PART 1. On the island. Adventures

"Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,

My sinful earth these rebel powers array,

Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,

Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?"

(Shakespeare. Sonnet CXLVI)

The sunray glinted on the letter opener with the Baltic ambers that catched the sunlight in their honey trap --the ambers reminded of my native land –seeing the glint, I reread the letter:

"…come as soon as possible…"

"...I know I should call you sooner, much sooner, but I deemed I could manage by myself…"

"...the circumstances are of the sort that could keep me from coming to meet you neither in Brumburg nor in Est-Toila..."

"Come, if you ever were nice to me!"

"Your Clem."

My way to the brothers' estate Lesyinesmagi was to be long, even today, in our modern times of steamers, locomotives and airplanes.

The letter from my homeland was preceded by a series of occurrences, more or less wired, which more or less brightened my stay on the island of Shardana in the Mediterranean Sea.

One day, in the smoking room of the Monocle Club, the five of us settled in the red plush chairs to talk about this and that, because everything in the oak panelled walls with the large window looking at the flower garden was conductive to idle talk. Lifting the smoke of "Coy Boy," the breeze came in, through the opened window, making an impression of a veranda. Monocles, the members were to have on, was one of two or three rules of the Club for travellers. The next two rules were our good appetite and time-killing.

Time-watching was not forbidden in the Club, therefore, the mantel clock read the postprandial time of the day, and the tear-off calendar on the wall brought the current date to anyone's notice: 1912-08-30.

On the island of Shardana, I spent time alone, enjoying my idleness, which never could be called my custom for the last ten years. Anyway, the air of the smoking room in the time of a day was highly supportive to one's laziness. A social smoker, I was in the room for a change. Talking of tobacco addiction, it would be silly of me to depend on tobacco in my long pilgrimizing, which could bring me to the most remote lands, where a European smoker could find only some trash to smoke, not "junk" or "weed" but a real trash or nothing, staying without the desired object of his addiction for weeks or months. Trembling at the very thought of it. When in the smoking room, we were allowed to let our monocles out of our eyes. Our talk sounded idle till it turned to the theme of futurism in fine art.

Our club mate Nickolas said that he hated futurism, and our mate George said that he found it laughable. Our club mate Addie sounded contradictious to both of them, and our mate Hektor --the fat man whose good-natured face seemed a symbol of elementary and healthy truths especially at the moments of his thoughtful and tasteful lighting up a cigarette --argued with the three.

"Innovators always were an object of derision," Addie said.

Nickolas said, "Nowadays, a small part of them are talented indeed, but the group obviously will go a different way, judging by something positive in their works. All the rest about the innovators looks like epilepsy of picturing and tastes."

George said, "And I don't believe in sincerity of futurism. All of them look like those chubby guys, who press the button of your doorbell and then run away, solely in virtue of the fact that they have nothing to say."

Finishing my Havana, I stayed in the clouds of the tasteful tobacco smoke in order to join the talk. "My attitude towards it is like my attitude to autocars," I said, "I'll go by an autocar never in the world though hundreds of people happily use it every day." Lately, I saw some household ceramics in a shop-window. The pottery was painted by a cubist. A muddle of varicoloured quadrangles, triangles, wedges and lines. The unbearable art of futurists getting so popular and widespread. A reasons could be rooted in our modern day life. I said, "Let's consider futurism in connection with autocar. Autocar and Futurism in fine art are things of the same kind, and there are more things of the kind. No fine art, no the Beautiful is in a muddle of varicoloured quadrangles, triangles and geometric lines, at the point of view of humans, but there can be the onother point of view. Take the standpoint of Autocar. Suppose, Autocar has a kind of an inexpressible consciousness, in addition to its motion and speed, and then you'll find a connection, order and sense. And something sinister about its eyesight. The picture of the varicoloured muddle could be seen by Autocar when it rushed in the street with innumerable doors, signboards, traffic-lights and angles merging in an obscure and steamy ornament. Impressionists proved that standpoints of a picture differ. The same is in the case of Autocar. Next, if we suppose it has standpoint and eyesight, then we should suppose its aesthetics and preferences. Virtually, its impression can be only geometrical. Thus, a remotely human-like muddle of triangles, quadrangles and semicircles with the only eye, which composition looks so difficult to many simpletons, is an image of Human seen by Machine. For Machine, perfect beauty is a composition of triangle, quadrangle and circle."

"Damn," Nickolas said, "What, an autocar has its mind? Consciousness and soul, perchance?!" With no monocle or eyeglasses, the Englishman looked younger than his early-forties.

I said, "It has the heart – its engine – so why not?"

"But the soul?.."

"To the extent, which we give this essential and transcendental part of our being to Autocar."

Hektor said, "Are you ready to explain?"

"I am," I said, "By our accepting all the modern day machinery, making it a part of our life, letting it in our thoughts and actions, we agree with its nature, inner, outer and potential. Moreover, the machinery could not exist, if a part of our being were not mechanical. And I suspect that this part of our being is a part of consciousness of Machine."

George said, "We want evidence!"

"Inanimate substance," Hektor said, "Stainless steel and iron are insensible. Still life. Nature morte."

It seemed to me that I heard an autocar honking outside the window, perhaps in the street, beyond the garden's fence. Then the sound was heard closer, then once again, as though in front of the window. I said, "Do you hear that? This is its call. It sounds like a scream or harsh words. Thus, Autocar has a voice, ability to move, eyes, and perhaps memory. It has home. The autocar garages and salons. There they stand, glossy and greased, on the tiled floor of the spacious and brightly lit halls of the salons. Their portraits on the walls. The photos of race winners on pages of editions like the magazines 'Cyclist,' 'People and Motors.' Autocar has the rational nutrition. Autocar has the music, both songs and jazz instrumental compositions perform the dissonances of the traffic noise. Autocar has a grandsire whose name is Bicycle. Autocar has relatives, Gramophone and Cinematograph, which are often assistive to its poets and panegyrists, the technique-minded humans, who you talked about a quarter ago, and fans, who hymn it." Saying this, I began innumerate some popular songs, "'In My Merry Oldsmobile,' 'The Motor Car,' 'Autoduett aus Hochparterre,' 'The Little Chauffeur...'"

George interjected, "It looks like yours are other songs: 'I Think I Oughtn't Auto Any More,' and 'Keep Away From the Fellow Who Owns An Automobile', eh?"

"Maybe," I said, "but I proceed. Autocar has its doctors, those technicians. Isn't it life? A kind of. It looks like a kind of full life. Finally, Autocar goes in for sports, commits homicides and participates at wars."

Hektor said, "It turns out that… Let's say, a certain autocar, dirty and wounded, returns from warfare. Visiting a spa salon, taking on fuel, it goes home, where it starts a gramophone record of the cheerful 'Königgrätzer Marsch' and tells to start a cinematograph with the film 'Peking to Paris Race.' Presently, its tyre blows out, because of emotions, and because the need to talk to someone, anyone, overwhelmed the autocar."

I said, "You take my meaning. Relationships between things, without our activity, could be such as it is to be in virtue of their dead nature, in a way unknown to us, and it scarcely concerns a human. And yet... Beware technology. It begins enslaving us. Subsequently, it'll conquer the world. Autocar's world is circus theatres, at most, some expensive modern cirus shows, but no, it is conquering the world."

Addie said, "Our life gets more and more complicated, faster, intensive, positively non-stop. Technology increases the intensity. Should we return to primeval time?"

From this instant, I left talking to my mates. Their apologetics to Autocar were common, and there was nobody in the room for whom I wanted to fan my tail. My mates continued by saying that the speed increased goods turnover, helped to compress business life, making it fast as lightning, and letting humans move to outlandish places of the globe at a speed of reading.

Especially funny, the apologetics sounded from the mouth of Hektor. He was a fine art wealthy negotiator from Russian Empire, and like most of Russians, he loved to have something to chew on, more than a frankfurter, to put it mildly. A fascinated connaiseur, I had a chance to dine with him; we talked about Bistolfi and Monteverde, and I could learn of his daily cuisine, by the way. Read the description below, which must be imprinted as curious:

A helping of cold flesh of beluga or sturgeon with the grated root of the horseradish mixed with vinegar, a helping of caviar, two plates of crayfish soup and a spicy soup of fish or a spicy soup of vegetables and meat, with two open-topped fish cakes, all this was to begin with. Next, roast pig, beef or fish, seasonably. If a day was hot, he had cold soup of pot-herbs, sturgeon, white salmon and grated dry balyk. The next remove was a helping of kasha à la russe. Sometimes, he permitted himself a deviation, replacing the open-topped fish cakes by a grand coulibiac. This last fatty dish usually consisted of a loaf baked in pastry shell with salmon or sturgeon, rice, hard-boiled eggs, mushrooms, and dill, but his coulibiac had twelve layers, including vesiga, the spinal marrow of the sturgeon.

The food he washed down with red and white wines, and he loved to take a nap after dinner. In the end of his business day, by night, he went to the Merchant Club in order to enjoy the long night meal in company of friends which suggested champagne. Amazing for me, his companion who tried to imagine the cubic capacity of his stomach. Strangely, I never saw him, the great eater, having chocolate. Like many Russians, he loved talking about everything most sublime, burning or eternal, including money.

My mates talked:

"We can't run away from the facts!"

"You exaggerate the importance of technology too much."

"Me?"

"We, nowadays. I don't reject it, but I believe that we fail regarding psychics."

"No psychics in the world," Hektor said.

"What?"

"That's it. It's nothing, a mere nothing."

"No psychics, you say…"

"Besides… what about a meaning of the word 'psychics'? Emotions? Feelings?"

"Right."

"Energy?"

"Right."

"Autocars, those fuel consuming giants, have plenty of energy." Saying this, Hektor looked impassive.

"Gramophones can consider themselves great singers and thinkers? What about Shakespeare, Dostoyevsky, Wagner? Could the humans be like Gramophones?!"

"They could," he said.

"Casuistic."

I said, "And I would say once again: technology's begun assimilating us." I rose from my chair and crossed over to the window. The cool breeze fanned my face.

Behind my back, Hektor's voice said, "Beware of it, Oscar. What if Technology can hear of your 'tender passion' for it?"

"Oh yea…" I said and went to the cold fireplace.

Nickolas said, "By the by, gentlemen… On the 1st July, during the next air show, the very American aviator, who earlier this year, in April, became the first woman to fly the English Channel, and her passenger die in an airplane crash in the United States. What do you think of that?"

"Of Aircraft?" I said, seeing my mates reflections in the mantel mirror, "Oh yea… The next relative." Smiling at my reflection in the mirror and glancing at the stumpy clock, I took informal leave of all the talkative smokers.

In other words, the eyes of inanimate substance of the mirror met my eyes, the eyes of the human being, and then the human being's eyes left it. The eye of the human being used the service of the inanimate substance of the mirror and clock, and then the human being left them and the room. That's the relationship.

Some say that there are crucial instants that change our life, which we don't realize, but our life can change on the instant and forever. Should we regard ourselves as heaven's tennis balls? I believe not. Man owns both his mind and his life. Even if we come to the world as a tennis ball of heaven, then later, in the course of time, we take control over everything in our life, not all of us, but it's everyone's intention, dream and what personally I've succeeded in. The world is your oyster --this extremeness is closer to my views. I never doubted a single effort of my own will, like I never questioned the benefit of emotions born by contemplation; merely, in case if the latter is unquestionable, the former may be wrong as soon as I make a wrong step. Which of my steps have been wrong for the time of my latest revisiting my homeland?

It's difficult to say, even knowing all the story of my visit. Even if you are an adventurer, explorer, researcher, anyway, you may stumble upon a problem which is beyond you. The series of mysterious events, unbelievable news, supernatural visions and ominous scenes is beyond me or too ambiguous.

Analyzed in retrospect, the Notes are nice for understanding both the story and the state of my mind. That's why this manuscript. In the form of the Notes, my own recent adventures are better presentable to my own mind, and my reader can take a meaning of this introduction after getting the last chapters of the story.

Both an urge for outpouring and any kind of mysticism was always alien to me, man of property, whose sober mind is known to his few friends, if the friends ever were in my life, with this doubt only proving my sobriety. On the other hand, the unbelievable often alternate the mundane in our everyday life. In my view, it's folly to state that follies, dreams and passions must be always alien to a he-man --and I am a man of letters, after all!.. Who knows, maybe absolutely right are those who say that some events of our mature age are echoing passions and follies of our adolescence, however much we change.

Either the Manuscript will be anything outstanding, worth publishing, or it will be simply added to my previous travel notes --who knows… Creative writing. No other business can so successfully fuse all the treasures of your mind and experience into a single whole, while preserving inviolable the most delicate design of every your joy, retrospective or current. Either your experience, joy or sorrow, no matter, anything. Let some say that Man can own his mind but he cannot do it to his fate --never mind... we are in my Notes now, so, follow me, oh reader! Don't miss the war! Till love and beyond.

At the buffet of the Monocle Club, a Gala-Peter chocolate bar could be nice for refreshment --eating up the milk chocolate, I went to have a cup of black coffee. Then I went to the plage for taking a dip in the sea. Anything sinful or morbid or unhealthy scarcely was among my actions of the day, therefore, it was surprise that later, a while after my leaving Café Rouge, where I had had a snack, in the swift twilight of the South, it seemed to me that I saw a vision of one inscription. My meditation helped me neither to see a reason of the vision nor to understand my state. Depressed, I changed my mind and didn't go home.

Not that I loved prowling about a city by night; merely, a walk before sleep often helped to disperse melancholy and get better. That night, I roamed the noisy or silent streets, observing the nightlife in the hope of getting better and not for stumbling upon a new entertainment. Eventually, it helped; my taxing melancholy slowly yielded to my efforts. But something invisible caught every interruption in my musing in order to place again before my mind's eye a bright inscription-like picture of the words "Gift of Mithras."

After I passed two blocks, the graphic intensivity got fading away and then the vision vanished, which was relief, but a sound took the vision's place.

The words were articulated quietly and distinctly "Gift –of –Mithras" by me. I did it. Not subjected to seeing things and all that, I felt like having a drink of something strong.

Like any big town, the streets of Nourago seemed to anticipate your every wish, hastening to gratify it with a signboard or show-window that turned up highly to the purpose. Restaurants, bistros, dives; wine was at any, even most unexpected place. What was more unprofitable for wine trading than the corner between the windowless wall of the old building of the Greek Art Museum and the beginning of Boulevard of Platans, where even by day the shadow was so dark that the wall smelled of coolness and damp like a family vault's, without the town epileptic traffic full of the smithereens flying about tinkling with gold and dishes? But there was a summer-house-like edifice with the black and white signboard that said "Orchids Bar."

The night's soft dozy hand touched my face with the last warmth of the day. The bliss of the cooling breeze enshrouded the pine-trees; the shrubbery seemed darker. The Orchids Bar was not my destination; I hastened to leave Boulevard of Platans and walked to the brighter lit part of the town, but a trembling and quickly enlarging light dashed to my feet as I crossed the street.

Turning my head I froze for a moment which took me to catch the approaching white floodlight. Headlights of an autocar. Shrugging off the unpleasant noisy vision, I went further.

Very soon, amidst the lights and busy life, I felt like a time-waster and I turned to the cinema.

The Lambert Cinema, the first class theatre; plush chairs, gilded pillars, painted ceiling, a broad white screen and good piano.

The pianist was a damsel tonight. Now, the music began to sound. The film was like many, hundreds and thousands, vapid, empty, the permanent, flicking and flickering movement of the screen life, but it gave me pleasure showing how much energy it cost to the film makers. I as though could see a gamer staking on great deal of money over and over again and unsuccessfully. The cinema-camera, the powers and talent of actors, their health, nerves and private life, the machinery, science and complicated devices, all this was like a convulsing shadow thrown onto the white sheet for the short exaltation of the people that had come for an hour and would leave forgiving of the sense of the performance, because all the attacks, abductions, feasts and dances were too alien to the human's bio rhythm, too fast and straightforward. Besides, my pleasure was no more than a malicious joy. Before my eyes, now, the energy turned to the shade, and the shade to oblivion, and I realized where this led to. Regardless of the personages of that predatorily and miserable play, which led the spectators' poor imagination on a leash of the excessive jumps and satanic crimes, which tricks were obviously savored by a part of the spectators who found their ardour and ideals in the performance.

After the performance finished, I paused to read the other film's title on the front entrance. The big letters of the brightly lit poster said:

"ARGONAUTS OF NEW-YORK CITY

The world's famous drama in 6500 meters!

The season's best hit!

A lot of tricks!"

Brightly lit posters and signboards in lights were at every turn in the modern day towns, so, our hallucination should be in the shape of bright inscriptions. I shrugged and walked away, for I preferred a Charlie Chaplin movie.

The nice friendly purple glimmer of Café Rouge beckoned from a distance.

Images of passers-by, from the seemingly satisfied and fine-looking crowd, glimpsed in the mirrors, of the Café with the women's hairstyle and fanciful hats striking more than their pallid faces. At the telephone some sunburnt young men mobbed. Three lines of marble tables divided the hall in the cigarette smoke. The smoke mixed with the smell of absent in the air. I ordered Limoncello a Gala-Peter chocolate bar out of my coat pocket. My second chocolate bar of the day, one of the excesses of the day, if you like. Draining a tot dry, I ordered one more, made a sip and began eating the milk chocolate, as always realising that this kind of excesses could cause my tooth decay.

The warmth spreading within my stomach helped me feel the true rhythm of the moment, which was fluently clearing up. No connection between me and a mythical "gift of Mithras," whatever it was in reality and whatever legends had it. No connection; and the supernatural message was not for me. My next looking round could not help me to find a companion in the clouds of tobacco smoke. Feeling sober and even-minded, I used these moments of the clear perception to think over some nuances of my current state.

The point was that my mind had been irritated and somewhat exhausted by my dreams about my Dream Boy, who I could not find. My writing in progress, my latest concoction, was awaiting, impatient, calling for my pen and thirsting for a young thing. Now, when I put the problem out of my head, my imagination made me feel wonderfully comfortable like in my mansion in London, as though sitting at my hookah and sniffing up exciting aromas of my small collection of hookah tobacco blends. The dark flavorsome wet mixture of fruit tobacco, molasses and Scotch. Roseleaves, lime and vanilla. Cognac, chocolate tobacco and cherry… The phantom aromas. The thought of revisiting my Kernstadt Castle came, when a delicate hand lay down on my shoulder, and a pleasant male voice said, "Nice evening, isn't it, Oscar?"

Henrie Termian. My good ear for music let me recognize the voice heard suddenly in the crowded place. The slender, blond-haired young man whose beautiful physique made him worth being my dream boy for the while of my stay on the Island, and I were not friends, having not a chance to know each other better. Well-dressed as always, with his clean-shaven white face and blue eyes, today he perhaps came out of the hazy mob of the young men at the telephone. "Greetings, Henrie…" I said, "…first to your reflection in the irror, and a moment later, to you." I turned my head and look at his face.

"…seeing you, Mr Graf, one could think you found a place for a rendezvous… or a last drink before committing suicide."

"No, Henrie, I am as far from intention to continue a moonlit dynasty of suicides as you."

His smile was so subtly that hardly visible in the artificial light.

"Call me Oscar," I said.

"All right, Oscar. I am going to the Grand Duke Casino. They say an extraordinary competition takes place there. To my taste. Have you heard of the exceptional luck of Aevengorghis?"

"Aevengorghis?" I said.

"One Darko Aevengorghis, the gamester or something of the kind. It's the third day as he beats playing poker. Would you like to see the game? A lot of people do it right now."

The best offer in the night. It could make this pause turning into a dense tissue of night dreams and fantasies. "A spontaneous show where we have a chance to witness a denouement of a true drama?"

With his graceful walking-stick in his arm, Henrie took my arm as we left, unnoticeable like fleshless ghosts.

The Grand Duke Casino was known as a colossal shelter for various sorts of crimes and vices. Nike Samothracian showed white on the fronton of the building, a marble female form, winged and headless. At the fan-like staircase, vendors mobbed dealing in coke, opium and pornographic stuff. Glancing round, Henrie said, "Onwards, onwards, to the fourth dimension!" The lamplights of the front entrance made his face paler; this light and his presence could cause insomnia with no fumes of wine.

The heavy, depressingly gaudy luxury of the establishment seemed to serve as an illustration for possible winnings – someone's right calculation for the subliminal. The bluish light was effused by shimmery white bodies and cloths flying up in the hazy perspectives of huge gild-framed canvas. Walking on the thick carpets, we made our way through the crowd of well-dressed public, and from the shadow of a canopy of palm leaves we saw it. At the green cloth, on the electrisized spot between the houseplant and the trembling hands of the next loser, the gamester Aevengorghis gave his performance.

The players were seven. The crowd of gloating betters stirred around. Aevengorghis was with no coat, his soft-pink shirt sleeves rolled up. His big pale face, with greyish bugs under dark eyes, perspired all over; he declared the suit and "full house," and he often passed. His current partner's look and hands showed a loss. "I have some money about," Henrie said, "I'll try..." He watched this player in order to take the place as soon as it was possible. It happened very soon.

Now, Henrie took the chair vis-à-vis Aevengorghis. Aevengorghis did not glance at him. The croupier dealt round. Seeing his hand of five cards, Henrie discarded and added five from the stockpile. The game was with joker. The battle of bets began.

Both secret and open games of chance were in great demand, nowadays like centuries ago. Establishments of the sort were crowded, for the passion for dice and cards, obsession sometimes, attracted the best people to the green cloth. Hairy male fingers constrainedly clenched alongside the white and well-groomed ones; anticipation caused a suttle twitter of lovely lips as well as salivation of the ugly ones. A loss caused moues or frowning. The sound of cast dice or cards, fleeting and prophetic, was heard between the gold and metallic currency clinking. The won gold changed other lives where the loss made cracks. All kinds of corruptions arose, sudden or expected, making the establishments commercial. The wheel of fortune made a turn, and corrupted minds collapsed, expectations turned to dust, plans were ruined. Gold went from hand to hand, satisfying someone's desires; funds were shuffled among accounts; market, auction and betting arose. Everyone sought to sell something or looked for a seller. Some earned by mediation and commission rates; some made profit by human distress and poverty; many juggled with quality. Every passion might be satisfied in case if circumstances were favorable at a hot spot like this.

Betting about the ending of a game before the game had been started, people gambled heavily around the green cloth. Every gesture of gamers arose the fall of the invisible hummer and consequences. Many got turned on games; many heads were turning from this game. Interests of many depended on Henrie's turns, ace of trumps and the Gamster's art. And the two depended on a mere chance.

Henrie might agree to the Gamster's sum and show cards or raise the bet, after which the Gamster could, if he wanted, refuse the showdown, losing his 100 000 without playing. Aevengorghis might not have even a minimal chance -- he might put his "full house" on the table. Henrie might suppose his bluff -- but the sum, which the Gamster voiced, told about his ability to play for high stakes. Henrie seemed to play a hunch. He said, "300 000."

Silence fell between innumerable faces of the viewers with glinting eyes.

"Cheque," Aevengorghis said hoarsely.

Looking at his unshaven face, Henrie laid cards aside to draw a cheque. Before signing, he paused, glanced at him as though absentmindedly, and then I quickly inscribed his name.

The croupier read aloud what was written on my cheque.

"500 000," Aevengorghis said, moving the money and cheques to the middle of the green cloth.

A roll of rapture over the crowd around the table. A half million stake. My heart sank. Henrie looked calm.

Time of showdown. Betters held their breath.

"Well?" Henrie said.

Aevengorghis showed his "carre" of aces.

A wild roar in the crowd. I knew I turned pale. The crowd quivered to start dispersing. But it was Hnrie's turn, and then -- Aevengorghis'indescribable look, when Henrie showed five cards and said, "…Face your destiny!"

Cries and wails in the crowd.

Aevengorghis hardly could press out, "Your…" but he froze with a strange expression and leaned back in the chair.

It looked like a faint. While clerks took him away, the croupier counted up the money and handed all to Henrie, saying that there was a want of 45 000. The croupier volunteered to inquire, and receiving permission, he departed. I approached Henrie.

We were surrounded with a crowd of willing slaves, those well-dressed pariahs, usual to any luxurious establishment, who could not imagine their business and fate without the gold dust. One frequenter turned round and I recognized Cecco among them, in other words, Count Cornaro. The croupier returned.

The clerk brought a message from Aevengorghis. The note said --

Some more money I'll send you later today, but I have not all the sum. On account of paying off, I'll send you a ring. Expensive, it is said to belong to King Mithrasdates. If you wish. If not, you'll have to wait...

Darko Aevengorghis

1912-08-31

"Anything's wrong?" Henrie asked.

"?!" My strange excitement rose again. Gift of Mithras. On the green cloth, the painted faces seemed to grimace and smile: the bearded Kings exchanged smiles with the clean-shaved Knives, halberds crossed with swords, the Queens smelled motley tulips. "I am quite all right," I said.

In another instant, Henrie and I went to the greyish-blue haze of the glinting vista.

After the moments of the general confusion, the former general activity recovered in the Casino. Henrie was about to stay for baccarat, and I wished him good luck.

The door-keeper helped me to take cab, and the nice old-fashioned horse drawn carriage took me away from the bustle and lights of the night life, towards the hotel in the quiet part of the town that looked much like a suburb or a part of a seaside resort, with both definitions being right in a way.

Gift of Mithras. King Mithrasdates the Great. His name meant Gift of Mithras. The King of Pontus in northern Anatolia, one of Rome's most formidable and successful enemies scarcely visited the island Shardana. As for the local cult of Mithras, I heard nothing of it, visiting the island more than once.

"I tell the tale that I heard told.

Mithridates, he died old."

Now, I heard of the ring that was said to beloned to the ancient King. What's more... There was Mithridates' antidote. If not about the ring, my hallucination could be omething like warning about a danger to my health to come. Mithridates VI was known as polyglot, and I had to talk three languages, at least, when travelling... In the dark about it, I remembered I recently was told about the cult of Tyrrh, local hero-healer. Not far from the town was the sanctuary of Tyrrh. What about an outing? If I had a good companion.

In the lobby of the Cardinals Hotel, the darkly arrogant camel in the familiar poster advertising "Gala-Peter chocolats au lait" on the wall looked much nicer than usual. The remembrance of Henrie's prize money faded before my thought of the ring's name.

The arpeggio of the experienced impressions sounded indistinctly, as though subdued by the thick wooden walls of the hotel, making to think of the eventful night evenly, taking it for an event from a book. Self-control didn't fail; merely, abed, I forgot of the ring that was "said to belong to King Mithrasdates," for the ring was not won by me, after all – but I was reminded of it, the next day.

Every morning is a reason for beginning to live again -- in case if you have had a good sleep. If not, begin to live again, anyway.

Soon after nine in the morning. The reddish-golden rays lit up my wristwatch, which was on the night-table along with a glass of water and the yesterday papers. Barefoot, I enjoyed the waxed cool floor when walking to the opened window.

The morning sunshine and verdurous aromas streamed freely. The Cardinals Hotel was rather small but it suited my needs in Nourago, the main city of the French island Shardana in the Mediterranean Sea, where I had spent three weeks by the night when I heard of the ring. At a distance, beyond the verdurous masses of chestnut-trees, the bluest misty view of mountains, sky and sea, both peaceful and fantastic.

At table d'hôte, the bacon and eggs were bearable. In the middle of my substantial morning meal, at a silent moment at the table and profound moment of my musing, Max the waiter approached to call me to the phone.

In the lobby, taking the receiver, I heard Henrie's voice finishing a conversation with someone. Coming from the invisible space, the voice said, "…just a little while will pass." Then the voiced said in my ear, "Oscar?"

Before saying "It's me," I withdrew the receiver lest it touched my skin: so artificial and unpleasantly close, as though in my hand, the brassy sound of the voice turned the receiver into an unknown living thing. Some problems, every time I use telephones. Then, we began talking with Henrie about last night.

He had a spree with some friends, at his, and he invited me. In reply to my question, he said that he lost only a little bit of money at the last night baccarat, almost all the won money were with him, and the lawyer from Darko Aevengorghis visited him in the morning in order to hand the promised ring. Simply and carelessly, he invited me to come and get the ring as a present, for he was not in need of it, and he desired to thank me "for bringing luck." "The memory of my winning will remain in centuries here, like that of Tyrrh the local hero-healer!.." he said laughing. Superstitious as all gamers, he had a spree before midday – either seemed funny and alien to me. "J'arrive," I said and slammed down the receiver.

Loosening my necktie, I saw my right hand sweaty. The sun sucked up the mist from the air; the day promised to be hot.

Henrie Termian was known as a secretary to a landowner from Normandy, in other words, he was someone's favourite, having money, enough money for his own enjoyments. No impecuniousness in the youth's life, as I believed. Oh Impecuniousness, the vampire of Paris, London and any big town, who sucks vital energy of young people of all nations, robbing them of their joy de vivre, and lulling their minds with his big dirty wings even at the moments when the young men went nap on! Even I had a chance to know this vampire in particular, though my only sin against my guardians was my anticipating income, too careless, two or three times, no more. Like me, the youth lived alone, at present, at his boss' villa, and one could see him at restaurants and the Casino. "Je t'adore." As Marcus Valerius Martialis said, the virtuous man is never a novice to anything worldly. Now, a nice old-fashioned tilbury took me to the villa where I saw Henrie at table with four companions.

One of the men was Cecco, in other words, Count Cornaro who we saw in the Casino, and the other was one Mr Sapulveda the very lawyer from Aevengorghis, who came to close some issues in the morning, and who looked especially drunk; two others were some friends of Henrie. Seeing me, the drunken lawyer began specifying something, in faltering language, seeking to introduce himself or explain something, "…I beg you to take into consideration…" "…out of delicacy…" "…the very nature of the event," and so forth. Roar of laughter replied to his unsuccessful effort. Then, he muttered something like, "...the whys and wherefores of this judicial procedure need to be explained," and he dozed off on his chair.

Henrie's dwelling was spacious enough, and I asked permission to examine the ring that he light-heartedly handed to me, in privacy, in the other room.

The allegedly ancient jewelry was a yellow gold ring with three diamonds, made for wonder gracefully if to take into consideration its age. It could be called wonderful, it could be called breathtakingly beautiful, it could be called unique, but the ring scarcely could be so old as it was said, because the faceting looked traditional as all we had got used to see in jewellery -- unless the gold itself could be so ancient, and the ring could be remade and the precious stones were re-faceted or new ones were inserted. A big square red diamond wonderfully reigned in the centre. Two smaller triangular white diamonds delightfully guarded it on sides. The white diamonds were sized between 10 and 15 karats each, by eye. The impressive composition in the solid gold attracted my eye like a magnet. Taking my breath, I said to myself that it was nice to have valuables like this at any rate. The ring obviously was sized for a male's finger, but I did not hasten to put it on mine – I merely admired the thing of beauty. However dubious the ring's age, the jewellery was obviously expensive, and the ill Gamester was Henrie's debtor no longer.

So, my hallucination concerned the ring with the owner's name Mithridates, nothing other, and the hallucination looked meaningful perhaps solely in virtue of the dusky setting.

"I can leave my job and go to travel!" Henrie said, coming in. The twinkling of his blue eyes seemed for ever. My Dream Boy of Shardana?

"In this case," I said, "the Grand Duke Casino should be in your agenda never again."

Staring at me, the youth thought for some time before repling, "Right. You are absolutely right, Mr Graf... Oscar." He heavily subsided in a chair and gave a sigh.

"You look absentminded," I said, "However, anyone would, in your place. The ring is nice"

"I'm happy that you like it! You looked absentminded too, and I thought you disliked it."

His large forehead evoked one's desire to caress his hair. I averted my eyes, "I'm absentminded because I'm with you."

He frowned seeking to remember something. "Once, at the Ice Cube Bar, you said you wrote a book," he said, "Have you finished it?"

"It's a secret," I said, "I trust you like nobody in the world but I don't trust myself."

Obviously, unsatisfied with my reply, he asked, "But why?"

"I happened to go into details of that, and my words caused merriment and suggestions so playful that I scarcely would like to hear laughter once again. Do you know my previous book's title?"

"Tell me please!" His head was reposing on the tall back on the chair.

"The title is… A Drop of Blood for Every Tear."

"It sounds scary. Yes, you puzzle me, Mr Graf."

"My nerves are guilty of my love for mystery."

He gave a chortle. "And I was so glad to see you last night. It was y intuition that your presence could bring me luck."

"Take care lest anybody play booty for you."

"All right."

"A whole covey of trumps?"

"Something of the kind."

"I have something to offer... Would you like to get anything special in the evening?"

"I'd love to take a look, of course!"

"If you are free today, get ready for horse riding to Salvatore Ridge. Settings are of importance for me."

"Today? No, I can't. Tomorrow, if you don't mind."

I kept silence.

"Are you all right?" he said.

"Quite all right," I said, "Tonight or tomorrow, in fact, it makes no difference. Well… we'll do the riding tomorrow… or any other day, when you are free. Never mind."

"Give me a call, sir, tomorrow, all right? When you are ready tomorrow, let me know."

"D'accord, mon amour."

He gave a chortle, but his eye didn't laugh. His perfect features froze and he closed his eyes.

In the drawing-room, taking a nap, the layer got enlivened when seeing me and again he addressed to me, "...my heartfelt felicitations to you dear sir!.. Serge Sapulveda – at your disposal! – always!.."

My warmest smile to him, my verbal gratitude to Henrie, and then, taking a glass of champagne, I left.

Perhaps, my presence seemed to be more and more boring to the youth. However, the parting did not spoil my current mood; on the contrary, it would be yet nicer to leave the blond knave embarrassed more, in the end. I had my Julian, after all.

Whatever happened to me, whoever I met, wherever he stayed at the time, wherever I stayed, I always had my Julian. However great expanse there was between me and my boy today, we had had time to know each other, and any distance scarcely could change our feelings, and our love could conquer both time and expanse.

The sea-salt windflaw refreshed my face; smiling, I slowly crossed the street.

Next day, my late getting up was quite natural but little desirable, for I prefer to catch the early morning freshness and I was about to give a call.

Vivid and numerous, my thoughts sounded like plucking strings, hinting at a melody, but they were intelligible only to the ear that did have a chance to hear the melody -- and I did not. Are you familiar with the permanent hope for the chimerical, the endeavour to revive a night dream, right after your awakening, when the visions are clear no longer for you, and you understand them, but you can't transform your understanding into a thought, and in the meantime, the visions' sense is eluding quickly like water flowing between your fingers, and it vanishes completely as soon as you consciousness is cleared up? The sort of a sensation turned over in my head.

I gave the call, but it was no sooner than I visited the barber's and had a substantial morning… no, it was rather lunch. Being all right carnally, I didn't feel joyful about the phone talk, because of some problems with telephones and because I felt unsure about a result.

Seeking to sound joyful, I succeeded and received my Dream Boy's assent. What could come of our horse riding... The youth sounded indifferent, but it could be only the phone-born distortion, and the talk didn't dampen my ardour. I should try my luck in order not to miss the game.

102°F in the shade. The South is unbearable, at times. "The air was pure and fresh like a child's kiss..." Fancy that! Poets are unbearable, at times too. Firstly, a child's kiss is clean only in case if a nanny looks after the child; secondly, why the southern air is fresh as we gasp for breath? The southern day makes you feel like in a heated oven sometimes. All around is heated. Hell sooner than paradise. In the North, you can find a cool nook at the time of the southern heat. Step into the translucent shadow of the pine-trees, whose copper-red trunks shed the tears of resin, get a lungful of the curative coolness from the fresh air, subside on the mossy roots and enjoy contemplating the dark quiet water of the lake. That's what I call paradise.

My friend Doctor Shrek came. It's nice to have a doctor as your friend when you are in the South. By the by, I didn't see him at table d'hôte today. He knocked at my room door when I was busy with my clothes for riding.

"It looks like typhus epidemy breaks out." After a while of thoughtful silence, the old bore came to the decision to "gladden" me this way as I proceeded with my clothes, and he seemed to be surprised seeing my impassiveness. "That's it," he continued, "One fatal case is known. Did you have the cold soup at table, today?"

"Dear Doctor, I eat the cold soup according your advice, by the by." The news was to horrify, but I was too busy to tear my hair about it.

"You mustn't, from now on," he said.

"Thank you, dear sir." The fragrance of the flowers from the garden seemed tainted with the smell of cyanhydric acid. The news was truly awful, and it's time to leave the island, before the Yellow Flag was hoisted.

Lighting up the next cigarette, Doctor said, "We must be careful about much, from now on. Have you heard that Gallagher from the Royal Village died? He died from his own carelessness."

"Gallagher?" I said while choosing a necktie.

"The fatal case which I talked about."

Obviously, Doctor was consumed by desire to tell about the Case. Remembering his help, when he applied leeches to my nape of the neck, one day, I asked him to tell about the recent "fatal case" in detail.

"Gallagher…" Doctor began, "...he's native here… he got wet in rainfall. It's not the North, and rain is no joke here. Well you know of that. But here is one remedy. A rainwater-sodden man goes to the plage to take the sun and he's lying there till he believes he's dray and all right again. Taking a sort of a compress, as it were."

"But what about Gallagher?" Holding the conversation, I fitted on my sport jacket, looking at myself in the mirror.

"He did all what I've said. Yes. But finally, he went to the mountains, for some reason. Humidity. +7°C, at the average."

"Well?.."

"Getting cold, he felt hungry and he ate up several fresh cucumbers, drank the icy cold spring water and settled on the grass to sleep. By night, when he was at home, he felt ill. For three days of his illness he never sent for doctor. On the fourth day, he died."

I expressed my solidarity with Doctor about his opinion on Gallagher's obvious carelessness.

He said, "And you eat the could soup!.."

Outside the window, on the path of the garden, a creaky cart slowly went. The sound was harsh as though a group of goose, donkeys and peacocks cried all together.

Lighting up the next cigarette, Doctor said, "Price for garlic goes up."

"Why?"

"Disinfection. Ladies wear garlic as amulets on breast, and not only in pockets."

I loved garlic as a part of my food, but I hated to have it getting warmed on my skin or scenting my clothes. Ugh… Now, my intention was to go to tell to get two horses ready for riding. "Could I bring a drink for you, Doctor? Chablis? Frascati, maybe?"

"Nice of you, dear friend. Chablis, please," he said.

I returned in company with a bellboy who carried a tray with the drink.

Doctor Shrek expressed his appreciation of the fact that the bottle was cold and uncorked. The bellboy was let go, the glasses were filled, and we tasted the cold wine. Doctor was the first to break the silence. "I've forgotten to say... Smyth died."

"Which Smyth?"

"The Colonel with gall-stones. However, it should be expected. It's not the epidemy, not at all."

Silence.

"Have you heard of the carriage which fell from the mountain pathway, the day before yesterday?"

"No," I said, "Victims?"

"The horses are lost, of course," he sighed, "The merchant from Paris has injury of his liver and bruises, his daughter has bruises and her hand out of joint, and his wife has bruises and concussion of brain."

"Mmmm… Have more wine, Doctor?"

"No, thank you."

Waiting for the news from the stable, I was in anticipation of the riding, which feeling didn't let me enjoy the old bore's presence. On the other hand, no reason to drive him away anyhow.

Telling two more stories from his practice, one of which was the case of a young boy who yesterday was bitten by a snake at the railway station, Doctor rose from the chair.

Taking leave, he promised to come by night to have a cup of tea. "Why the stableman doesn't come to tell about my horse?" I thought to myself, watching the door closing behind Doctor's back, but another moment I asked myself if by chance my guest left being offended by anything in my look or words.

Spending a while in the pose of lotus, I began thinking of going to the plage for having a dip in the sea, but there was a knock at the door. The stableman, at long last!

My new topi was highly to the purpose that day. Ready to the last gaiter button, I tied loosely my dove-coloured and blue silk neckcloth on the move when leaving the room.

Outdoors, two stallions in harness looked nice. Without wasting time, I mounted my horse; the new saddle pleasantly creaked. I headed for the road. Riding the second horse the stableman followed me. We raised clouds of dust.

By the two of us, the other doctor and a covey of his patients went ahorseback too. The doctor was younger than Shrek, mannerly and lisping to companions and ladies, and it looked like all kinds of gynecopathy he treated with the aid of horse riding. In the rear of the cavalcade, I saw my friend Hektor ahorseback. Seeing me, the fat man averted his eyes. There, along the side of the road, the army general from Russia walked, purpled-faced and paunchy, with his coat unbuttoned. The old man did promenade, prescribed by doctors, and greasy spots over his white waistcoat as usual told about the dishes which he had had at table.

On the approach to the villa where Henrie lived, it seemed to me that I saw his smiling face in a window. I felt excited and somewhat silly as a man who caught someone's fancy solely in virtue of the fact that he was of use because he was said to be wealthy. Deluded not in the least, I was not about to stop it all and beat a retreat.

Leaving the horses to the stableman, I entered the house. Now, when I controlled the situation, the annoying depression passed away. It was one of those sensations that can possess you at moments when you feel lonely being together with your beloved one.

Henrie smiled, "You look satisfied. Your writing in progress is all right?"

"My new project scarcely can bring me any money. On the contrary, it can ruin me."

"Why?"

"It may not answer my expectations."

"What kind of a book is it? Which secret ends is it to serve?" The sly boy obviously played. I kept silence. Taking his riding-crop, he said, "Is the place of inspiration beautiful?"

"This question I can answer quite genuinely. The place where we are going is beautiful."

"So, we are going to your workshop or laboratory?"

"The workshop of nature."

"You are a mystifier, sir."

We mounted the horses. He said, "The day is fine, your horses too. What's a name of mine?"

"Macao."

It looked like my unbearable manner or luck to find an indifferent objet d'amour played a trick to me.

Beyond the compass of the town, we cantered our horses; three quarters more and we reached the pathway to Salvatore Ridge.

However friendly and encouraging I sounded, on our way, I failed directing him to amity or a relative intimacy with me, or evoking his feeling akin to mine to the landscapes, at least, which became more and more wild and impressive – the landscapes and not my failure. All he replied, "Oh yes!" and "Really?"

The wild grassy and rocky pathway meandered over the gentle slope of the mountain. When we had to draw reins, and our horses went at a slow pace, Henrie said with a smile, "Ah I love high speed! That's life!"

"Speed of fall," I said, "Savages love to be impressed with impressive stuff like high speed. What is reckoned a sign of an innovative refinement today is a mere atavism, in fact. Entertainments of the sort -- races, switchback railway, roundabouts -- all this is increasing popularity of the giddy sensation of fall. There is a limit in high speed when horizontal motion seems a fall. You enjoy the sensation of your heart sinking during the fall. The aim of the people, who believe like you, is making motion look like fall. What could be more primitive? Aimlessly primitive, I would say."

"But the furious pace of our life… Motley becomes our second nature," he said.

"Both right and wrong. The things and actions, which are slow to be made, relatively slow, for measures vary in their nature, and careful, are the most dear and valuable..." An impromptu speech ensued, which was to work for sexual seduction, like every time in case if my objet was one of fat cats, a wealthy and well-educated youth. The dim meaning and the pompous phrases of my high-flown parable were right for an impressible young thing.

But my blond companion didn't look impressed too much by my speech, either taking it for a mere verbiage or not listening to me. "Is it a theme of your book?" he said.

"Not exactly." Glancing at him, I said, "You'll say that the high speed of motion increases exchange and that it makes culture go? I'll say it pushes culture to the verge. Culture moves faster and faster because it cannot hold its ground."

"Conspiracy of machines? Interesting theory." My judgement did not betray me, Henrie was well-educated for his age. He added, "You are right, maybe. And yet, one should live lightly and quickly, no?"

"Would you live like today, if you were to die and then reborn?"

"I detest the question. Do I live in a wrong way? Even if I do, you are not entitled to say me about this."

"It's not grumbling of a nagger, it's my concern for you. However, I shall redress my wrong, soon, in…"

"Don't palter with the question, answer it plainly!" He stopped his horse. "What's a purpose of your telling and questioning?" Waxen-white becoming a wax figure.

We were on approach to the Ridge, and the blissful "7°C at the average" which Doctor Shrek mentioned earlier today, approached me. I gloved my hands. "Relax," I said, "It's my manner to entertain."

"Maybe… But you were going to say something other…"

"No, nothing. Just confused by your sudden austerity."

The deep diametrical break in the rock on the left was familiar to me. I stopped my horse and said, "We are almost there."

We dismounted and tied our horses. "Mysterious…" Henrie said, looking round, "For a long time go?"

"Until the wolves come," I began joking about our walk that looked much like those from old detective stories, lest he began getting nervous. "…A hundred of yards more and we are there."

Along the bottom of the break, we went side by side, with me taking gloves off my hand on the move. Nothing entangled our pace; presently, the violet twilight began fading, because we came up to the brink of the precipice that opened the view of the sunlit valley with the farmhouses looking like a flock of white birds over the lush greenness. From the blue sea on the skyline, the enormous canopy of the blue sky rose, throwing the wind on to our faces. Looking at the youth's beautiful face with narrowed eyelids, I said, "See?"

"Not bad at all," he said through clenched teeth, "But we ought to go to see your workshop, no?"

His tone went to my head like a glass of wine taken on empty stomach. I took his hands in mine. He seemed surprised so much that he didn't resist, at first; then, the series of his quick motions, as he broke loose from my grip, made him look like a whipping top. Irresistible adversary. Now, we were apart, and I saw his revolver aiming at me.

No rose without a thorn. But the revolver moved, and I realized it was a gunshot.

A disgusting whizz, something like a pebble in the air brushed against the left side of my head. My strapped up topi was highly to the purpose -- but this headdress in shape of a helmet made of cork, which saved my temple today, was damaged, most probably. Feverishly resisting to the gravitation, I finally fell down on the ground, and saw the leather-clad feet recoiling from my face; but I made a dash for the feet, grabbed and pull at them.

As he fell down beside me, his hand dropped the revolver. Turning my head I could see the revolver at a distance. If he didn't grab my hands, for the obvious reason, I could reach the gun.

Grabbing his waist and pressing him tightly, I nearly touched the gun with my left hand, but he began breaking my fingers. Finally, a stone in his hand hurt mine; he slipped out like a fish and repossessed his revolver.

I remained lying and watching. After he jumped on feet, the revolver was aimed at me again.

In the silence, our mutual panting was heard like a cry; however, it might be my panting alone. He said, "What it was? Tell about!"

"It's upshot," I replied, staring straight before me, that is, skywards, "Showdown. The cards on table moment, and I can see yours. Your cards are wax-stained."

I didn't see his face, when he asked, "Where are you hurt?" but I heard him going round me.

Our next fight could cause our falling from the cornice and enormous height, that's why, I was lying as though weak from the blood-letting. Disappointed by my failure more than suffering with the supposed "wound," I wondered what came next.

"Can you go to horses?" he said, "If yes, then I'll help up. If not, stay lying, keep patience. I'll send an autocar for you."

"I can't go to horses," I said in reply, "Never mind. Nothing to care about, for I've lost you, forever. So, let's speak openly." I opened my eyes and looked round.

My last words remained unheard, for he was nowhere about. Damn. Making effort, I sat up.

Touching the left side of my head, I found my topi damaged, much, to the feel. I unfastened it and took it off. The damage was obvious like my failure. A globe-trotter and unwearied seeker of adventures, I am not of iron though, and sometimes all-too-human foibles made me lose control of myself to such an extent that my emotions got palpable and telling upon my life. I threw the topi away, into the blue, where the green abyss was to engulf it. Putting my clothes in order automatically, I found my gloves in the grass and checked up my pockets.

My lonely way back didn't seem so difficult, but it was to be long, regardless of my hurry or taking time.

Horses were nowhere about the spot where they were tied. In case if it was the very spot, then the Wax Boy took away mine. "Hey you!" I shouted out. The echo of his name persistently rolled somewhere behind the rocks.

His promise about any help for me was common shenanigans; sooner hired assassins could be sent to find me in the wilderness. My descent from the Ridge was to be on foot and lonesome, through the highland woodland and along the motorway, and my wristwatch said that I scarcely could be helped before the night fell.

Indeed, when the moon gave the pale magic light, I was on the way.

My way was moonlit; the forested hills looked silvery. The night dusk is not darkness; concealing nothing, it merely dims colours. The time is for poetic insights. Let the pale fire clear up everything around, let the birds keep silence and flowers stop emitting fragrances, let some oddish imps frisk in the dewed messy herbage underfoot, but we enter the forest. From old times, humans know how perilous forests could be by night, how unpredictably living forests are, in fact. By day, the forest spirits sleep, and they unquestionably detest our invasion into their life.

On my way, I had to go through a thicket of some flowering herbs, shoulder-high and higher, something like wild cannabis, not sure in the dusk, but I had to make my way through it, and the sweet aromatic pollen got into my nose. As a result, the slight heaviness in my head, that suggested that I was contused, increased, and my fever passed off as I came down to the motorway.

The stream of the moonlight washed out the motorway up to the horizon. Standing on the height of the road I thought that I happily reached the road, never strayed in a wrong direction, but I realized an unusual, fantastic sate of my mind. The opposite distant height was crossed by a dark line... and there, at the distance, a spot appeared and began growing, with an impressive speed, like an ink-stain on paper. I went to meet the vision for some time, but it made me stop when it was obvious that an autocar with shining brightwork was going towards me with the horrid ease of an automat that abolished the very idea of effort.

Turning to the shrubbery, I lurked in the cool humidity. The distance between me and the autocar now was so balefully small that I could make out passengers. The driver as well as two passengers was wearing the protective autocar goggles; their heads turned fluently and measurely looking round; one of the passengers said something to another as the autocar brought its loud rolling crack by me.

Pits and roots entangled my pace; some dry thorns scratched my clothes. Taking breath, I approached the motorway again and looked out shrubbery. The road was empty. Not a slightest sound of motor. Knowing that I could hide myself in the shrubbery at any moment, I came out on the road and quickly walked along it, with my head hazy but my pace energetic. The talk in the Monocle Club, Hektor's words, "Beware of it, Oscar…" the fat man's averted eyes, on my way to the dating, these and other recollections seemed ominous, and my suspiciousness increased. I ran, forwards, with my measured tread making the road run backwards underfoot. The fast motion of the air cooled my face. When I thought it's time to take a rest, I sat down in the middle of the road, face to the Ridge, and embraced my knees. Presently, some vibration of the ground let know that the chase was returning.

Several moments more, and the autocar began attacking, from afar… whom? me, the human ready for anything, indifferent and still like the road itself. Before the wildly hissing wheels, Death impudently felt me with the aid of the approaching floodlight, the cold rays of the creeping light instead of a sunny, vivacious abyss of immortality, but the iron beast began rumbling slower, turned to the side of the road and became silent.

Three men got out from the autocar; two of them had bowlers on and the third had a glossy top hat, judging by their dim silhouettes. The men approached me, the man with confused mind, tired limbs and dirty clothes, and they took me into their arms. After I was placed on the backseat of the autocar, the next sound was like that of a thick tarpaulin being torn underground. A little while more, and my eyes closed and I nodded off.

So, the blond knave, who sneaked out, leaving me alone on the Ridge, the fair-haired cherub, whose place was rather on a bookshelf, sent the autocar for me. Alas, I seemed crazy to him, frightening him in earnest. Did I say that I reckoned myself an experienced traveller not without good reason?

However intensive, perilous or ominous it seemed, the night romping was not anything extraordinary for me, the globe-trotter who happened to go through much when travelling. It's life --the life's convulsion, grimace, wale or smile -- any life is good. You have lost or you are losing your beloved one, who looks like a thing of beauty? Feeling too nervous? Take a glass of Madera. At any bereavement, there are two resorts: religion and philosophy. Take either, if you feel fit, and get better.

Spending the day in the coolness of the forested mountains, I returned after the time when the night coolness had posessed the earth. Not amiss. Sound in life and limb. Full of life. While there's life, there's hope. Nice. But in lobby of the Cardinals Hotel, the camel's muzzle in the poster advertising Gala-Peter chocolate looked especially ugly to me.

There was a knock at my room door.

"Entrez!"

Doctor Shrek came for a cup of tea. He saw me abed, stark naked and blanketed up to my chin. Feeling chased but not chased, all I wanted was having a rest. It happened like this, sometimes, but it proved to be a taxing game. Not feeling compelled to be genuine to him, I said that I had returned from my good long round in the mountains, where I fell from a rock, and now I was unwell, feeling feverish, having headache.

"Did you hurt your liver, by any chance?" Doctor began his checking up by feeling my puls.

"Having not the faintest idea."

"Let me palpate you."

He began palpating my liver and stomach, pressing on some bruises. I never found a doctor's palpating exciting, but I said, "Don't be naughty, Doctor!"

"Does it give you pain?" he said.

"No, Doctor."

"Hmm… Bruises, there… there... and there, on your arms. Lead water. Mere compresses, nothing more."

My limbs were all right; I pulled the blanket up to my chin again.

As a consolation, he said, "My assistant fell ill." He looked at me to learn my reaction. I listened to him as the only living thing in the room, but me myself. He went on, "They say he got infected. But I believe, a reason is the apricots… And you must be massaged. Surprisingly, your collar-bone is all right. You've had a lucky escape, today. Note the day as your lucky day. You know, I believe in odd and even, in lucky and unlucky days."

"As I think, I would be much luckier if I never fell from the rock."

"But you could fall from the rock and die."

There was a knock at the door.

"Entrez!"

It's the meal for me and tea for us.

As I had two cups of hot tea and three pieces of apple pie, Doctor Shrek opened a newspaper and said with surprise, "In Europe, the epidemy, hopefully, seems to be on the downswing…"

A message among my papers. I asked Doctor to give me my paper knife, which was on the desk, and I opened the message.

The message was a letter from afar. Nyomanland, Lesyinesmagi, my cousins' estate.

The message had been in search of me for some time, not missing solely by the courtesy and zeal of my Parisian attorney. The sender's name was Clement-Theophile Lisnyak.

Clem was my cousin years younger than me. My reader must agree that my fictionalizing names to my relatives, compatriots and friends as well as some geographical names is quite comprehensible. Only our family relationship helped me to take in the message's sense, so emotional and confusing the style was, and yet it was impossible to understand the sender's meaning completely. Clem hectically informed that he needed my coming, urgently. Reason: his mother disappeared. Some more reasons were hinted at. The tone suggested something serious or truly disastrous. The message could not take the wind out of my sails, but the cousin and his family were the only living relatives of mine, besides, it was not amiss to revisit our part of the world. My decision was to response to the message by my coming, as fast as possible.

When in Rome, sightseeing, a tourist can visit the Basilica of San Clemente. Dedicated to St Clement, the church is unusual, for it is partly deep in the earth. While in the upper level, on the ground, mass was sung in the medieval walls with the famous spectacular mosaics, under the ground there is the other church, silent, where one can see by candlelight more ancient frescos of the first centuries of Christianity, faded, half-destroyed but evidently expressive drawings, ecstatic and chaste. Lower, on the lower level, there are remains of the third church, pagan. It used to be a sanctuary of Mithras, where some mysteries took place as well as the famous rite --the gift from the enigmatic East to the satiated and fatigued Rome.

Unsure, whose idea was naming the boy Clement, but his message made me recall the Basilica, and I saw the evident connection between him or his name or message and my vision or hallucination "Gift –of –Mithras".

On the day of the message, Clem was aged 23, the happy age when we are getting rid of the chains and confuse of our adolescence and our sophistication is coming. Five years back, when I visited my cousins at their estate in Nyomanland, he was nice-looking but rather fat, which was no wonder with his life of an Oblomovist. Like me, Clem was single and he never had to do something for living, though he was not so rich, sharing his income with his widowed mother, who was my late father's sister, and with his two brothers. When he was fifteen, I let him into some playful things, teaching him to gratify his own sex desire as well as his partner's, if need were, seducing the teenager, if you like, and making him my boyfriend for the time of my stay there. The summertime was wonderful. Although he was reckoned to be engaged in his estate business, at present, but in fact he left the largest part of the work to his elder brother Kasimir-Theodor who was fascinated with everything about the agriculture business much more than Clem, and Clem was believed to be a poet --like their mother, which circumstance was supportive to his fancy, if not vagary, and to everyone's belief that he could be a man of letters, some day. Today, he was either a poet or man of letters or something of the kind; unsure about that, for I never took it seriously, knowing how many loafers and lazy-bones called themselves writers. Their younger brother Hippolite-Karl-Maria, named after their late father, was a teenager, and ten years back, his delicate health made their parents come to the decision to get him home educated.

The ornate letter opener, white metal and yellow amber cabochons, with the ambers from the Baltic shore --the letter's outside suggested a long time that took the letter to reach me --I reread the text of he messege--

"…come as soon as possible…"

"...I know I should call you sooner, much sooner, but I deemed I could manage by myself…"

"...the circumstances are of the sort that could keep me from coming to meet you neither in Brumburg nor in Est-Toila..."

"I need your help. Come, if you ever were nice to me!"

"Your Clem."