The atmosphere of self-indulgent spookery hanging over the table was broken by the physicist.
“So a captain arrives in an unfamiliar city,” he announced. “He checks into his hotel and says he wants to speak to the owner …”
Suddenly he stopped and looked around.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I had forgotten that I was in the presence of a lady.” Here he bowed in the direction of Mrs. Moses. “Not to mention a young … er … a youth.” He stared at the kid.
“I’ve heard this one,” the kid said with disdain. “ ‘It’s good, but you can’t split it.’ Is it that one?”
“Exactly,” Simone said, and let loose a burst of laughter.
“What can you split?” Mrs. Moses said, smiling.
“You can’t split it!” the kid corrected her angrily.
“Ah: you can’t split it,” a surprised Mrs. Moses said. “But what aren’t we splitting?”
The kid opened its mouth to respond, but Du Barnstoker made a subtle gesture, and a large red apple appeared there. The kid immediately took a juicy bite out of it.
“The bottom line is that amazing things don’t just happen in our inn,” Du Barnstoker said. “One has only to recall, for example, the unidentified flying objects …”
The kid pushed its chair back with a crash, stood up and, still munching on the apple, made its way to the exit. Well I’ll be damned—for suddenly I seemed to be watching the slender figure of a charming young woman. But as soon as my heart softened the young woman vanished, leaving behind her, in the most obscene way, a brash and impertinent teenager: the kind that spread their fleas over beaches and shoot drugs in public bathrooms. Was it a boy? Or, damn it, a girl? I had no idea who to ask, and meanwhile Du Barnstoker was prattling on:
“Gentlemen: Giordano Bruno was burned for a reason. Doubtless, we are not alone in the universe. The only question is how densely intelligence is distributed through space. According to various scholars’ estimates—Mr. Simone will correct me if I’m mistaken—there may be up to a million inhabited solar systems in our galaxy alone. If I was a mathematician, gentlemen, I would, on the basis of this fact alone, attempt to establish at least the probability that our Earth is the object of someone else’s scientific attention …”
I thought it over: to ask Du Barnstoker himself would be somewhat awkward. Besides, maybe even he doesn’t know. A kid is a kid … No doubt my gracious host couldn’t care less. Kaisa’s dumb. To ask Simone would be to bring his undead laughter back to life … But then what am I doing? Why do I care? Should I grab more roast? Kaisa is dumb, that’s for certain, but she knows a lot about cooking …
“You must agree,” Du Barnstoker murmured, “The idea that alien eyes are attentively and diligently studying our little corner of the universe across the cosmic abyss—this idea alone is enough to capture the imagination …”
“By my calculations,” Simone said. “The probability that they would be able to distinguish the areas settled by humans from the uninhabited ones, and then pay attention only to the inhabited parts, is e to the negative first power.”
“Is that so?” Mrs. Moses said, letting out a reserved gasp as she granted Simone a delighted smile.
Simone broke into his hee-haw. His eyes even started to water and he squirmed in his chair.
“How much is that in real numbers?” Du Barnstoker asked, after weathering this acoustic attack.
“About two thirds,” Simone said, wiping his eyes.
“But that’s a huge probability,” Du Barnstoker said warmly. “As I understand it, that means that we are almost certainly an object of observation!”
At this point the door to the dining room creaked and rattled behind me, as if leaned against with great force.
“Pull!” the owner shouted. “Pull, please!”
I turned around at the exact moment that the door opened. An astonishing figure stood on the threshold: a massive older man with a face that looked exactly like a bulldog’s, dressed in a sort of hilarious, salmon-colored waistcoat straight out of the middle ages, whose hem hung all the way to his knees. Under this doublet, I could see uniform pants with golden general’s stripes. One of his hands was pressed against his back, and the other was holding a tall metal mug.
“Olga!” he growled, staring straight ahead with bleary eyes. “Soup!”
A brief hubbub erupted. Mrs. Moses threw herself towards the soup table with uncharacteristic haste, the owner pulled himself from the buffet table and began gesturing with his hands, as if to signal his readiness to provide any service, Simone hurriedly stuffed his mouth with potatoes and rolled his eyes in order to avoid breaking out in laughter, while Mr. Moses (it had to be him) ferried his mug and solemnly quivering cheeks to a chair beside Mrs. Moses, where he sat down, practically missing his seat.
“It’s snowing out, gentlemen,” he announced. He was completely drunk. Mrs. Moses set his soup in front of him; he stared sternly at the dish and took a sip from his mug. “What’s everyone been talking about?”
“We’ve been discussing the possibility of visitors from another planet here on earth,” Du Barnstoker explained, smiling agreeably.
“What do you mean?” asked Mr. Moses, glaring suspiciously over his mug at Du Barnstoker. “I did not expect this from you, Barn … Bardel … Dubel …”
“Oh, it’s only a theory,” Du Barnstoker said casually. “Mr. Simone has calculated the odds for us.”
“Nonsense,” Mr. Moses said. “Rubbish. Mathematics—now there’s a science … And who is this?” he asked, rolling his right eye at me. It seemed murky somehow, a bad eye.
“Allow me to introduce you,” the host said hurriedly. “Mr. Moses, Inspector Glebsky. Inspector Glebsky, Mr. Moses.”
“Inspector,” grumbled Moses. “Fake documents, forged passports … I’ll have you know my passport is not a forgery, Glebsky. Is your memory any good?”
“I can’t complain,” I said.
“Well, then, don’t forget that.” He glared sternly at his bowl again and took a sip from his mug. “Good soup today,” he said. “Olga, take this away and bring me some sort of meat. But why have you stopped talking, gentlemen? Continue, continue, I will listen.”
“Yes, meat, that reminds me,” Simone piped up. “A glutton walked into a restaurant and ordered a filet …”
“A filet—what’s wrong with that?” Mr. Moses said approvingly, as he tried to cut his roast with one hand. He did not remove the other hand from its mug.
“The waiter said he would bring one right away,” Simone continued. “And the glutton stared up at the girls on the stage while he waited …”
“Hilarious,” Mr. Moses said. “So far, utterly hilarious. This needs salt—Olga, pass the salt. Well?”
Simone hesitated.
“Excuse me,” he said uncertainly. “I’m having very serious apprehensions about the present company.”
“So? Apprehensions,” Mr. Moses announced with satisfaction. “What happened next?”
“That’s it,” Simone said dolefully. He leaned back in his chair.
Moses stared at him.
“What do you mean ‘That’s it’?” he asked indignantly. “He brought him the filet, didn’t he?”
“Well … actually … no, he didn’t,” Simone said.
“What impertinence,” Moses said. “He should have called the maître d’.” He pushed his plate away in disgust. “That was an unpleasant story you told us, Simone.”
“I guess it is,” Simone said, smiling faintly.
Moses took a sip from his mug and turned to the owner.
“Snevar,” he said. “Have you found the miscreant who’s been stealing our shoes? There’s a job for you, Inspector. You can pursue it in your spare time—come to think of it, you’re not doing anything at the moment. Some miscreant has been stealing shoes and looking in people’s windows.”
I was about to reply that I would absolutely look into it; but just then the kid started Bucephalus’s
engine right underneath the window. The glass in the dining room shook, making conversation impossible. Everyone buried themselves in their plates as Du Barnstoker, pressing his splayed fingers against his heart, poured out muted apologies to his right and left. Then Bucephalus’s roar became completely unbearable; clouds of light snow soared past the windows; the roar quickly moved away, fading into a barely audible hum.
“Just like Niagara Falls,” the crystalline voice of Mrs. Moses rang out.
“Or a rocket launch!” Simone said. “Awful machine.”
Kaisa approached Mr. Moses on tiptoe, and set a decanter of pineapple syrup in front of him. Moses gazed favorably at it before taking a sip from his mug.
“And what do you think about this thievery, Inspector?” he said.
“I think someone here has been playing jokes,” I answered.
“There’s an odd idea,” Moses said disapprovingly.
“Not really,” I retorted. “First of all, none of these activities appear to have any goal other than confusion. Second, the dog isn’t acting like there are strangers here.”
“Oh yes,” the owner said in a hollow voice. “Of course, no one in this house is a stranger to him. But HE wasn’t just ‘not a stranger’ to my Lel. HE was his god, gentlemen!”
Moses stared at him.
“Who is this ‘HE’?” he asked sternly.
“HE. The dead mountaineer.”
“How fascinating!” Mrs. Moses chirped.
“Don’t fool around with my head,” Moses told the host. “And if you know who’s behind these events, then advise him—strongly advise him!—to stop. Understand me?” He turned his bloodshot eyes at us. “Otherwise I’ll start pulling some practical jokes of my own!” he snapped.
Everyone was silent. It seemed to me that they were all trying to imagine what a practical joke from Mr. Moses would look like. I didn’t know about the others, but personally I didn’t think anything good would come out of it. Moses stared down each of us in turn, not forgetting to take a sip from his mug as he did so. It was completely impossible for me to tell who he was and what he was doing here. And why was he wearing that ridiculous coat? (Perhaps he had already started joking with us?) And what did he have in that mug? And how come it always seemed full, even though, to my eyes, he had already taken around a hundred sips from it—deep ones, too?
Mrs. Moses set down her plate, applied a napkin to her beautiful lips and, raising her eyes to the ceiling, said:
“Oh how I love beautiful sunsets! What a feast of colors!”
I immediately felt a strong desire to be alone. I stood and said firmly:
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. I’ll see you at dinner.”
3.
“I have no idea who he is,” the owner said, examining his glass under the light. “He signed the book claiming to be a salesman traveling for personal reasons. But he’s no salesman. A half-crazy alchemist, magician, inventor maybe … but not a salesman.”
We were sitting in front of the fireplace. The coals were hot; the armchairs ancient, sturdy, reliable. The port was warm, infused with lemon, and fragrant. The low light was comfortable, ruddy, utterly cozy. A blizzard was whipping itself up outside and causing the fireplace to whistle. The inn was quiet, except for the peal of sobbing laughter that burst out every once in a while, as if from a cemetery, accompanied by the clack of a well-shot billiard ball. Kaisa was banging pans together in the kitchen.
“Salesman are usually cheap,” the owner continued thoughtfully. “But Mr. Moses is not cheap—not at all. ‘Might I ask,’ I asked him, ‘Whose recommendation I have to thank for the honor of your stay?’ Instead of answering me he took a hundred-crown bill out of his pocket, set fire to it with his lighter, then lit a cigarette off of that and answered, blowing smoke in my face: ‘The name is Moses, sir. Albert Moses! A Moses doesn’t require a recommendation. A Moses is at home everywhere and under every roof.’ What do you think of that?”
I thought about it.
“I know a counterfeiter who said the exact same thing when asked for his papers,” I said.
“Impossible,” the owner said smugly. “His bills are real.”
“Some kind of insane millionaire, then?”
“He’s definitely a millionaire,” the owner said. “But who is he? He’s traveling for personal reasons … But no one just passes through my valley. People come here to ski or rock climb. It’s a dead end. It doesn’t go anywhere.”
I leaned back in the chair and crossed my legs. It felt unusually good to be sitting in exactly this position and speculating, in the most serious possible manner, on the identity of Mr. Moses.
“Well, all right, then,” I said. “A dead end. And what is someone like Mr. Du Barnstoker doing at this dead end?”
“Oh, Mr. Du Barnstoker—he’s another matter altogether. He’s been visiting me every year now for thirteen years. The first time he came, the inn was still known as ‘The Shack.’ He’s crazy for my liqueur. Mr. Moses, on the other hand, appears to be constantly drunk—but he hasn’t asked me for a single bottle.”
I grunted significantly and took a large sip.
“An inventor,” the owner said decisively. “An inventor, or a magician.”
“You believe that there are such things as magicians, Mr. Snevar?”
“Please, call me Alek. Plain Alek.”
I picked up my glass and toasted Alek with another long swallow.
“In that case, call me Peter,” I said.
The owner nodded solemnly and took a generous sip in Peter’s honor.
“Do I believe in magicians?” he said. “I believe in anything that I can imagine, Peter. In wizards, in almighty God, in the devil, in ghosts, in flying saucers. If the human brain is capable of imagining something, then that means it must exist somewhere—otherwise why would the brain be capable of imagining it?”
“You’re a philosopher, Alek.”
“Yes, Peter, I’m a philosopher. I’m a poet, a philosopher, a mechanic. Have you seen my perpetual motion machines?”
“No. Do they work?”
“Sometimes. A lot of the time I have to stop them, their parts wear out way too fast … Kaisa!” he yelled, so suddenly that I was startled. “Another glass of hot port for Mr. Inspector!”
The St. Bernard came in, sniffed us, gazed skeptically at the fire, retreated to the wall and fell on the floor with a thud.
“Lel!” the host said. “Sometimes I envy that dog. He sees and hears a lot—quite a lot—as he wanders the halls at night. He could probably tell us quite a story, if he was capable of doing it. And if he wanted to, of course.”
Kaisa appeared, looking very flushed and slightly disheveled. She handed me the glass of port, curtsied, giggled and left.
“What a little dumpling,” I muttered mechanically. After all, I was on my third glass. The owner laughed good-naturedly.
“She’s irresistible,” he confessed. “Even Mr. Du Barnstoker couldn’t restrain himself. He pinched her bottom yesterday. And the reaction she gets from our physicist …”
“In my opinion, our physicist has his eye primarily on Mrs. Moses,” I said.
“Mrs. Moses …” the host said thoughtfully. “You know, Peter, I have good reason to suspect that she is neither a Mrs. nor a Moses.”
I didn’t object to this. Who cares, anyway …
The owner continued. “No doubt you’ve already noticed that she is significantly dumber than Kaisa. Not to mention the fact that”—he lowered his voice—“Moses beats her. In my opinion.”
I shuddered.
“What do you mean ‘beats?”
“In my opinion, he uses a whip. Moses has a whip. A quirt. As soon as I saw it I thought, ‘Now why would Moses need a quirt?’ Can you answer that one for me?”
“But Alek …” I said.
“I’m not prying,” the owner said. “I never pry, about anything. As for Mr. Moses, you brought him up—I would never have allowed myself to bring up that p
articular subject. I was speaking of our illustrious physicist.”
“All right,” I agreed. “Let’s talk about the illustrious physicist.”
“This is the third or fourth time he’s stayed with me,” the owner said. “Each time he visits, he’s more illustrious.”
“Wait,” I said. “Who are we actually talking about?”
“Mr. Simone, obviously. Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of him?”
“Never,” I said. “Why would our paths have crossed—because of some forged baggage documents?”
The owner gave me a reproachful look.
“One should know the heroes of one’s national science,” he said sternly.
“You’re serious?” I said.
“Absolutely.”
“That pesky little bore—a hero of our national science?”
The owner nodded.
“Yes,” he said. “I know what you mean: the way a man carries himself is the most important thing, everything else is secondary. No doubt you’re right. Mr. Simone has provided me with an inexhaustible source of reflection on the glaring discrepancy between a man’s behavior when he’s relaxing, and the value for humankind of that same man when he’s at work.”
“Huh,” I said. It was worse than the quirt.
“I see that you don’t believe me,” the owner said. “But I must say …”
He paused, and I sensed that there was someone else with us by the fireplace. I had to turn my head and squint. It was the only child of Du Barnstoker’s deceased brother. The kid had snuck up to us without making a sound, and now it was squatting next to Lel and stroking the dog’s head. Bright red light from the glowing coals was playing in its huge black glasses. The kid somehow seemed very lonely, forgotten and small. It gave off a barely perceptible smell of sweat, high-quality perfume and gasoline.