat, being about to spend some more time in the apartment, for really, Aboleo and his Manager were always gentlemen towards me and my friends, before the daft youngster's wild escapade, and Aboleo seemed talkative and in the mood for telling more.

Before I subsided in a chair, Aboleo, who paused nearby, brought a picture to my notice.

Actually, everything was nearby in the small room. The picture was unusual. Two heads, which I took for Aboleo's and his son's, at first. If you looked at it from one side, you could see the man's head; if you looked at the picture from the opposite side, you could see the beautiful head of the youth. Two side painting. Thinnest laths or something. The 14 century technique, which I happened to hear about.

"Made at the court of Rudolf II, Holy Roman Emperor," Aboleo said.

"Striking resemblance," I said, "Apropos… About your son."

"I'm all attention."

We never took seats, though there were three good chairs at least in the room; we talked stand-up, at the ancient picture on the wall, with our talk sounding as fantastic as our mood, though neither of us tasted the wine from the bottle on the japanned tray. The most fantastic in our talk was that nothing of his topical sentences slipped my memory, as though engraved, in some extraordinary way, once and for all.

"Your son…" I said, "He and I talked, before that vexing incident… and I asked him a question, which could sound both most hypothetical and quite provocative. I asked what could make a youth like he a vampire. He replied by telling a fairy-tale about a young wounded warrior who met a vampire in a forest by night."

"Not exactly," Aboleo said in reply, and then he corrected himself, "Not necessarily. Suppose, the youth was a young warrior and he loved fighting ever so much. Anyway, you shouldn't aim the magnifying glass of your imagination at the young thing so persistently."

Smiling I shrugged shoulders.

Ignoring my smile, he said, "And so, he was a young warrior. He walked in the forest, benighted, alone and exhausted, stumbling at every step, that's it and all that, but not wounded. The boy was heavily drunk… Young, bold, good-looking, the very image of Donatello's David. The Naked Boy with the Sword could serve as an image of the youth's wild soul, and the statue's beauty was akin to his, adolescent. The Vampire was deep in thought, standing at the carriage, in no mood to see any of humans. Apropos, it was rather parkland and not woodland. On the wayside, the Vampire found himself with no coachman, losing his coachman but just. Automats, machinery, it all is so nice nowadays, but the conveniences were impossible in the past of humankind. Horses feared the undead; mortal servants were a prey, too tempting for the sensuality and impossible as servants for long; in short, it was hard for the undead to act among the living. The Vampire wended his way to a place where it was quite impossible to arrive with no carriage, turning up, as though going on foot. By carriage; in no other way. But his coachman's lifeless body was before his eyes, in the shade of the carriage, because he had killed him but just. Satisfied carnally, the Vampire mentally rued himself for intemperance. People in trouble are left to themselves. The Vampire was late, his carriage had no coachman, and he was deep in thought, when the bold young comer approached staggering the place which could be 'crime scene' in his eyes. Seeing the carriage, the youngster approached one of the wheels and began taking a leak. 'Young man! What do you do to my carriage?' the Vampire said. The youngster's reply was rather polite, 'Would you like me to do the same to your cloak, sir?' The Vampire's anger quickly slipped into bleak fury. His bite was his punishment and not his mercy. Giving the young man his personal undivided attention and quenching, the Vampire looked at the senseless body of the young drunken tease attentively and saw the young thing was nice-looking. No, the young thing was beautiful, and still alive. Luckily to the Vampire, luckily to the youth, but a mere chance. The thing of beauty remained a joy for ever. A day later, the Vampire learned from the Youth that he was the Vampire's far cousin. By the time of the encounter, the Vampire knew of his other cousin therefore the Vampire was not so lonely in Britain. After their younger relative joined their… them, the elder cousins' revelry began. It didn't last long, for the Vampire, as the oldest of them, stopped it. The Vampire merely told the Youth to make his choice. His choice was the Vampire. Needless to say that the elder of the Vampire's cousins was disappointed -- ever so much -- but the Vampire stopped it too, bringing one youth to his cousin's notice. The New Youth was so beautiful… he is. On the day, when the cousin made the New Youth, his beloved and youngest of the four, he felt satisfied and consoled so much that he left the younger cousin to the Vampire entirely. Now, they were four. Three relatives and one friend. Each of them is friend, each of them is lover. This is the life story in a few words. So short and simple. Whose life story? No matter. In the story one can find a reason why the undead's intention is living his supernatural life longer."

"Nice story. And the ending… and the conclusion… Love for beloved one as a reason to live longer. Well said!.. You are a writer, as I heard," saying it, I thought to myself that it's obvious that not anybody of the two was a liar in his telling – no, both of them were story-tellers, to put it mildly. I was an author myself, and I had got used to be patient with creative-minded men like Aboleo.

As my reader remembers, Aboleo's white skin was pale but it was not so unusual in our part of the world. The unbelievable colour of his long hair was quite another matter. Colour of a white wine with cold magic ash blond strands, and all this changed, depending on lighting. And the flawless skin suggested a special care or pedigree or nightlife. This dandy was a merchant or manufacturer by trade? Rather an artist, who looked like a dandy. But the dandy looked too ordinary to be called a mage.

If he were ever introduced as a mage, I'd not believe it. His voice sounded rather ordinary, pleasant, but it didn't make your heart leap or palpitate. His eyes were not dark, rather golden… True, I never had a chance to see a state of the pupils of his eyes. He was a slender man, but his motions were neither graceful nor artistic -- unless his ambiguous manner, now arrogant, now roguish. Nowadays, magicians are wearing their magician's hat no longer, philosophers are not wearing a ragged cape of a cynic, as well as warriors have taken off their panoply a long time ago – so, why to seek more extraordinarily in Mr Aboleo's look? Why on earth should magicians and poets differ by their crazy look and byzantine array?

He said, "Take it or leave it. All right, yes, writer. Moreover, you happened to read something of mine."

"Really?" I said through clenched teeth.

"L'Endelel is me."

I stared at him.

Then, I got something from me, after he said, "Here is the manuscript of my new humorous book… Take it to enjoy, at leisure."

L'Endelel was Mr Aboleo the merchant. L'Endelel, my favourite author, who happened to cite me. Really, I'd not be ever regretful about my stay longer at his, that night.

Appreciating the information, getting the scroll of the manuscript tied with gold cord and placing the sudden gift in my pocket, I said, "So, Mr Aboleo, your skin may be cold to the feel. Much colder than any human's…"

"Would you like to check it up?" his eyes twinkled golden.

"No." His intention to seduce me had been obvious, some time ago, and it could not be new for me, a sophisticated homosexual.

"You'll be forever in the dark about me," he said.

I began talking in an easy manner usual for a fashionable talk, "Dear Mr Aboleo, what do you abolish?"

"Two or three ideas, no more…" Saying it simply, the dandy took out his blue spectacles and put them on, "…and among them, I abolish death." Gleaming at me, his spectacles made me draw up. "Talking of undead, actually, it must be said that the undead don't wish total destruction to humankind. For humans is food. To eat and not to sow seeds of panic among the food, that's the problem." I hardly could time to think over his sentences, only afterwards, I remembered them. He went on, "Moreover, the undead is the only species that wishes to benefit humankind by showing the way in which one should disregard death."

"Forgive my curiosity but I'm intrigued -- by your reply and earlier, when I happened to hear of your personality on the whole."

"That's all right. I'm flattered with your attention. Talking of me, do you like the next statement… I die in my life and I live in my death."

"Transcendental and profound," I said, "Only one thing is abolished in this. The fact that all of us will die. What's the second and third?"

He said, "You'll see. Soon. If you are for long here, in this part of the world, and if you are attentive enough, as attentive as you've been thus far."

"No, sir, I've not succeeded in detecting anything, thus far."

"Do you know what I don't want to abolish? Illiteracy. It's so easy to rule the illiterate ones. Among the second and the third is my intention is returning something vetustate abolesco."

As far as I knew "vetustate abolesco" was "erased from one's memory after so many years". I said, "I take it you are not about to tell me what exactly?"

"No, sir." He took off his blue spectacles.

In his changed voice there was a message and call for intimacy. I thought it would be more reasonable to take my leave.

The most impressive information, which I had heard, was no more trustworthy than a fairy-tale, but I had heard enough for having food for reflection at leisure. And I remembered that I wanted to repeat the trick with my small looking-glass.

I did it, like I did it to the Manager, and like his Manager, Aboleo recoiled from my small looking-glass. He said through clenched teeth, "Mirrors of obsidian can reflect much, even the undead…" With that, he stepped back and turned something, which was on the top of a chest of drawers on his right. It was a graceful oval psyche, and I saw both of us in the old, lacklustre mirror.

Either taken aback by his rapid action or for other reason, I grabbed the sword which Cecil used a while earlier…

"Anything's wrong?" Aboleo said, seeing the sword's point at his breast.

Specks on the burnished mirror moved and stood still again, hiding our reflections and making them questionable. "Obsidian is so brittle, as I heard," I said to say at least anything.

He was amazingly quick to take the old mirror in hands and carrying it away from me, to a case in a corner of the room, with his back, for several moments, looking like protecting a precious thing from me and the sword.

I placed the sword on the chest of drawers.

So, my new companion of the night might be… not human, to put it mildly. And I deemed I knew the world. Formerly, thinking of the undead of various sorts and a possibility to meet one of them in reality, I felt ill at ease, no more. Seeing Aboleo's perfect shape, looking at his breast clad in the smoky brocade, imagining that his heart was still, silent as stone and cold as ice, I felt disgust. The very thought of a possibility that several times I talked with a living corpse was nauseating. I happened to talk with the entity, spent several hours tonight with him and racked my brain over his personality at leisure. It was not a sence of a deadly level; if by chance it was a deadly level in my life, my sense of nausea prevailed and did not let me realize this; the thought was simply nauseating. I felt disgust and knew it was quite natural.

On the way back to me, watching my every motion and expression, he said, "There's one more way to check it up. Touch my breast to feel my heartbeat or its absence."

Indeed, since the moment when I began suspecting something supernatural and dreadful in my new friend's true nature, I couldn't make myself stop watching his bosom, thinking of his heartbeat. The place where we have our heart, the surface clad in our shirt and coat, when we were in public, was always more or less covered up, but sometimes, the bosom heaved, and over the skin, when our neckband was undone, our pulse could be seen. Nothing of the kind I ever happened to see in Aboleo's exterior –but we were not so intimate or knowing each other for a long time, unless I was unaware of something.

I didn't hasten to do what he generously offered; moreover, I said, instead of a reply, "Your union continues to amaze me."

"Adrian and me?" he said, "We are relatives, having much in common, but there's a difference between us. I'd love to write a book with a title Victory Over the Sun, and he has nothing against the sun."

I took my eyes off his smoky, as though of cairngorm, exterior and looked round the room in search of a right door to leave him. Then I checked up my pockets and straightened my clothing, showing my intention to go out. While doing all the simple motions, I said as though absentmindedly or thinking aloud about him, "Undead and never bored."

A shadow of a smile seemed to pass across his lips.

In the same thoughtful tone, I went on teasing, "Insatiable. Why not? Moreover, it's nice, if it never concerns me… too much."

"Kissing your thoughts." He was a teaser too.

I said, "All I've heard here, tonight, sounds most interesting but too complicated. Neither I nor you are heedless youngsters --"

Then Kornelis Aboleo reached for a book, opened it and began reading aloud, "'I am a musician,' the vagabond replied, 'Born far-far away from here, I used to be ever so much famous in my homeland. When I was young, I used my art as mighty means of temptation. By the means, I enkindled passions, which led me to crimes. Today, at my old age, I want to use my talent, which I put to evil ends, for the common good and to expiate my guilt by the very means I can be condemned for.'" Closing the book, he said, "Well… You, one of the readers and thinkers, who appreciate your European romanticism, complain of someone's complexity?" Without waiting for my reply, he waved his hand, "Nénuphar. The choreographic ballet fantasy is nice. I wished I were with you at the show. Go now. Your companions are waiting, outside. Go, dear Oscar, and may be peace upon your fluffy head."

The tall copper girandole in shape of an eastern prince was like a sentinel nearby the door of the apartment. Noticing it, I ignored it, hastening to leave the apartment as soon as possible, because it seemed to me that I finally recognized the voice and manner of the abuser from my childhood.