Windflower

However that may be, my cousins' mother should be found, regardless of the fact that we had the information that she was all right physically and free. Now, the day came, and we went to Brumburg, with Clem walking with the aid of his stick and Kasimir-Theodor refusing to go with us because of "some business."

Our inquiry about the "Lovers of the Written Word a branch of the Fine Arts Appreciation Society of Nyomanland" led us to the address of the apartment, the place of the dinner party where we could make the next inquiries.

The apartment belonged to the spouses Zelenagursky. In reply to the doorbell, the door was opened by a chambermaid with a frightening number of flounces over her starched white apron, and then Mme Zelenagursky came to meet us in the entry. As mannerly as we could, we made apology for our unbidden coming, and I said, "…we want Mme Clio Gautier. This is her son… "

Clem fired off, "How's she? Tell me please, Mme Zelenagursky, how's my mother? Is she here?"

"No," the hostess said, "Mme Gautier has not come…"

"But you had the chance to see her, no?" Clem was impatient.

"No, I didn't see her in person… Only the phone talk. But she sounded all right."

I said, "Indeed, her intention to be at the party suggests she's all right."

Mme Zelenagursky said, "I believe yes, your mother is all right, most probably. I can't tell her address, but Mme Clio Gautier is coming, any minute. Apropos, we are about to discuss her latest book, today. Please, join us!"

"Dream the Conqueror?" I said.

"Dream the conqueror?" she said.

"Her book's title," I said.

"Ah no," she said, "It's her first. But she self-published her second, lately."

Clem and I exchanged glances and gave up our hats and gloves to the chambermaid.

We proved to be too early as guests. Mme Zelenagursky showed us the way, saying that the guests were only two for the time being, and she left us, pleading for chores. At the doorway to the drawing-room, I gestured Clem to stop in order to listen to a dialogue.

A clear voice said, "You, sir… you enjoy yourself as usual?"

A mellow baritone replied, "As always!"

"How odd…" the clear female voice dropped.

We came in: Leonides L with his rich beard of a coachman, was one of the two early guests. Another guest was a young woman who looked like his opposite. Anna Sneghin the artist, as I was told a little while later at the party. Wearing dark blue, she was so lean that her small body hardly could be seen in the corner of the divan. Leonides L looked like a robust copy of Democritus, only wearing as a sportsman, a velvet jacket and loose breeches, because he came by bicycle. He paced the floor, smiling at his own dreams, unknown but obviously rosy and optimistic. The contrast between the two was comic, that's why the picture remained in my memory. Like the Russian writer, Anna Sneghin was an esotericism adept, thoroughly mystique-minded person, but her look and manners differed from his so much in terms of a viewer's first impression. Her paleness, leanness and mournful dress made her look like a ghost, and her face seemed to show either melancholy or discontent, or fright in the face of the "enigma of being."

Failing to notice our coming, Leonides L went on, "I was born on Whit Monday when the Earth is so festive. From this, maybe, my inclination to the spiritual-religious perception of life and my veneration to bloom of flesh as well as every stuff, in every shape. The past of my spirit comes to my view in shape of one of those fauns or centaurs, who used to come to the wilderness of St Geronimo in order to know the sacrament of the holy baptism. I am pagan, carnally, believing in existence of all gods and spirits, but I can't accept a sacrament without Jesus."

If Russians are here, any dinner party always turns into a book discussion club, unavoidable, and nowadays, it also means a talk of mystique. Russians, the outskirt of Europe. When talking with my friends, I happened to say that Britain is on the outskirts of Europe, in fact. The Russian Empire is between Poland and Japan. So, the British people and Russians live on the opposite ends of Europe. Both Empires are homelands of greatest writers. Right? Absolutely. Good? Not sure. Because in my view, only a nation of inborn liars can give a birth to the number of great authors like British and Russian. My own anglophilia has been cured in time of Wilde's case. Belonging to the school of European white dead males, I never was a fan of the Eurasian Russia.

After a most of guests had come, the general discussion began, and one Russian said, "… about the German philosophy, and the English industry, about European enlightenment and achievements of human mind, about progress of humankind, and so on and so forth, but we've not found time for asking ourselves: what kind of a gear-wheel are we in the wonderful machine? What are we?"

Leonides L said, "We are humans, first of all. We've come later than others, the road has been built, and we have to walk on the road, whether we like it or not."

The third Russian said, "Nonsense, gentlemen. One can make a speech in case if one has listeners. The age of listeners has passed away: who does want to listen, today?"

I was the first to respond by saying, "Have we anything to worry about? The world was started without our care, and it will end without our knowledge. Personally I have had enough of the vain philosophizing and those questions about a beginning of an elementary substance and about a reason of reasons. Believe me, those are mere trifles in comparison with a well-cooked steak and a bottle of claret."

Looking at me, Leonides L said, "When I was young, I had two friends who asked themselves: what is their life's meaning? Their answer was that one can find his life's meaning only after he finds out what others live for. Exploring others in every phase of being seemed most interesting for them."

Interesting. For my part, I don't have the habit of prying into somebody else's affairs, unless someone wants me as his confidant. Not fated to become a good writer. As I said, in Paris, Leonides L was nicknamed "Monsieur C'est-Très-Intéressant" because his French friends could not remain unnoticed his manner to say this phrase every time he received some news or new impression. Today, he was a famous author, that's why we, readers knew something about his life and origin. Known as an esotericism adept, he was a son of a mere carpenter Sivokon, and his name Leonides Leonides was his pen-name. As a young boy, he attended a Church parish school and completed his primary education at a four-year city school. In 1901, in St Petersburg, he was taken as errand-boy in the 2nd Insurance Company. At leisure, he attended the historical and philological department of Saint Petersburg University. Without assistance, he studied German, French, Italian, Ancient Greek and Latin languages, read much of Russian, Western and Eastern philosophy. He began writing poetry when he was a young boy, and after he settled in the capital, he made unsuccessful attempts to get published. But his life in literature began in earnest only after he met Boris Bugaev, the famous "BB," who praised his poetry, and then his poems were published in magazines like "New Herald of Gods" and "Gambrinus."

By the time of the described party, Leonides L was a celebrity, and as far as we, his readers could know, in his everyday life, he was honest, truthful and unable to cheat or say purposefully untruth, but he always felt a need for making up, brooding, and creating reality. Contrary to his healthy and cheerful look, he was said to imagine or invent something fearsome, supernatural and mystique, doing it and telling about it so passionately and vividly that he could convince in truthfulness of his fantasies and delusions himself and not others alone, which could be much more difficult, sometimes, as everyone knows. However, his fancy was quite innocuous and most entertaining: in society, he was believed a nicest companion and one of the best storytellers. He was hard to be offended, at least, offended seriously -- but he duelled with one famous Russian poet of the name of Grail Arrelsky, one day, with a reason being Grail Arrelsky's mockery at Leonides' love for one Italian marquise. The "marquise" never existed; the lady's name was a pen-name of one literary adventuress, who wrote poetry fairy well, who tried to publish her poems acting via phone talks and mail, whose talk and letters enamoured every man of the staff of one prestigious literary magazine, and who afterwards proved to be an ugly woman, teacher from a Russian province. A literary hoax, with Leonides L being one of the makers. And yet the two poets shot at each other because of the mentioned imaginary person. True, a bit of a duel it was… Suffice it to say that the galosh forgotten by one of the duellers in the scene of the event became a mockery of newspaper satirists for the next several years.

By the moment of the discussion, almost all the invited guests had come -- Clio Gauthier alone still was expected.

While awaiting her coming, I had the chance to hear some rumours about some celebrities, and among all that I heard more about Anna Sneghin the artist. The story of her creative works proved to be rather interesting. The well-educated woman was initially an unlucky artist, and at present, in addition, she was an ill-reputed artist. When she was younger, her beloved one died after she made his portrait. It was a mere accident, but the late young man's sister could not survive his death and killed herself by falling out of window, a week after the accident. Grief-stricken, the late girl's friend, in her turn, committed the same kind of suicide. Well it's something, indeed. Ill-reputed, for the apparent reason, the young artist Anna Sneghin lost her customers, which made a hole in her purse and plunged her into the depth of mysticism.

Apropos, great artists are mental drunkards. The world, people, circumstances sober them, from time to time, and then, quite sober, they are unable to do anything worth, feeling highly surprised by their own works and wondering how they managed to create anything, earlier, when their mind was either dazed or bemused or drugged. They are somnambulists who mount housetops and bell-towers and walk there, but you shouldn't call them by their name, don't say to them "You human!" or else the somnambulist will fall from the height, to his death – poor thing. One crazy artist suggested the idea to me. We first saw each other in the crisscross of alleyways of Montparnasse, at a studio of another artist, a sculptor, which I happened to visit being with a friend of Oscar Wilde.

In the endless stream of human faces and personalities, which we see in our life, we happened upon persons, who interest us at first sight, evoking our curiosity mixed with either adoration or disgust. Much oftener, we see ordinary people, unimpressive and indifferent, who we can't tell anything about, and who can be forgotten a minute after we left them, so colourless and vapid they look. What if the vapidity only seems? Maybe, when seeing most of people, we can catch only an outlined typical form of each, as it happens to travellers first time in a foreign country. Perhaps, their unimpressive look is but a lack of attention: only striking traits are noticed, and we carelessly pass by some covert and secret and maybe more important and characterizing traits. I believed not, when seeing Anna Sneghin at the party, the young thing, begrudged by nature, with the pale inexpressive face like many.

Presently, at the party, it turned out that a discussion of fine art was unavoidable too. The recent fine art events were two: the Glow-Flower exhibition in St Petersburg, and the latest discovery of one Dutch Baroque painting landscape and still life artist of the name of Verreimik, whose works were hitherto unknown, because all of them were believed lost, but the recent discovery showed the old master as an author of a number of masterpieces, acknowledged at auctions and by art gallery experts.

The doorbell announced someone's coming. Clem and I exchanged glances, rose and came after Mme Zelenagursky to the entry.

In the entry we saw the silhouette of the comer in the doorway, and again it was not a woman. The male silhouette said something to Mme Zelenagursky and left. The hostess turned, leaving chambermaid to close the door.

Seeing us, the hostess said, "It's an errand-boy. He said he was sent by Mme Clio Gautier to let know that she could not come."

Clem dashed to the door, walking with a limp, as fast as he could, and saying, "I must see him…" The chambermaid with all her rustling flounces was pushed aside.

After he left, I turned to the hostess, "What kind of an errand-boy it was?"

Arching his eyebrows she looked now at the door now at me. "An ordinary errand-boy. Merely, not so young. A man sooner than a boy. Well-dressed."

"I see…" I listened to the opened doorway.

Presently, Clem appeared there. "No…" he said panting, in reply to our inquiring eye, "I failed finding him."

"He was quicker than you, of course," I said.

"Maybe…" he said, "Nobody looked like a messenger, outside."

"Madame…" I turned to the hostess, "I'm afraid we have to be off."

"As you please, gentlemen…" She looked at the chambermaid, and the chambermaid went to bring our hats and gloves. Mme Zelenagursky said to us, "Sincerely hope that you'll enjoy much more, coming to us next time." Too stunned, she forgot to hold her hand out for us.

"Thank you for everything…" I said putting on my hat, "By the by… What's a title of Mme Clio's second book?"

"Windflowers," the hostess said, "If we have more than one copy of the book here, I would give it to you to read."

"We can buy it at a bookshop, no?"

"At Gramata Bikeris bookshop."

"Fine, Madame."

Outside, we paused, feeling puzzled and hesitating like windflowers swaying under water.

No result of our visit. What if her new book could have a clue to her intentions and her disappearance?

At the Gramata Bikeris bookshop, we asked the book Windflowers and bought two copies. This book was yet thinner than the thin book Dream the Conqueror -- encouraging for us, the readers in a hurry, with no intention to enjoy. But a reader needed some time to brows a book. Clem agreed to my offer to go to the nearby restaurant where we could brows the book in comfort. Now, at table in the Arch Street Restaurant, we ordered some food and opened our copies of the book.

In general, the manner was hers, similar to the stuff which I happened to read in the book Dream the Conqueror, therefore we, Clem and I had the next evidence in the form of my expertise which let us identify the certain "Clio Gautier" as Clem's mother, the very person who we wanted, who we currently searched and who was in hiding, for some reason. As for any information in the book… In Baudelaire's poem Correspondences, forêts de symboles is mentioned --

"…there are perfumes fresh like children's flesh,

sweet like oboes, green like meadows

and others, corrupt, rich, and triumphant,

having the expansiveness of infinite things,

like amber, musk, benzoin, and incense,

which sing of the delights of the soul and senses." -- A charade like that was every new poem by Clio Gautier or it was a poem about nothing. Take the poem entitled "Never" as an example --

"The letter... I'll open it to see the chilling lines,

unfriendly and aloof like statues,

in the garden, in November.

I open it and turn the white leaves over.

The afterglow is fading in the Lake.

Oh summer evenings...

My shelter never heard the beloved voice." (the word-for-word translation is mine)

The poem was obviously designed in the time when she lived at home -- the Lake side, the countryside nature, the statues which could be found in a garden of neighbours -- and the poem didn't tell us about her current location. Ditto to all the rest poems. The only image, which sounded suggestive and could be of use, was some "lamplighters," mentioned on the last page of the book. Clem and I exchanged glances, remembering that we had never visited their flat in Lamplighters Lane.

In the flat, we were let know that the servants didn't see their mistress either. When Clem and I were sitting in the drawing-room, taking a rest, Clem said that perhaps we should visit Mr Lundstrom the neighbour in Lamplighters Lane.

I said, "The old man seems off his conk -- but utterly."

Clem said, "Mr Lundstrom is a kind man and always nice to our family."

"Kind. He seems indifferent to your story... solely in virtue of his old age, of course." I realized that we should visit the old man.

Mr Lundstrom received us in his study, sitting in his French chair in the middle of the room, as usual, but he looked far less absentminded than last time. A bust of a man was on a small table by his chair.

"How do you do, sir?"

"Jolly fine," he said, smiling friendly at us, "Was about to have a bust of myself. The artist asked me about a kind of material. Marble or bronze. I said, wood. There it is."

Indeed, now we saw the bust was a wooden sculpture of Mr Lundstrom's head.

"A la Voltaire," he said. Indeed, the wooden portrait had some head-dress on. Looking at us, friendly, Mr Lundstrom said, "How are you getting on? What, have you found your missing doggy, or something, young men?"

Hearing that, stand-up, we began explain his mistake.

"You mother?!" the old man arched his eyebrows, "Good grief!"

"But we know that she is alive and even all right…" We had our hats and gloves in our hands.

"Are you off?" the old man said.

"Yes, it's time, sir…" I said feeling weary after two minutes of being in the old man's presence.

He said, "What about staying longer with the lonely old man? For a small talk, eh?"

"Sorry, sir, but we have not time."

"What if you could hear anything of your mother, when talking longer with me?"

We froze on the spot.

He said, "Pray be seated… anywhere."

We pulled up chairs and subsided on them, with me taking out my handkerchief to wipe my forehead.

Contemplating us for a minute or two, Mr Lundstrom said, "Travelling?.." he gave a smile of a "sad slyboots", which often showed all simple-heartedness of an old man and his dotage, and we saw that he was toothless, most likely, "Take the road, young men, for it's healthy for your soul and body!.. I used to go overseas too, when I was young, in search of rare old books which could be bought half cheaper there. Apropos, talking of bibliography. Don't think that bibliography is book registry and binding alone. No, it gives some most unexpected pleasures, sometimes. Would you like to listen to a story in your taste, a story of one man? We'll see, if he gets in the first chapter of your travel!"

We faked smiles at the old man, and I looked at the far window. Outside the window, a breeze moved a branch of a bush seen against the blue sky, and this simple sight helped me to suppress my yawn and made me able to begin listening.

And Mr Lundstrom went on, "Maybe, young men, you happened to see one picture in the Neapolitan genre scene style. It is here, over there, on the wall. Let one of you brings it to me…"

We rose, which was an unexpected and healthy exercise under this circumstance, and went to the wall.

When we handed the old dusty picture to the old man, he began explaining the picture to us, who saw it, looking at it from behind his shoulders, "En plein air, al fresco, as you can see. Underneath a worn awning, a bookshop. Piles of old printed editions. A small statue of Madonna above. Vesuvius on the skyline. In front of the bookshop, a Capuchin, a young man wearing a big straw hat, and a small thief ably extracting a handkerchief from the young man's pocket. I don't know what kind of a man was that damned painter, but I recognize my coat and my straw hat. One day, my handkerchief was stolen, and my face must have exactly that silly expression." Indeed, it seemed to me that I happened to see a copy of the picture. The old man said, "This picture is original, and what you ever happened to see are copies."

I said, "Very nice picture… Isn't it, Clem?"

The old man said, "The point is that I never had much money, when I was young. My money was not enough for my passion for all the antiquated books. In addition, I was stingy as most of bibliophiles. This tickling circumstance made me avoid the public auctions… Auctions look much like game of chance, where an ardent bibliophile can ruin himself, isn't that so?.. Instead, I got frequent at bookshops, where I didn't spend much money, but I could delve in the books to my heart's content." Pausing, he let the picture out of his hands to reach for his white handkerchief, and we hardly had time to catch the picture on both sides lest it fell down on the floor.

Wiping his forehead, Mr Lundstrom began telling the story about his encounter with... Piranesi.

The old man never mentioned the name of Piranesi, but everything about the stranger, who he once saw in a bookshop when he turned pages of an old big album of drawings, as well as the time, suggested that it was a phantom of the great architect himself, author of the old album, who wandered around Europe in some extraordinary way and raved about his tremendous architectual projects. In conclusion of his outpourings that sounded like lamentation, Piranesi said to his listener, the young Mr Lundstrom, "...I go from one country to another, seeing the buildings made by my fellow architects. Often, in Rome, by night, I come to the walls built by that lucky Michelangelo, and with my weak hand I strike that damned dome. In Pisa, my hands clutch the upper edge of the unfortunate Tower and I dangle on it. I've been in many cities, and everywhere I look for destroyed buildings, which I could restore with the aid of my powerful creativity. I applaud to tempests and earthquakes. Born a poet, I foresee all disasters and calamities, but I am thrilled by any destruction… Much destruction there is around me, but there are much more intact buildings, which destroy my mental life. My weakening eyelids won't close till my survivor comes to make all my colossal projects come true, taking them from the paper and setting them up in reality. But where there's he? How do I find my survivor? Besides, my all projects have become obsolete, and I have no strength to update them -- too exhausted. Exactly in this state, I was as I saw you, sir, opening that damned book. I saw one of pilasters of the temple built in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea beckoning… Now, you know of my misery. Please, help me, as you promised! Only ten million of gold coins, I beg you!" The unhappy antiquated thing fell on his knees before the young Mr Lundstrom.

Feeling pity, the young Mr Lundstrom hesitated, then he took a gold coin out of his purse and said, "This is all I can give you."

The old architect looked upset. "I knew," he said, "But that's not bad at all. I'll add the money to the sum, which I'm saving for buying Mont Blanc in order to level the mountain to the ground lest it shadows the view of my Pleasure Castle." With that, the strange old man hastened to leave the bookshop and Mr Lundstrom.