A Penny for Your Thoughts!

The Negro singer.

The overseas singer was a victim of an accident or murder. In the dead leaves, underneath the corpse, something bright red… yet brighter than the Negro's jacket. Blood? A spot of fresh blood? Impossible. The dead man as well as the lance could have rather gore – however, no gore was visible from my point of view. Averting my eyes from the dead body, I looked at the small bright red spot narrowly, from the distance.

Red enamel, and not blood. Something familiar. Recognizing the thing, I glanced at my companion. The gardener's face was pale and the poor shocked fellow watched the dead man with fear. Stepping to him, I turned my back to the small red object in the dead leaves in order to hide it from the gardener's view. "Dead," I said. The gardener looked at me. I said, "One of us should stay, and another should go to call help. I'll stay. Go now, brother."

Crossing himself over and over again, the gardener moved back and then rapidly turned away and ran towards the manor.

I stepped towards the small thing on the ground, bent to my boots as though checking up them, stole the thing, concealing it in my fist, and put it in my pocket. When I stood straight again, I didn't look round. The fact that nobody was within the two yard field of vision was more than enough to feel confident. My eyes swept the dead body for the final time; my fingers felt the thing in my pocket and I went to see the surroundings.

The thing in my pocket was the bell in shape of an enamelled maiden wearing and dancing in the Russian style. Not sure about the bell's belonging, not knowing how many bells like this the household had, unaware when the thing got to the place, I felt compelled to conceal it, just in case.

At a handsome distance from the incident scene, I eventually saw a single person.

a figure in drab brown from top to tow came out from a shed at the stable. A moment more and I recognized the monk. A moment more and I understood why the sight looked like déjà vu. Telling me about his visit to the Cottage in Padrik, Clem mentioned a monk coming out from a stable or storage place. Nothing special. Perhaps, the old woman, who accompanied the monk in Clem's report, there was somewhere nearby. Right like it was in Clem's report, the monk looked so thin and innocent that he seemed impossible to be suspected in any kind of violence. We stood still at a respectful distance from each other; then he bowed and smiled at me. I bowed and smile at him too and turned to a path going to the manor house, a stone's throw, where some busy noise was heard.

Nobody on my way. In front of the manor, the busy noise proved to be created by the activity that cheered me. Several carriages departing. The departure in process! Seeing them and learning of some guests' earlier departure, I got gladdened, because the absence of the people, who either were aware of the death or not, destroyed the perfect order of the future investigation, and we, all the rest guests, could be let go home as well. All, but me, for I was one of the tow who found the dead body.

As a modern day reader, I know oh so much about death, reading a lot of horrors and shockers, with all of the books so badly written that I've lost any interest and respect to the subject. For centuries, it's written and said more than needful about death, and today, death looks like an actor, over-praised if not over-estimated. The actor is so ordinary, but they cry: Ah he's genial! Every human is to die, some day, but before my death day, I shall live thousands wonderful days -- thousands, do you take me -- and every day, new beautiful encounters, new impressions, new flowers, new sunrises and sunsets. Did you know that the sunrise is new every time, Julian?.. No, I shouldn't begin this.

In our room, the group of three men, sleepy and half-dressed, yawing and sighing, lazily did their morning routine. Beginning my way towards them, today, I was about to share the good news, but I had to tell about something bad as well; besides, I was all in a tremble having the red enamelled bell in my pocket. Taking it out, I stealthily placed it on the top of the bedside table where I previously left a thing like this, which thing was no longer there. A thing like this was nowhere on the other surfaces in the room. The air was ill-smelling as before, and I opened the window.

Two funny elderly gentlemen, Mr Memel and Mr Munich looked sulky sooner than funny at the hour. The poor things who had a hangover. Those dirty old men, who gave me so many troubles on our way… but they were blissfully unaware of the last night dark mysteries, and alive, so evidently and plainly alive that I felt thankful to them for this last.

My love for them was in my leaving them to themselves and taking care about my cousin's hangover. My advice to the youth was a topfull glass of water and then a cup of black coffee, which we could find downstairs.

The ground floor seemed to buzz like a disturbed beehive. The Gardener, the messenger, apparently, had eventually reached his landlady and the news spread like wildfire. Frederic Kothen, the investigator, and forensics team could not be expected soon, therefore, the household entertained themselves by rumouring and speculating about the horrible incident.

Murder or accident? For some reason, everyone felt sure that the death was a murder. What did the Negro do late at night outside alone? It was a secret date – Mona believed. Her mother, my childhood aging arch-friend never voiced her views. For the time of our parting, the woman had turned into one of the buxom talkative landladies, who usually said to a guest of her home, first seeing him and looking at him with interest and pity, "You are so urban. Musty. Stagnant. No natural in you. Do you take my meaning?" In my case, the worldly wisdom was never declared solely in virtue of the sinister circumstance. Today, she looked hardly able to press out greetings. Pitiable state.

In Clem's head, the news about his mother's return, which he heard from me, over a cup of black coffee, eclipsed that about the murder. Nice. But he stared straight before himself, he said, "I want him."

"Who?" I said.

"The Doctor," draining his cup dray in a gulp, Clem rose.

"Why?.." Another instant, I realized that the young man wanted to talk with the Doctor, who should explain his long silence about the truth, which Leticia's sons were entitled to know, "…Aha..." I said, "…well… all right, go."

He rushed from the table like a young bull in a rage. I rose and stopped him.

The nice-looking young man looked awful with his wild eye and clothing in disorder. I straightened his collar, wrongly tied necktie and his sports jacket. And his wet lips wanted a napkin. "Go now."

To say truth, I wished Clem to blow off steam. Virtually, his soul of a young poet had experienced the next shock, on the way of his quest, which had come to the dubious end. Looking at my Wilsdorf&Davis, I noted the time.

Meanwhile, the household speculated. Someone recalled the true story told last night. About the Baron, hater of Negros. What if Baron von Werther did escape from the lunatic asylum? What if the crazy man was actually a dangerous maniac? Two chambermaids began weeping, with fear, burying their faces in their white aprons. It must be said, Doctor Talvik was not at any of the tables, therefore, Clem had to go to search him.

Mr Munich and Mr Memel took seats at another long table, as far from me as possible, from me, the one who happened to see their morning pitiable state and negligee. Completely dressed, washed and combed, they looked modest, decent and comme il faut – the veterans of all kinds of a spree. Ten minutes more and I could not stand Clem's absence any longer.

One more murder at the household? No! Finishing with the next piece of bread and butter and jam, I rose and went to search the two, for fear of the worst.

Highly concerned, I was energetic when asking about anybody of the two, and presently I was told where the Doctor could be.

Not far off the manor, in the sunlit Park. At an old hammock between two old pines. A scrap of their conversation, the final part.

Clem was shaking like fever. The shorter with his awry phiz, Doctor Talvik, straightened his own collar and necktie, apparently crumpled by Clem's hot and angry hands. "…You now see…" the Doctor sounded friendly and deep-felt, "…how difficult it was for me to explain where and why there was your mother. Do you believe that any woman, even your mother, hesitates to change anything in the world, including you, for her beloved one?"

"No… no…" Clem muttered, toning down, and his hands helplessly down his body, "…No."

Taking his hand, I said, "Once the storm has raged itself out, we can set sail again."

Weakened, the young man let me lead him away.

Doctor Talvik looked nasty to me; as I thought he was not in need of my politeness and attention, so he and I said no word to each other. Presently, on the move, Clem got invigorated again. He said through clenched teeth, "I could kill him. I'll kill him, some day."

"Keep cool!" I said, "Let's suppose that you are wicked despite the fact that you don't do harm to anybody. Your mind is arrogant and wicked."

"Yes, I am an extremely arrogant and wicked man," Clem growled out as we went on walking side by side.

"Well said. Unfortunately, the extremality is in discord with the real, and it does harm to you. I can believe you, when you say that you can kill Doctor Talvik, the old man, the doctor from your childhood, and you believe so, but it may be in virtue of the possibility that you have some special words on your mind. The words made you say 'I shall kill.'"

"What kind of words?" he looked at me.

"Several simple words."

"Which ones?!" he cried out.

I stopped. He stopped too. Looking at his excited face, I said in reply to his questions, "The words: 'It's easy to commit homicide.'"

"You are right."

"That I am!"

"The words are right."

"No, the words are mistaken. Not just wrong, the words are mistaken."

"Why? It's easy, really, if you know the trick."

"No, it's not easy to commit homicide, the words are wrong, and morals have nothing to do with that. The fear of punishment can invigorate you. But the blood won't let you forget of homicide. The shed blood? No, your own blood won't forgive homicide. In other words, your mother won't forgive. Every human has blood given by his mother. It's like the sap raising in the trees… like grape juice… like malt liquor, vinous liquor… However, I make nonsense of my reasoning."

"That's all right." He laid his hand upon my shoulder, and at the moment he could not be called mislaying.

After a pause, as we walked on, I switched subject by saying, "Just a pity that I never saw sunrise, today. Too cloudy. Did you know that the sunrise is new every time, Clem? Did you read about the Sun God? Ra, Helios. Do you love mythology? One should know it, for it's awfully beautiful, and as anything childlike, it's simple, wise and awfully moving. And you should know it, because you look like the Sun God. Looking at you, I think of the person who'll catch your fancy, some day. I imagine myself in the person's shoes, and it seems so nice and full of many most fanciful surprises."

"Ohh… Look… Is it not out of place…" he said sullenly.

Speaking out the words of consolation and worldly wisdom, I finished, "Indeed. In short… Remember, all we need, all you need and have to do today, is seeing your mother as soon as possible, having a talk with her and taking her home, to your brothers. We are going to do packing. I suppose, you don't care about the word of mouth about the maniac fugitive?"

"Old wives' tales." He sighed and asked, "Tiens, passe-moi une cigarette."