Authors: Max Frei,Polly Gannon
Tags: #Mystery & Detective, #Horror, #Fiction, #Fantasy, #General, #Epic
The Stranger (38 page)
The chief was absolutely right. The World is full of wonderful things. It was best to acknowledge the wisdom of what Sir Juffin Hully said. It was best to relax, stop sniveling, and start a new life—with a visit to the Quarter of Trysts.
This, by the way, is what the majority of lonely ladies and gentlemen do in Echo. And there is no shortage of them. Marriage in the Unified Kingdom is something people embark upon in their mature years—and not everyone decides to get married even then. It isn’t customary here to consider a family to be an unmitigated boon, and a lonely old age synonymous with failure in life. No one tries to claim the contrary either, though. Public opinion is simply silent on the matter, allowing everyone to arrange one’s affairs as one sees fit.
I had quite recently received a detailed briefing about the Quarter of Trysts from Melifaro, who fairly took me to task for being so ill-informed. You may be a barbarian, he said, but that doesn’t excuse you from knowing something so basic.
This aspect of local custom was completely unexpected for me. Despite my almost panicky desire to embark on some sort of “private life” I wasn’t sure I was ready to visit the Quarter of Trysts.
Let me explain. When you are returning home from a party in the company of a girl you don’t know very well, and you both realize where things are headed—well, it doesn’t always look like the Great Amorous Adventure that you dreamed of in childhood, but the scenario is simple and predictable. Everything happens by mutual consent. Two grown people make a more or less conscious decision. For one night, or longer—the ensuing sexual experiences of a new combinations of bodies will show.
In Echo, however, chance encounters are another matter altogether.
Visitors to the Quarter of Trysts fall into two categories: the Seekers and the Waiters. Every person decides for herself or himself which category to join that day. On one side of the Quarter one finds houses of male Seekers and female Waiters; on the other side are female Seekers and male Waiters. There are no signboards. Everyone knows where to go and why.
Upon entering the appropriate house, every Seeker must take part in a curious kind of lottery and pull a token out of a vase. By the way, there are also blank tokens. They signify that on that particular day fate is preventing you from having an amorous encounter with anyone whatsoever. In that event there is nothing to do but turn around and go home. Theoretically, the unlucky person may proceed to the neighboring house and repeat the process, but this is considered to be a sign of blatant disregard for one’s own fate, and there are not many who would want to challenge it.
Once the Seeker gets a token he goes into the living room, where the Waiters are to be found, and starts counting each person in turn—one, two, three, etc.—until he reaches the number that appears on the token. That Waiter is, so to speak, waiting for him or her.
I hasten to add that there is no one there to supervise the activities, so there is nothing to prevent cheating. But Melifaro himself said he couldn’t understand how such an idea could even enter anyone’s head. He couldn’t imagine anything more outrageous. Upon witnessing his reaction I concluded that no one in the Quarter of Trysts engages in such fraud. Here it is taken for granted that Lady Fortune is quick to take offense, and it’s best not to play pranks on her.
The newly fledged lovers then leave the Quarter of Trysts, set out for home or a hotel, and try to extract as much pleasure as possible from this arrangement of fate. In the morning, they must part forever. That’s a mandatory condition.
As far as I understand it, no one is there to enforce this unwritten contract down to the last point and to punish violations. Nonetheless, the rule is considered sacrosanct, and my suggestion that it would be easy to cheat fate met with a grimace of disgust, as though I had undertaken to expound on the charms of necrozoophilia and had warmly urged Melifaro to accompany me to the nearest pet cemetery. “Please, no more jokes of that kind,” he advised me grimly. “Especially around people you don’t know. And not around people you do know, either.”
So I never was able to understand the real reason for my friend’s offended sensibilities. I dismissed his prejudices and soon came up with my own high-minded explanation: the mutual agreement of the lovers, that separation for all time was inevitable, was not the worst means of lending an aura of romance to “intimate relations with a chance partner.” (I think this is how such phenomena are described in cold officialese.)
After recalling the above information, I realized sadly that it was still too early for me to make my way over to the Quarter of Trysts. My knees would shake, my tongue would twist into knots, my armpits would become small inverted lakes—and afterward in bed I would hardly show my most flattering side. The manner of acquaintance was too abrupt and unconventional. And what if “my fate” delivered me into the arms of an ancient, toothless giantess with elephantine legs? How, I asked myself, would I survive till morning? No. Better to place my bets on a more conservative approach to courtship, since it isn’t prohibited by local tradition.
After reaching this decision, I looked around in search of a way to kill time. The only possible conversation partner, our buriwok Kurush, was dozing, head tucked away under one wing. I reached for a book that Sir Juffin Hully had left lying on his armchair. The title was
The Philosophy of Time
; the author, one Sir Sobox Xes. Sinning Magicians! What people won’t read.
The Philosophy of Time
; the author, one Sir Sobox Xes. Sinning Magicians! What people won’t read.
All in all, I had a rather distressing night. Thumb-twiddling boredom, fruitless deliberations about the Quarter of Trysts, and philosophical literature can plunge one into a funk much faster than the magical shenanigans of our incomparable Master of Pursuit.
The morning brought with it some favorable changes. Sir Kofa Yox amused me with a few risque jokes. Juffin decided to stay home until lunchtime, but he sent me a good-morning call. At the same time he asked me to wait for Melifaro, so that the Secret Investigative wouldn’t be without someone in charge. I didn’t object, since I was-n’t planning to leave anyway until I saw Melamori. She most likely felt guilty, and I’d be a fool not to use such a chain of coincidences to my advantage.
The lady finally made an appearance. She slunk around the Hall of Common Labor, unsure of whether to approach me. The door to the office was open a crack, so I had the opportunity to overhear a series of bitter sighs, too loud to be spontaneous.
After enjoying the concert, I sent a call to the
Glutton
and ordered kamra for two and a lot of cookies. The order arrived in a matter of minutes. When the courier opened the door, Melamori flitted to the far corner of the hall, fearful of remaining in my field of vision. She seemed to be listening to the clatter of dishes with bated breath.
Glutton
and ordered kamra for two and a lot of cookies. The order arrived in a matter of minutes. When the courier opened the door, Melamori flitted to the far corner of the hall, fearful of remaining in my field of vision. She seemed to be listening to the clatter of dishes with bated breath.
When the messenger had left, I asked loudly through my wide-open door:
“If I have a tray with two jugs of kamra and two mugs delivered to my room, do you think it’s because I suffer from a split personality? I need help—there are no two ways about it.”
“Is that for me, Max?” came the plaintive squeak.
“It’s for my late great-grandmother, but as she’s in no condition to join us—well, I’m not angry, and the kamra’s getting cold.”
Melamori appeared at the door. Two expressions struggled for mastery on her face: a guilty one, and a satisfied one.
“Did Juffin tattle on me? He might have saved himself the trouble, since I’m so ashamed as it is,” she muttered.
“There’s no need to feel ashamed, Melamori. I’m just made a bit differently, that’s all. Don’t worry your head over it. My wise Mamma said that if I ate a lot of horse dung every morning, I would grow up strong and handsome, and no one would be able to shadow me. As you can see, she was right.”
My heart ordered me to be magnanimous, but it would be wrong not to admit that I hoped for a little reward. After all, her admiration (albeit treacherous) was a rather pleasant sensation; far better, it seemed to me, than polite indifference. Polite indifference, which I had experienced more than once, was something I didn’t even want to contemplate.
As a result of my carefully planned operation, I seemed at last to have charmed the First Lady of the Secret Investigative Force. Sipping her kamra, she exuded ingenuous cheer. Our fingers touched accidentally a few times over the cookie platter, and she didn’t cringe from my touch by any means. Suddenly emboldened, I suggested that we stroll through Echo in the evening. The lady admitted honestly that she was afraid, but she promised to be brave—not today or tomorrow, but very soon. No later than a few days from now. We just had to fix the date for accomplishing this feat. It was a serious victory. I hadn’t counted on it.
I went home ecstatic. For two hours or so I tossed and turned, unwilling to forfeit my happy excitement to the oblivion of sleep. Finally I dozed off, lulled by the purring of Armstrong and Ella curled up at my feet. I wasn’t able to sleep for long, though.
At midday I was awoken by a terrible noise. My head still fuzzy with sleep, I decided that a public execution (not customary in Echo) was underway beneath my window, or that there was an itinerant circus in progress (which does happen here from time to time). Insofar as it was impossible to regain slumber in the midst of that hubbub, I went to see what was going on. When I opened the door, I suddenly felt that I had either lost my mind, or that I wasn’t really awake yet.
On the street in front of my house, an orchestra made up of a dozen musicians had taken up its position. The musicians were trying desperately to coax some mournful melody out of their instruments. The magnificent Lonli-Lokli stood in front of them, wailing at the top of his lungs a sad song about a little house in the steppe at the top of his lungs.
This can’t be happening, because—because it just can’t be happening, I thought, dumbstruck. Hardly waiting until the end of the serenade, I rushed over to my colleague to find out what was happening.
“What is this, Shurf? Why aren’t you on duty? Good golly, what’s this all about?”
Sir Lonli-Lokli coughed, unfazed.
“Is something wrong Max? Did I pick the wrong song?”
“The song is wonderful, but . . . let’s go into the living room, Shurf. They’ll bring us some kamra from the
Sated Skeleton
, and you’ll explain everything to me. All right?” I was ready to cry from bewilderment and vexation.
Sated Skeleton
, and you’ll explain everything to me. All right?” I was ready to cry from bewilderment and vexation.
Dismissing the musicians with an expansive gesture, my “official friend” followed me into the house. Beside myself with relief, I collapsed onto an armchair and sent a call to the
Sated Skeleton.
Not the worst pub in Echo, it was, moreover, the closest to home.
Sated Skeleton.
Not the worst pub in Echo, it was, moreover, the closest to home.
“I’m not on duty, since they offered me a Day of Freedom from Care and Chores,” Lonli-Lokli began calmly. “And so I decided to use this opportunity to carry out my duty to you.”
“What duty?”
“The duty of friendship!” Now it was his turn to be surprised. “Have I done something wrong? But I consulted the handbook . . .”
“What is this handbook, and where did you get it?”
“You see, Sir Max, after you and I became friends, I started thinking that the customs of the places you spent your youth might differ from ours. I didn’t want to offend you accidentally, out of ignorance. So I turned to Sir Melifaro, since his father is the preeminent specialist on the subject of the customs of peoples that inhabit the World.”
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