More about Almodis

While listening to Mr Lundstrom, I could not trace any connection to our case, to us or to any event at all. At first, it seemed to me that the imaginative story was told purposefully. By the end, I found myself losing the thread of the tale, and all I wanted was loosening my necktie -- but afterwards, I was ready to admit that the ending sounded thought-provoking, because actually it was unsure: either the tale of Piranesi was the old narrator's hallucination, or it was his hallucination seen by him at his young age, or it was his concoction or the tale was true and he was cheated by a rogue.

Contemplating us for a minute or two, Mr Lundstrom said, "You may think me a bit barmy but it all was said… about young travellers and crazy old men."

It sounded like a conclusion, and we fetched a sigh.

True, the old bibliophile's story sounded interesting, and yet I felt stupefied when leaving the house in Lamplighters Lane. Clem looked either thoughtful or embarrassed like me. He and I turned to a street and walked, with no particular reason, either taking the air or wishing to go as far from Mr Lundstrom's house as possible. It must be said that I had sent my next message to my Julian using the service of the telegraph office at the railway station as soon as we arrived, earlier that day --so, we had not more work by the time of our leaving the house, or it seemed to be and in fact we simply missed something important, which was above us, grasping a shadow and letting go a substance. However that might be, we believed ourselves carefree, and billboards on our way announced some films. I said, "What about taking a rest in a cinema? If the pause doesn't help us to collect thoughts, after the show, we shall go to a café or restaurant and try to do it there."

"Why not…" Clem said and fetched a sigh as though my words helped him to come to senses, "But for you, Oscar, it all could be much harder to me… well you take my meaning. And you always have to offer something positive. Thank you." He touched my hand with his and pressed it for a moment.

I said, "Relaxing and tasteful is more than positive, I would say. At your service, dear."

We paused to read the information. One of the billboards announced a show, which sounded nice --

…series of 4 stunning films:

THE CAMERAMAN'S REVENGE

THE INSECTS' CHRISTMAS

THE ANT AND THE GRASSHOPPER

INSECTS' AVIATION WEEK

The stop-motion animation films were made by the animator, who used insects and other animals as his personages, and the insects were wonderfully made puppets. I said, "I happened to see one of the maker's films… a year ago. The short film Lucanus Cervus. The first animated puppet film with a plot, by the by."

We went to see the show.

Funny. The show was funny, especially, the stag-beetles. Especially, the story about infidelity and jealousy among the insects. Have you happened to see it? Clem and I enjoyed, although titles were in Russian. Funny was the reaction of some spectators: I heard my neighbour on my right said to his lady, "Obviously, the film-stars are trained living insects…"

After the show, we went to a café, where Clem let me know of his former intention to go to Padrik.

Feeling lost about anything in our quest, which looked more confusing than the fantasies about the insects, I said all right. Clem's evident wish to see that Mlle Delamarche. This being so, let the young man satisfy his curiosity or whatever. His limping was slight, and yet, in his state, he should give a rest to his injured leg before our journey. Here, over the cup of hot chocolate, something occurred to me. I said, "Actually, both you and me happened to talk with Officer Anton Schubert, true, for reasons beyond our control-- no matter-- we've been introduced to him, and he's a policeman. As a professional, the policeman knows much more of missing people than we."

Clem took my meaning, but he had much against telling all about our home trouble to a stranger, all the more that the stranger worked in Police. I promised it would be but a fashionable talk and he could leave it to me. After the meal, we went to the police station.

Personally I had only a vague idea about why we went there. To try to learn anything at a friendly talk? Maybe. To overhear anything?

At first, we were in luck finding Officer Schubert at work. He received us for a talk, but it ended with no result -- unless one funny thing worth telling here.

To begin with, I asked as though by the way about the unlucky thief of craniums of the name of Jacob Werner from Weymarn. Schubert said that soon after the young man's person was identified and his explanation was checked up, the unhappy seeker of dead heads was let go, but…

"Believe it or not, but he was caught again," Anton Schubert said.

"Again?!" I said, "Stealing a skull?!"

"Exactly."

"A human's cranium, again? How stupid."

"Right. He was caught again, but it turned out that… at the police station, it turned out that... are you ready?.. In short, taken into custody, again, for stealing a human's cranium, awaiting a severe punishment, the young man was told that… The stolen cranium was a good copy made of wood!"

However upsetting, the latest frustration of the young loser was for better, because his crime was not so serious, he was let go soon -- against his own expectations, because the news about the material, his booty was made of, became a surprise for him, more stunning than it was for investigators. His case amused policemen on duty, much. "We had a good chuckle," Anton Schubert said in conclusion.

The three of us had a good chuckle too.

Thus, no result, unless the funny story; there was nothing for me but shrugging and sighing as we left the police station. Clem and I needed some refreshment and we, two frustrated free livers, came in the first beerhouse we saw on the way.

The beerhouse Red Unicorn was crowded and noisy; however, we were not about to stay for long there. But we stayed there longer than we believed.

As soon as we settled at table over our mugs of beer, it turned out that I had a chance to overhear one conversation that sounded like a monologue. "…A room? Yes, the place may be called a room…" an excited red-haired man with a short beard of a skipper talked with his table-mate behind my back. The man's voice was so loud that Clem winced and offered to find another table, but gestured to keep silence, and he saw my wish to listen to. Unsure why I wanted to hear the talk, casting my eyes down, siping the tasty beer from my mug and listening to the loud-voiced man, who went on, "...You open the door and see a soft green semi-darkness. Some rays of a light come through leaves of overseas plants. The light is warm. The leaves seem to make the walls of the room." Nobody in the noisy beerhouse seemed to care for his telling unless his table-mate, whose face I never had a chance to see in the beerhouse, and me, who overheard his speech. "The leaves rustle," the teller went on, "Where does a breeze come from? Unknown. But a breeze is there. How did you come there? You never know. But every time the host is away. Then… one wonderful journey along the verdurous labyrinth you have ahead. The journey is full of discoveries, and the Labyrinth leads in the direction of its own choice and which the Labyrinth finds more interesting. It's living, and it judges your fate there. However, if you are not an evildoer, the Room stops confusing you. Because the Room gets bored of that. It believes that if you don't stray, it's not so funny. That remains obscure either you are invited or not, but the thickets will part, and you'll find yourself in another, more spacious room. More light there, and the plants take any shape, comfortable for your sitting or lying, or anything else. If you cast your eyes up and look attentively at the glimmer, you'll see… decoration and adornments. The Room is wild… and beautiful. The weird ornaments of the plants is a feast for the eye. Striking. It seems that there is a pathway from the Room to a garden. However, the Room can be a way itself to a garden… if you are in luck -- why not? It's nice there: semi-dark, quiet, green. Sir? What kind of a place it is? Ohh… Anything but a bedroom, for one cannot sleep there. There are all necessities for going to bed, the bed, bedside table, and all that… a chest of drawers, where bedclothes are to be placed in good homes, in the morning, and by night, the bedclothes must be taken out and placed on beds, but… if I were you I'd not try to have a nap in the walls, don't do it if you want to be sane leaving the place. Oh yes, sir, don't think it's a joke. By Jove, my brother-in-law happened to be there… That's it, sir, he saw it with his own eyes and he said to me that as soon as he closed his eyes there, to have a nap, like it happens after a couple of pints of ale, the good ale which is served in the Shield and Sword Tavern, on the Northern riverside... That's it, my brother-in-law Martinson. Not that Martinson, who is tried on charge of thievery of the damned abaca from the municipal warehouses, but another, who happened to be gone on the voyage along with Captain Lepik, on board of the ill-fated ship, which hardly could return after the life-threatening encounter with the sea monster in the Southern Ocean. The voyage was great, and he told absolutely unbelievable things about it. One day, their steamship Fair Leokadia… Room? Eh-eh-eh which room? Ah the Room! Well yes, sir, I'm telling… One must not sleep in the Room. You close your eyes, and you open your eyes on the instant, and then you see visions. The walls change before your eyes, you see some unbelievable flowers, either roses or tulips, not those flowers, which we can buy two coins per basket from the vendors, on the square at the fountain... well beyond the Old Town Bridge, on the Southern riverside, at the old Palace of Justice, the big fountain, which the grandfather of our Mayor built, at his own expense... Yes, sir, I'm telling, I'm telling… No hurry, sir, after all. A living-room, sir? Ohh I don't think the Room is a living-room. I'd rather not receive guests in a place of the sort, sir, unless I want to scare them away from my home. A table? Yes, there is a table or two in the Room, but both tables are littered with some papers and maps, as though the host never tastes any earthly viands, feeding on ink alone. But the smells in the air are so delicious there, as my brother-in-law said. Mouth waters. But what does he know about that?.. For he never happened to eat the real goose-flesh stew, cooked by my mother, may God grant her health! We'll drink her health... What? A study? Maybe the Room is a study, but… which of gentlemen keeps those filthy pictures in his study? Pictures like those the tradesmen bring from the South-Eastern islands. Shame indeed. Some naked males, goat-legged daemons, views of violet seas with orange sunsets, some horned creatures, flowers with cabbage-leaf-sized petals. Unless it's a study of a doctor, well you know, one of the new, who took to doing the cure soul of good Christians and not body. But you know, sir, in that event, the remedy could be more baleful than the illness itself. How to cure if you have neither a table for preparing in your study, nor a locker for instruments? Only the green bed and some papers. Unless the doctor undertook -- Lord forgive -- literary, preparation of dreams. Our dreams. Who's drunk? Me? Drunk? God forbid! Could I ever get drunk anywhere in our good old city without my wife's knowledge? She's a bit of a woman, I have to say. Last week, in the morning, when the snow fell on the new, two month-old pavement, my brother Rudy and I cleaned the roof of the ill-fated house, which is no more, because the house burnt down the day before yesterday, so, we cleaned the roof, and I said to him that it wouldn't be bad at all taking a lush to get warmed, or else… Sir?! Another round of drinks? Where are you going?.. Who'll pay for the beer?!"

No more money, no more drink, no more tales... or delirium. Interested in my own delirium alone, I lost my interest to the story, the crowded and noisy establishment and the beer. And yet, I rose and holding my mug in hand, I came to the table of the story-teller.

The red-haired man with a short beard of a skipper was quiet and musing over his half-empty mug. He was not surprised by my question about his speech and his listener. He simply took a folded newspaper which was on the table between his elbows and held it out to me.

It was an old issue of Weekly Express. An advertisement was drawn in a line around. I read it stand-up.

"Information about ghosts being in great demand, Weekly Express asks readers to share personal experience of meeting with the supernatural or telling us who, when and where in Nyomanland happened to see ghosts or apparitions.

Every published report will be paid. 10 roubles. 500 words or less. Our mail address: Ghosts, Weekly Express, 17 Inland Navigation Street, Brumburg."

How simple.

"The gentleman who left is the Ghost Section Editor," the red-bearded man said.

In reply to my question about the Ghost Section Editor's name, the man spiritlessly held out a business card. The card said the name: "Marcus B. Podaletsky."

"What, you'd like to try your luck?"

"Why not?" I said, paid for the man's beer and returned to Clem.

We should leave the spot before the red-bearded man came to himself seeing the fat fee and we did it. So, the story proved to be but a fib told for the small payment. Could a simple man like the red-haired invent a fib like that?

We reached Clem's flat in Lamplighters Lane by the hour when the sun tinted the clouds with red and purple.