

### The Cardplayers

By John W. Regan

Copyright © 2015 John W. Regan

All rights reserved.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1- Contextual (1844)

CHAPTER 1a- Surmise

CHAPTER 1b- A Discussion of Aromatic Science

CHAPTER 1c- Conversation About a Vision

CHAPTER 1d- The Spirit

CHAPTER 2- Roaming

CHAPTER 2a- The Drinking Den

CHAPTER 3- A Reason For Moving On

CHAPTER 4- Enduring Countryside (Part A)

CHAPTER 5- Enduring Countryside (Part B)

CHAPTER 6- The Spiritual Explanation

CHAPTER 7- The Opium Den

CHAPTER 7a- Conversely

CHAPTER 7b- Alchemy and Alchemists

CHAPTER 7c- "I stood beside..."

CHAPTER 8- "Listen friend,..."

CHAPTER 8a- Constructed Awareness

CHAPTER 8b- Deconstructing Awareness

CHAPTER 9- Inquisitor Monster

CHAPTER 9a- Appearance of the Inquisitor Monster

CHAPTER 9b- The Presence

CHAPTER 9c- The Conversation

CHAPTER 10- The Rescue

CHAPTER 11- Contextual (1847)

CHAPTER 11a- "Official Nationality"

CHAPTER 11b- Hero/Heroine

CHAPTER 11c- Enter Nekabov

CHAPTER 12- The Cardplayers

CHAPTER 12a- Enter Medvelov

CHAPTER 12b- A Conversation with Iliosovy

CHAPTER 12c- "First Of All..."

CHAPTER 12d- Nekabov's Narration

CHAPTER 12e- Enter The Major

CHAPTER 12f- Iliosovy's Concerns

CHAPTER 13- A Brief Description of a Felonious Crime

CHAPTER 13a- Enter Zupricka

CHAPTER 14- A Discussion of Affairs

CHAPTER 14a- Medvelov's Confession

CHAPTER 15- Death of a Provincial Governor

CHAPTER 15a- Enter Fyodor Bykal

CHAPTER 15b- Furthermore

CHAPTER 16- Historical Aside

CHAPTER 16a- Enter The Major's Wife

CHAPTER 16b- Bykal's Revenge

CHAPTER 17- The Haggard Poet

CHAPTER 17a- Medvelov's Questions

CHAPTER 17b- "I Became Aware..."

CHAPTER 18- Medvelov's Plan

CHAPTER 18a- Nekabov's Plan

CHAPTER 18b- Iliosovy's Plan

CHAPTER 18c- The Major's Plan

CHAPTER 19- Three Different Deaths

CHAPTER 20- Medvelov's Story

CHAPTER 20a- A History of a Revolver

CHAPTER 20b- "Medvelov's Breathing Was Measured..."

CHAPTER 21- The Fourth Corpse

CHAPTER 22- The Carriage Ride

CHAPTER 22a- Outside

CHAPTER 22b- Grand Entry

CHAPTER 22c- Inside

CHAPTER 22d- The Ballroom

CHAPTER 22e- The Dining Room

CHAPTER 22f- The Ballroom (Part II)

CHAPTER 22g- Antechamber

CHAPTER 23- Bykal's Questions

CHAPTER 24- "You Look A Fright..."

CHAPTER 25- The Wedding Ceremony

CHAPTER 26- The Major and Bykal

CHAPTER 27- Parting Words

CHAPTER 28- Enter Alexi Poshkinov

CHAPTER 29- Medvelov's Fate

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

Yes, Comrade Moon, I've heard conversation of the _polunochnyye vizity_.

And if the gossip is reliable, these appointments are...eh... _never_ virtuous, _he-he_.

Now, for the last twenty-four months, Prisoner 14405 has avoided constabulary buggery.

Perchance other malcontents at Peter and Paul lack prudence; perchance they relish the baton.

Lo, it naught be a feather stroke but the brutal jolt of forced congress...tattered tartlets...the vivid rash of rough stubble on skin...violation in a steel playpen...

The coppery fragrance of blood and excrement!

'Tis a rough sketch of predilections I spin, tho...as you know...once upon, my can be tapped...

Tapped by a duplicitous, perverted benefactor...

A learned sot who claimed he had my _interests at heart_.

_Ahem_...those days have long passed.

Hence, I declare: Woe to the pasty flesh!

Woe to strange penchants I shan't endeavor to crack!

As to the current condition, there be an unsophisticated tactic what keeps the guards beyond an arm's length: _Don't instigate trouble..._

My placid attitude had worked...so far.

Yet, there he be, the fat sentry...

Ogling me like a concubine.

I feigned sleep and peeped the caller through half-open eyes.

But hisself knew better. Who slumbers on the eve of execution?

At last, he tired of waiting.

Rustling; the tinkle of keys; the squeak of the cell door.

I sat up, pushed the blanket aside, balled fists...

'Stay there, criminal,' the guard croaked.

His voice be...moist...

Sloshy.

Comrade Moon, I mused...

I mused: _If a toad could talk, it would sound like this brute._

Without warning, the toad man tossed something from his left hand.

Something what glittered as it twirled in flight.

Something what landed on me rack.

Something what settled in the groove of the filthy mattress.

I ran a hand over the object...

Felt a hard, cold surface.

For a tick, I thought it a weapon.

_He-he_...a foolish fantasy.

Was no weapon, you see.

Or... _ahem_...let me clarify, Comrade Moon. 'Twas naught a tool I could use to depart my prison in the corporeal sense. But of the mental gaol...eh, I connived sanctuary.

Behold: a tin cup! And the guard, Comrade Toad, _he-he_...his purpose became clear when he lugged the ewer into my cage.

'You've been one of the better inmates,' the toad man pronounced, as if his benediction absolved misconduct. 'So, I present...umm...call it a parting gift, criminal. I think...let your last hours pass in coziness, yes?'

I hadn't consumed anything stronger than water in twenty-four months.

Twenty-four months of water; twenty-four months of these four walls; twenty-four months with a little window to spy the heavens.

Twenty-four months of conversation with you, Comrade Moon.

Coziness?

Bah. I wanted more than _coziness_.

I wanted _in_ the jug.

I fancied meself turning into a vapor...

Seeping into the mouth hole.

Slopping inside the pot.

Ah...picture me... _he-he_.

One with the boon...

'Of course,' the guard continued, 'I have other motives. I don't pamper prisoners out of kindness.'

_Of course,_ thought I. _Of course_ , _and what be the proposition_? I'd do almost anything for a taste of nibbana, but there is a threshold of lascivious I wouldn't cross.

Comrade Toad studied my expression and then jeered, 'S—— in my mouth! Don't flatter yourself, fool. I have a question.'

'A...a question?' stammered perplexed I.

'Why did you do it? What compels a man to prefer annihilation over an ordinary world?'

I studied the jug, caressed the cup and then said: 'You should ask the other _1-4-4's_.'

'Those magpies warble nonstop about the same subjects: revolt; enmity; the tsar; chaos; disorder; anarchy... _pfft_. But you...you're quiet. I think...we have a real conversation, yes?'

A real conversation.

Heh, Comrade Moon, did you hear the toad?

A real conversation.

Well, then, how shall I start? It is difficult to describe life tearing apart at the seams. Such a narrative requires a little time, _he-he._

A real conversation...

' _Why_ is impossible to describe,' avowed I, jutting chin.

' _Hmm_...' Toad Man mused as he hefted the ewer. ' _Hmm_...no matter. If you don't want to talk, I'll snag the soaker and leave you to... _ahem_...enjoy the solitude.'

I snapped my fingers and said, 'Give me the jug.'

He acquiesced with a snort and I drizzled fluid into the cup. Vodka. I sloshed it around, licked my lips and stared into the maw of solace.

It had been a long time, comrade.

'Drink,' the guard prodded, but I didn't need encouragement. This reunion, potation and prisoner...oh...can you not comprehend? This be paradise, Toad Man! A lubricant for the slip into solipsism! Let this cell fizzle. _Poof._ Let the mind roil in foam! I shall go whooshy and cavort on a boozy loam!

Ah... _he-he_...goodness, I blast into verse! Lest I natter like a lunatic...please, comprehend I: inspecting the moist guzzler with beating heart, tilted head and squinty eyes. There is an introspective moment intimates share before the whirlwind of debauchery. Be it a stare or sultry posture...whatever the performance, the promise of affection stimulates more than what transpires. Alas, does appetite comprehend consequence when succor summons? For men like me, the answer is _always_ no. And so...

I drank, flinching as the sores in my mouth erupted.

I swigged again...and the sting subsided.

The third mouthful was painless, and I emptied the cup.

Toad Man gave me a head nod and, as I refilled, pronounced: 'You talk.'

I reclined on the cot, rested the swill on my tummy and stroked me beard. Magic like, the liquor stimulated memories of my d—— cohorts, The Cardplayers.

Did our spirited clutch breed tiny monsters?

Accidental or intentional, the answer is _aye_.

Saith Friar Laurence: _Virtue itself turns vice being misapplied, and vice sometimes by action dignified._

But the toad man wanted to know _why_.

_Why_ without the _revolutionary babble_.

The genuine _why_.

I suspected there wasn't adequate time, and enough alcohol, to expound. I am blessed -or cursed- with verbosity, and my internment has done nothing to dissuade the squawking in me brain. Seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks...twenty-four months of consultation with imagination. Disappointment, fury, desire, despair...oh, how it rages!

I had much to say...

Whether to be a caged, perfumed beast dying under the patronage of kings; or to roam and feast on insouciant usury?

Ehh...

Perchance...

Perchance there be another way.

Vexed, I hewed imagination.

But you, Comrade Moon...

You crooned: _Once upon a time..._

An absurd introduction and yet...perhaps...a potent commencement.

My inner voice sang: _Once upon, during the Caucasian War, Vladimir Tschoschy -known to me as The Major- rescued the son of Iman Shamil from-_

Interjected you - _pesky_ you, _pesky_ Comrade Moon- cheeping your pesky tune: _Why?_

Sang covert I: _Because The Major was a sapper in Gimry with the-_

Why?

Because General Voronstov testified on his aide's behalf at the-

Why?

Because The Major waved a pistol in the face of the man what became the governor of-

Why?

Hush, you, and let me beat the narrative. Thanks to Voronstov's string pulling, The Major avoided hard labor in the gulag. Instead, he was billeted to lay mines in the crags of rebel territory. Meanwhile, on the other side of the Russian Empire, Comrade Zupricka engaged in the drudgery of slaughter, acknowledging providence for each throat he sliced. And I, emboldened by forlorn malice, chased a...it be an honorable pursuit nobody...not even you, Comrade Moon...can argue I lacked virtue...cunning...and...and...

And then, Inspector Poshkinov's spiteful voice cut through my skull: _'You are a fraud, comrade author. You are a fraud who believes he's smarter than the world entire! Humph. Let's see how haughty you are after feeling the touch of my deft hands...'_

'Heh, what say you?' the guard pestered.

I lifted my cup, held it aloft in the strip of gray moonlight flittering through the tiny window above my rack...

Look at me.

Lessened to whimsy.

Coercing conceit through treasured discombobulation.

My muse: juice and Comrade Moon, _he-he._

_Once upon a time,_ you compel me to recite.

Time is not _once upon_ or concise.

You ask _why_?

Try this on for size:

Broke I am, but broken I arrived.

Broken before Poshkinov.

Broken before Peter and Paul.

Broken before Iliosovy, Medvelov and Nekabov.

Broken before the Inquisitor Monster.

Broken before...

Before you, Comrade Moon.

You of the lamentable, lashless astral eye...

Even you.

Newborn broken be I.

Naught _why_.

There is naught _why_.

There is only...

I cleared my throat and then hacked a cynical, prosaic response: 'I knew a man who claimed everything was...is...choose the tense... _preordained_. Hisself alleged our lives are steered by celestial orbits and sundry natural affectations.'

'Fate?' Comrade Toad pondered without inflection. 'Fate compelled you to assassinate Fyodor Bykal?'

'I didn't kill His Excellency,' I said, before stomaching another swig and smacking lips.

'But you bear responsibility.'

'No more than you bear the responsibility of my death.'

He leaned against the wall, raised his eyebrows and said, 'How many times have I heard criminals claim they are not guilty? _Countless._ You'd assume Peter and Paul houses angels.'

Ignoring the quip, I continued in a somber vein: 'There were six of us, although the investigator from the Third Section concluded I... _ahem_... _bore considerable responsibility_ for the mayhem at Gregorski Mount. I was in no condition to debate the charge, not like the Tayny Prikaz cared. My comrades were missing and I-'

'Your comrades are dead, and you killed them.'

'I didn't intend to end anybody,' I whispered to the liquor.

'But here you are.'

'Destiny,' slurred I, chasing the word with another hot dose.

'Lunacy,' countered Toad Man as he reclaimed the ewer.

I sighed and then said, 'Listen, man, it's all the same. Oblique mentality -whatever the whittled _why_ \- is jumbled insolence imbued with wrath and insecurity. Imagine a...a mind where the kernel of wanton invocation blossoms under a deluge of gradating notions kicked by circumstances beyond control.'

Toad Man shimmied to a sitting position. Back against the wall, he drank; he belched; he pursed lips...

But he didn't understand _why_.

So, I droned: 'Another comrade of mine...a writer, like I...said madness blossoms germ-like. Madness spreads. Madness ignites. Madness is the thread what unites. Hark! Man's behest becomes his progeny's plight! Into this nest we seek banal delights, coddling death while proclaiming _life_.'

'You see, this is the problem with your kind,' the guard said through a frown. 'Such a dim view of existence.'

'The irony, eh? Iliosovy, my refined minder and compatriot, once stated artists are the _scourge of society, he-he_. Saith hisself: _art corrupts; art debauches; art forges lawlessness!_ Yet, who encouraged my work? _Reclamation,_ Iliosovy assured. Well, here's to it, comrade,' I cheered, toasting the leaden ether.

'Reclamation?'

'Etymological renaissance promised autonomy, but words are a mystery locomotive. For me, this fortress is the terminus. My carriage, if you will, attached to the engine of a tabloid editor...the detestable Nekabov, an erudite what flatulated gossip under the guise of news. Nekabov wrote with a pitchfork on flowing water, but what did I care? The thrill of trumpeting verse! At last, my abstract reflections had a conceptual realm! But...eh...the maxim is true: _Beware the monster you create_. Ingenuity and alteration be the same fiend.'

'I have no idea what you're spouting,' Comrade Toad rumbled, waving a dismissive hand. ' _Destiny_ , in one breath; _irony_ , in another? These reasons, so-called...they are _excuses_ for misconduct. _Excuses_ , but not _why_.'

_Pfft._ What did I tell you, Comrade Moon?

_Why_ is impossible to describe!

If the toad man wouldn't listen...

'You judge me insane!' snapped I. 'Insane, residing on another plain, one you cannot attain. Nor entertain. Then go! I can't explain!'

He pushed the ewer across the floor -towards my slab- and then said: 'Criminal, you are raven's pudding come morrow. Salvation -whatever form it takes- is your responsibility. I've seen plenty walk from Trubetskoy on trembling legs. Stoic atheists begging for mercy, summoning absolution...it chills even my heart. Though I dismiss the hocus-pocus of Ephesians, I sometimes consider those toll-stops and the imps waiting for fresh, whining souls. I think...eh...better to be free of sin than dragged to h—— like cordwood, yes?

'The contrived astral realm,' I said whilst filling the cup.

Burbling manna.

Husky breath.

Another generous swig...

Hardened, I continued: 'It's not enough the b——'s own this realm; they claim the next one, too! Well, sir, let them have their manufactured hokum. I welcome the end. Death as punishment? Comrade, death is release. The firing squad delivers a peace I sought to attain years ago. _Destiny_ , understand? Destiny _and_ irony.'

His forehead crumpled like a used bedsheet.

'One path leads to the other,' I explained. 'Had it been my choice...but it wasn't. It _isn't_. It's fate.'

'Not your choice?' he jeered. 'What nonsense!'

'Yet again, we've come to the _why_ you cannot comprehend.'

'I comprehend _your_ quest for peace brought misery to others. How heroic!'

_Curses on Comrade Toad_ , I thought. He and his sarcastic tone! The Toad presumed to scold?

Gnashed I: 'Be it wit or witlessness, misery arrives all the same. People are connected in a mystifying web of acquaintances, comrades, courtesans and enemies. This web binds tighter with supplementary contact until it's impossible to cut. Ensnared like a bug, there's no escape...just...just a sluggish demise in a cocoon of companionship. Trim away people and you snip the web. I knew as much; I heard the harmony of salvation. Conflict is the magnificent lamentation in the symphonic triad. Mizler wrote, _interpolated dissonances have no other purpose than to effect the continuous variation of the triad_. Comrade, nature is given voice in composition, a voice augmented by the machinations of man. But beneath the sublime is _discord_. Baroque is elaborate perfume for the fetid tone. In the same way, Uvarov's edicts are cologne. Our Empire is adorned. Indeed, the cosmos is robed! Pull aside the splendor and what does thou behold? _Discord_. Two minor thirds...a diminished fifth...thunder...despondency...and...the...a...' I trailed off and blinked my eyes.

_Ack!_ Curse the Gods for crimping my tongue!

How could this be done?

To abandon the voice...

To be tamed.

A hopeless mute in a frigid cave.

Toad Man asked: 'Who is Mizler? What is the... _triad_ , did you say?'

I almost let the conversation die, Comrade Moon.

But then it returned.

You know of what I speak.

The rife fife, _he-he_.

eeeeeeeeeeee!

Shrill whistle of lucidity.

eeeeeeeeeeEE!

Flourishing from your navel.

eeeeeeeeEEEE!

Scouring the darkness.

eeeeeeEEEEEE!

I couldn't spend my last night listening to the whinge.

eeeeEEEEEE-

'The triad is a mosaic made of shrieks,' I confided in a hush. 'An alluring, lulling, sick, sad, maddening strain what calls the wanderer home from play.'

Rasped the sentry: 'S—— in my mouth! You twirl your tongue as the cow twirls its tail!'

I poured another cup and then said: 'If you like to sled, you have to like dragging the sledge, comrade. Now hush and make yourself comfortable. This account begins...

# CHAPTER 1

### Contextual (1844)

...years ago, during a time I was employed as a teacher of history at the Moscow Conservatory, I had an urge to leave my profession and embark on a journey I hoped would satisfy strange urges and quell curious tendencies. The circumstances behind my lack of self-control will become obvious as this narration unwinds, but as a way of introduction let me declare:

I endeavored to free myself of onus and interaction.

At first, I thought leaving Moscow might suffice.

However, I realized all bastions of society are alike.

I've walked through rainstorms when I was the lone creature about and milled through markets during their busiest hours. In either example, the worst debaucheries of the urbane heart are evident!

Terrible...fermenting...aching...inert... _civilization_.

This was no place for me, comrade.

I began a quest, although I had no discernable goal. Now...now I recognize I'm where I belong: entombed, soon to be scoured from this world. Time will erase my sublime footprint. Ah, but am I frightened? No! Humble I imparted a diminutive impact, which is more than most can assert on their day of reckoning. This mission summoned what some say is ordained by the cosmos and what others pronounce as capricious fancy: a trail leading from obscurity to revolutionary. Alas, it took untold years to grasp the charted course. In the interim, I snuggled with juvenile supposition. Hindsight, as it's wont, had provoked...hmm...not regret...but a...a belief I misread the breadth. My mind has since resolved the past. Hark, I yearn for the instant of my last breath!

Listen, you, I shall testify! Using the pretext of celestial scrutiny to guide, I uprooted my soul for a vague course. I bartered with reason, exchanging misery for mischief. I shaped personality around the seafarers' ambiance. There are millions of stars offering no individual explanation in their twinkling mien. The miasma of refracted beams provides naught to the untutored eye. But heed: a bright sailor, armed with appurtenances, locates position on the eclectic brine. My voyage would be similar in model, a jaunt through new and chancy territories. Like a seaman, I'd trust supernatural entities to guide. And so I ask, how can a man explore when he's moribund in the doldrums, where no wind blows, day stretches into everlasting day with no discernable break, a tapestry of monotony and heartache? Oh, how I beseeched myself! Dwelling on those relentless urges, those urges I subdued for so long...I became spasmodic and strange in the head. I spied my desk as a shackle; I cursed its weight! And I feared, should I linger another day, I'd never shake the dust off my soul and...and tumble in perpetual torment!

To summarize, I was drawn to this quest as a noble curiosity but at fates behest; I therefore had no choice to comply as fate knew I had no choice but accept!

# CHAPTER 1a

### Surmise

Yes, I've worked myself into a lather. Pardon the agitation, it's just...anguish has simmered and demands to be stirred with a sharp tongue. But now... _ahem_...how to describe? How can I style a revelation without being mocked as an officious natterer? Is it with simple words I chose to relate my circumstances, or will I navigate in this spiritual seafaring with structure and perceived pomposity? Should I whisper my narrative to you in meek, tender verse? Or shall I impale myself upon your skull with the ferocious and systematic policy of a soldier at war? Is it sympathy I seek? Must I proceed as a child babbling nonsense to an adult? If so, these words will be mere scribbles on a wall shared with benevolent intentions but washed away as careless pubertal doodles!

Hm...indeed, I've decided! I shan't control passion. I'll let lexis unwind regardless of consequence. I have, after all this toil, contempt for the burden of acceptance. No doubt I'll shoulder blasphemous insults regardless of the style of my endowed language.

Now, I surface from aside and confide: I became aware -over a period of months- of an escalating commotion in my head. What began as an infrequent _thud_ progressed into a metronomic _clunk_. I tried ignoring the sound and reasoned it was a nuisance generated by taxing hours.

At last, this clamor exploded one evening whilst I rambled from the conservatory to my apartment.

It was spring -end of the final school quarter- and I, encumbered in grading examinations...

_Sigh_...

Dawn until late evening...

Page after page of pupillary strangulation...

Mounding piles of...of...regurgitations!

Curricula necessitated rigid marking regulations.

The palaver _never_ diverged from Sergey Uvarov's Triad:

Orthodoxy, Autocracy, and Nationality!

Listen...

Shhhh...

Do you hear sweet music?

Arpeggio!

_Orthodoxy_...the root.

_Autocracy_...the third...a _major_ third.

_Nationality_...a perfect fifth.

Ostinato!

Autocracy. Orthodoxy. Nationality.

Rota!

Autocracy. Orthodoxy. Nationality.

Kukushka, kukushka!

Ty khorosho poyesh', kukushka!

He-he!

Autocracy. Orthodoxy. Nation-

Heh? Why do you not join me?

You've heard, 'Sumer is icumen in'!

The cuckoo song, comrade!

Every child knows the round.

And I was the conductor of an orchestra.

We performed Uvarov's tune.

Consonance...ordained ideology...would save Russia from rot!

Uvarov bandied: _I am convinced every professor and teacher being permeated by one and the same feeling of devotion to the throne and fatherland, will use his resources to become a worthy tool for the government and to earn its complete confidence._

Thus...

_Play_ , ordered I.

Play high praise for the canon!

Comprehend the movement!

Autocracy. Orthodoxy. Nationality.

A contrapuntal approach...progressions...connections...

Bit by bit, though, the raucous thunder interceded...

A strike after _Autocracy_...

Crash!

Another following _Orthodoxy_.

Crash!

Then _Nationality._

Crash!

Crash! Crash! Crash!

Do you comprehend?

So, shrouded in this incoherent timbre, it came to pass: on this peculiar night -scuttling along Kiriov Street with my head down against the breeze- I caught the spectacle of myself in a shop window, the background of which illuminated this scene:

Kiriov, a narrow unpaved avenue, teemed with pedestrians and carriages vying for rite of passage through heaping piles of dung. More disturbing, the chronic creaking of carts, cabs, footsteps, the whines of antsy horses and the incessant chatter of mouths at work.

I spied myself amongst this flurry and considered me image in the window. Transfixed by the sights and sounds behind me, angst and enmity bubbled beneath my skull like a profane cauldron in a coven. I'd made this journey innumerable times never beholding the awful sight.

Yet, there I stood:

Staring at the surrounding mayhem as if awakening from a dream.

When alienated from disorder, the clarity of bedlam becomes unavoidable. Linger in ignorance and accept illiteracy; however, recognize obliviousness and lo, blindness needn't persist!

Blindness is a condition compelling remedy!

What I saw altered my witlessness.

Misery coursed through me...

Misery filled me with heathenish supremacy!

I denounced my peers...

This squalid rabble and their inane nattering!

And then, at once, a strident screech filled my head:

EEEEEEEEEEEE!

A train whistle...

EEEEEEEEEEEE!

Incessant and debilitating.

EEEEEEEEEEEE!

Crushing and profane.

EEEEEEEEEEEE!

But a wondrous kaleidoscope from which the future be made...

EEEEEEEEEEEE!

There I swayed: Slack-jawed, wide-eyed, transfixed by the picture window...

EEEEEEEEEEEE!

Attempting to tie hopeless impressions together...

EEEEEEEEEEEE!

Oh, the urge to smash the glass with a blunt object!

EEEEEEEEEEEE!

So pronounced the desire, I looked around for an instrument to stimulate the charge. Lo! I lugged two heavy tomes of history in my shoulder bag. Without compunction, I hurled the sack at the window. The sound of shattered glass, yelping pedestrians and the startled exclamations of beasts of burden oozed a soothing prattle. But when clawing hands attempted to seize me...

EEEEEEEEEEEE!

'Let me be!' I screamed.

EEEEEEEEEEEE!

Striking with my fists, I freed myself from their claws and escaped the scene.

EEEEEEEEEEEE!

I sprinted along Kiriov, hounded by the squeal...

EEEEEEEEEEEE!

# CHAPTER 1b

### A Discussion of Aromatic Science

Unraveled though I be, I soon appreciated another feature: instability has a menacing, zealous fragrance. Before I describe the aroma, let me digest background information rooted in science.

Comrade, it's been documented creatures in the wild use their sense of smell to detect prey, enemies and migratory patterns. Why does the vulture viscerally stalk its prey? This scavenger whiffs the fragrance of future carrion, even as the flesh of the beast continues to plod. The nose is not a humble instrument, but a necessary tool. Our brethren take it for granted, enamored with its value as a measure of beauty, as is our design. However, if man lacked a nose, he'd be left to consult the world with his eyes and ears. Can we not agree these organs have the power to deceive? A supplementary argument could be made men live, even _thrive_ , without the full use of ears, legs, eyes, arms and other organs. Eunuchs, for example, prosper in the majestic palaces of the Orient and amongst the minarets of Imams. Heed: cut off the beak of a man and you've dismantled his most valuable tool.

The point I hasten to present is systematic in explanation. First, one can smell danger before seeing it. Wander the back alleys of a filthy district; encounter the repugnant odor wafting about. Does the stench not signify peril? Further, a man in search of drink to relax his body or deaden his principal can rely on his nose to lead him to alcohol. Drinking dens have an odor all their own, a mixture of heat, fish, cucumbers and grain. This fume can ruffle hair and entrench a soul until saturated in moodiness.

Likewise, individuals are a distinctive bouquet. Comrade, you'd be wise to translate the language of essence. Select a drunk and recognize the odor seeping from his body.

Conversely, a rich man is bathed in perfume, pleasant and pampered, designed to install comfortability and confidence.

The stench of the pauper is vile, causing one to pinch the nose in disgust; a wastrel reeks of cheap soap; an honest gentleman emanates musty newsprint and pipe smoke.

As for the man unhinged, the smell flowing from their pores is sepulchral. A subtle, yet goring snort reveals enough to unmask this personality. Unstable man, as he wanders the world searching for a place to rest his legs, will stink of death, drink, newsprint, cheap smoke and soap. But this smoke is not the smolder of pipes and cigarettes. It's the smell of cordite and the inevitable end gunpowder will play in this rickety man's life. Inhale one last time and detect the prominent smell of green grass and soil attached to the boots of those vagabond feet.

No amount of bathing will clean the skin of the travelling man. Where his eyes leave unanswered questions to progress, the smell divines the course.

# CHAPTER 1c

### Conversation About a Vision

For days, I lumbered about with my passenger, the relentless _EEEEEEEEEEEE!_

I wandered in a state of constant calculation.

I smelled the compost of Moscow.

I viewed everything under a furrowed brow.

I inspected the internal growth of my misery, feeling it reproduce like a virus.

I buried ecstasy and erected a stout memorial in my intellectual mausoleum.

Revelation undressed the world...

And foresight fashioned a sentient antiphon:

There is but one outcome to life.

Death.

Death is the thread what binds us.

For most, expiration is not near enough to comprehend...

Perhaps a passing thought in a cluttered mind.

For me, death became an obsession.

I spent years dressing my character and condition.

Education, deportment, affection, fidelity...

A multitude of futile enterprises.

What of it?

Now, every instant presented proof of my absurd abjurations. Life is a struggle in ligatures, bound such to allow movement, but never enough to grant freedom. I compelled to think beyond demise, but my realm offered no respite. Examples of desolation reside, a catalogue of disquieting degradations...

There, do you see him, slumped against the corner of the building? Alas, the mendicant: a woeful heap. Present your soiled hand to a stranger and see how you might feel. This beggar chokes on his own dirtiness; yet, he hopes for a glimmer of humanity from strangers what pass. Overpowered in this pathetic optimism, he forgets his condition until night comes and he's alone. Next, watch a trollop saunter by, dressed in rags and sporting a blackened eye. A scrounger in spirit but with a product to peddle, displayed with pomp. Bah! This horrid world is a beggar's wake!

Buildings stand in sad rows, crumbling habitats home to vermin and human alike. Ah, the colorless sky, sharp hacking wind, heaps of garbage in the street. As citizens' founder on doses of depravity and attempt to keep out the chill, priests entreat beneath gilded spires. God is housed inside luxurious establishments, but see how He begs? The clergy lust for handouts from their parishioners, who lack money to clothe themselves. These principled men resort to bribery, promising everlasting life for the worshipper's purse.

Woe, the shams.

Woe, the dishonest wombs for your spirit.

Woe is you, limping to a tomb.

Woe unto me for realizing...

The end is what matters.

And woe was I, comrade.

Woe and cold, waylaid by the sepulchral shriek, its sacred weave pushing me into a tight compartment of hopelessness.

Later, ensconced in my apartment, I sought intemperance to distract rambunctious judgments. But inebriation proved futile. I'd laze behind my window...stare at the subjects of agitation...and dump potent nervine down me throat. Beyond the glass, nothing but sadness. Inside my mind, a longing for demise.

You can't know grief until it smothers will.

You can't understand the desire to silence the noise.

You can't grasp the need to escape unless sanctuary is the lone avenue what remains before insanity has complete control.

How could I persist? It seemed impossible.

# CHAPTER 1d

### The Spirit

It all unraveled at the conservatory in a spasm of absurd rage. Lacking sleep, deprived of appetite, I came to regard my occupation as a burden and education as an art of repression. The murals of my craft were youthful bodies on battlefields shattered by bullets or slashed by saber. What kind of man was I, stuffing nonsense into young boys' heads?

My colleagues suspected something was amiss. They avoided me like I was contagious. I became cross with the pupils, who would've rather been anywhere but with me. Over the span of several days, my deplorable mood intensified; I arrived at sessions late and ignored Uvarov's rote rhetoric. Instead, I ranted about the pointlessness of ideology and urged the children to _look at what we worship_.

After missing a marking deadline, the senior professor, an officious stooge named G——, summoned me to his office. Head down, shuffling papers, he remarked: 'Your work has been lacking, comrade instructor. Absent marks, tardiness to classes...to wit: substandard conduct. And I've been informed you're not following the prospectus.'

'Hackneyed ideology,' I scoffed.

G—— pushed the papers across his desk, gauged me head to toe and then said: 'You, uh...you don't look well. Pale...trussed in a dirty outfit...detached and moody. Stress is a frequent hindrance amongst professionals of our ilk. Have you thought of a sabbatical? I can arrange one and, in fact, you'd be amazed at the rejuvenating qualities of time away from the Conservatory. There is no shame in admitting the taxing rigmarole has waylaid your stamina. Why, I took three months when I was a junior teacher in Saint Petersburg. You cannot fathom how well I felt after...'

He continued in this patronizing vein but, while his concern appeared genuine, I caressed only antagonism. From the scorching depths of my rumbling stomach, I felt my body move as if controlled by a puppets string. I slapped G——'s desk and scattered the stack of papers. They fluttered to the ground while I reared and impressed this man with the look of a waring savage. My mouth began moving; words tumbled like a Biblical deluge cleansing the world of sin:

' _Gloomy and detached,_ you say? Do I not reign supreme? I carve the superlative piece of rump from God and feast upon it rare! _Rare_! After such a rancid morsel, how shall I present myself if not gloomy and detached! If nourished by the same meal, how would you be if not _gloomy and detached_? What's more, the meat bleeds over my tongue, down my throat and into my stomach. I absorb the fluid of mandamus; I eat the flesh and it sickens me! I digest the meat into my students' chamber pot and feed them the same slop!'

Comrade G—— blushed and gyrated in his chair like a grub on a hot sidewalk.

'Yes, nothing to say to this!' I roared. 'Then let me belch more! Savor this aroma in your face. I say bless this mandrake and all its magic. If only I could reach up, through this ceiling, reach up God's robe and finger his genitals. He'd smile and bless my palms with his ejaculations. Here, I could wipe the fluid against the cosmos and create worlds. I could feed the children this seed; let them swallow this moist meal until it germinates in their stomachs!'

The professor stood and retreated until his body reached the furthest wall. 'You...you're frightening me,' he whined. 'Why do you speak in such a profane tone?'

Lightheaded, I spun, slinging sweat, and staggered from the room. Had I remained, no doubt my hands would've swallowed his neck.

I fled the conservatory, its stuffy halls and rooms. I've never set eyes on the structure again.

The din drove me to the edge of a canal; I stared into the murky water and mused of becoming another jetsam of humanity. Quick-like, a tremble saturated my bones. Escape...it summoned in churning foam. I gripped a wishbone of longing and fear, tugging at each end, until the patient voice of my mentor silenced the noise in my head.

Comrade Iliosovy -my instructor in the district school and sponsor of my continuing education at university- had taken a liking to me during my adolescent years.

He was a man of patience and staid advice.

He was the tutor I needed after my troubling upbringing in C——.

He was the comrade what inspired and loved me.

I shan't go into explicit detail of my background; my maturation is of no great distinction from those of my peers. Father, a cobbler; Mother, dowdy and pious; siblings -three sisters and a brother- lacked the imagination to see beyond the outskirts of C——. Nothing of importance happened in the town. One day dissolved into the next. Yet the world -a curious spectacle- craved my attention. Aspects, traditions and conclusions were passed through generations without question. I desired to know _why_. But my kin were indifferent and even chagrined I harbored such inquisitiveness.

Father ridiculed my learned inclinations; he claimed I allowed myself to be _lulled by fantasies._

' _Devotion to work keeps me keen!'_ Father often roared before unleashing his fists.

Mother's concerns revolved around keeping a pat dwelling and devoting herself to worthless ecumenical customs. When challenged by hardship, herself's beliefs, swung the pendulum of Eastern Orthodox, Anglican, and Roman Catholic apostolic succession. This varied gathering made her strange in the head, prone to moodiness and preposterous whims; though I endeavored to avoid superstition, I feigned enthusiasm to keep her satiated. When food and funds were scarce (and they often were), the disposition of our family soured due to Father's despondent moods. He took to alcohol and raged when Mother lectured on temperance and the notion _want begat faith_. Given their disposition, I wondered how my parents developed a rapport capable of producing offspring.

But I learned, from the fate of my sisters, connubial relationships were enjoined to satisfy matriarchal and fiduciary obligations. My brother followed a comparable course, and he also joined Father as an apprentice. I tried my hand at shoe making, but I couldn't fathom the repetition of the trade. Flights of fancy perverted concentration, which vexed and angered my father. Bah! What did he know, the simpleton?

I excelled in the regional Kiselyov and received a draw to the uyezd in Moscow, no small feat for a villager from C——. Mother desired a billet to a parish institution, but my interest resided in history and literature. Mayhap I broke her heart when I refused, but I decided to stake my course. And my father...he expressed zero sentiment. I expect he surmised I would founder on my own. In his words, I lacked _fortitude and common sense_.

In the summer of 1831, I left home at fourteen and travelled to Moscow carrying both excitement and fright. The large city bursting with varied curiosities mesmerized my humble mind. The dormitory housed boys of genteel upbringing; I felt no connection to them and struggled to appear refined. They appraised me as an oddity. Most -if not all- sought commission in the government or military. Those goals seemed as rudimentary as cobbling, and I strove for a varied future instead of hackneyed routines.

My second year brought me into contact with the erudite who would steer me in the direction of conventional education. Professor Iliosovy was in his mid-forties; lean, long-fingered, baldheaded and well-spoken, he specialized in philosophical and historical subjects. Perchance he recognized I differed from the customary pupil. A loner in the cloistered institution, Iliosovy honed my attention away from literature and into tomes of antiquity.

This isn't to say he detested artistic offerings. Pushkin and romantic poets like Lermontov, Baratynsky and Fet struck his inclined fancy, but the existentialist and epigrammatic offerings of other authors invoked harsh rebuke.

'The dour imagination of men does more damage to the psyche than actual condition,' he once told me. 'Lo, by foolishness or force, the rascal artist waves his wand and casts a mystical spell over his congregation. Here me now: the permeation of profane and perverse thoughts sparks societal disintegration.'

His opinion struck me as nearsighted. I considered works borne from internal hardship as the baring of secrets meant for exploration and debate. But given the state of the Empire in the 1830s following the Decemberists, I assented to Iliosovy's apprehensive attitude. Many artists planting the seeds of realistic portrayals of the Russian condition opened themselves to scrutiny by the government. Censorship flourished, education was monitored and harsh penalties for individuals or groups branded _revolutionary inclined_ were enforced by banishment to penal colonies.

I suspect Iliosovy kept me engaged in didactic intercourse to stunt my rapscallion inquisitiveness. Indeed, once I assimilated with my peers, I honed a rambunctious, adolescent demeanor. The dormitories flowed with alcohol and I drank with my classmates to submerge trepidation. As such, my study habits suffered. Expulsion, a punishment meted by the administration without hesitation, had been flung into my face. Though the warning resonated, I continued to imbibe in secret. One morning, intoxicated from the previous evening, Iliosovy took me aside and delivered severe criticism:

'You are bright and capable but, for the life of me, I cannot fathom your _desire_ to sabotage prospects. The future can diverge onto two avenues. One is the road from whence departed; the other poses opportunities elevating stature beyond the commoner. Our nation requires the studious to forge a future beyond archaic ideology and reckless personal destruction. I believe our country's ascent or collapse depends upon proceeding generations propagated not from nobility, but those reared in unpretentious conditions. Being said, the health of mind and body necessitates a monotheistic devotion in the pursuit of edification. You have the intelligence to succeed, of this there is no doubt. Discipline, on the other hand, is an aptitude you lack. With proper guidance, you will excel. However, should you wallow in the mire of unscrupulous notions, you will amount to _nothing in this world_.'

His impassioned lecture incited the intended response: sixteen-year-old me quaked at the thought of amounting to _nothing in this world_. I pictured my family; I saw myself returning to their fold after expulsion; I imagined the smug look Father would've plastered across his face. And the remainder of my life...a series of _nothings_ until _nothing_ swallowed me.

Thereafter, I concentrated on studies. Stifling the bent leanings required copious focus, but I sacrificed sin for schoolwork. When frustration vexed, Iliosovy reminded:

' _Should you wallow in the mire of unscrupulous notions, you will amount to nothing in this world.'_

The rigors of Iliosovy's coursework taxed discipline and sapped vigor. My comrades chided the piety I demonstrated for what they deemed 'extramural drivel'. I was branded a gymnosophist by an older classmate, and the insult ruffled. There were moments I felt smashed between heavy bookends representing _independence_ and _institution_. Nevertheless, I was indebted to my tutor for taking an interest in my future. After matriculation, Iliosovy's lavish commendation secured my teaching position in the Conservatory, a well-compensated post few graduates of the university achieved in their early twenties.

But it's a paradox, comrade. Without Iliosovy, I wouldn't be where I am...

Praise fate and irony!

Anyway...I stood on the berm of the canal and recalled my past in a sunburst of images. Purple spots speckled my vision...

Iliosovy's firm voice slashed through the shrill _EEEEEEEEEEEE_...

He reminded: _'Should you wallow in the mire of unscrupulous notions, you will amount to nothing in this world.'_

Even in a jaded mind...

Oh, the tug of life and death!

With a head throbbing like a diviner's rod, I rushed from the canal;

Arrived at my tenement;

Stripped vestment...

Bare, breathing heavy, curled like a comma on the floor, I beseeched the Lord:

'Please! Please, give me either death or a remedy to cease the whine!'

And do you know what happened?

A thunderclap - _BOOM_ \- struck from the heavens!

Next, a downpour...

Rain drummed the window...

Soothing patter.

My respirations slowed.

Tranquility descend like a cloak.

Pessimism scattered.

But for the slowing heartbeat in me ears, silence returned. How anomalous this rejuvenating feeling. Newborn roused, I outfitted in meager clothes and scooped sundry items into a knapsack; I scoured the apartment, collected my savings and stashed the money in a stocking. Patience compelled, and I waited for the shower to pass. The maxim about deluges...water cleanses, makes anew and so forth...I took to heart.

At last, the rain ceased...

Clouds untangled...

I stared into the firmament!

And I knew...

Yes, I knew what to do!

Move...

Rejuvenate!

# CHAPTER 2

### Roaming

I can only imagine how I sound, comrade.

Life or death?

To slide graceful or resist?

Ha! Here's believing life or death is not the same predicament!

To choose the Big Dream instead of self-assassination.

Drink and ponder the meaning of _prolonged suffering_ , he-he.

But I moved under supposition; I was _obliged_ to move lest I wallow.

A nomadic mantra cajoled!

I feared the magnitude of tentative footsteps; I believed the buzzing and psychosis would return should I sojourn.

Resolved to endeavor, I dashed a letter to Iliosovy explaining my circumstances. It was a coherent rendition of what I was experiencing, but I articulated remedy. To wit: I had to meander for a spell...

I needed to flatten morbidity with mobility.

Iliosovy had retired with a healthy dowry four years prior and taken residence in the town of V——. Though we hadn't seen each other in the interim, we corresponded several times a month. The tone of his words expressed genuine interest in my career, and he doled advice when required. Yet, despite our relationship, I lacked companionship. I should've been grateful for Iliosovy's attention, but I couldn't help but think...

_Ahem_...there were moments when I longed for the solid temperance of a female. Leave a man to his own and you'll discover a discombobulated lad...

A lad yearning for a matriarch to save his withered soul!

Man can go so far before falling victim to a scourge of violent tendencies. This is not a lustful exclamation but a reasonable plea for sanity. I've come to accept only a woman can restore my humanity but...eh...no further talk of the subject can occur. I suffer the fate of a condemned soul. Curses, the torment of isolation!

However, at this critical interval in my story, I sought comforts beyond the inanities of a lover's devotion. If there be an amorous bone in my body -if the ability to attain satisfaction or the rudimentary elements of affinity lurked inside me- I might've suffered no further.

But there was no halting my advance. The dangerous ingredients of my feet were set into motion. Normality was extinguished or I'd have throw myself into the arms of love, begging for solace, like a madman plunging into the canals of Moscow with rocks in every pocket. There was no distilling my soul, no banshee weeping for me. I refused to surrender to complicity and instead sought a mistress who showed no face or wept tears for my fate.

# CHAPTER 2a

### The Drinking Den

I posted the message to Iliosovy and then began hiking; head high and back straight, I trod sections of Moscow I'd never seen. But my frenetic pace through the humid shroud came at a price: soon, both legs felt sullen and heavy, and my mind labored in molassy perception. I knew not where to go or what to do.

Halting at an intersection, I dabbed sopping forehead perspiration with a stiff kerchief. Ugh, my noxious essence! I wondered: _Have I been shamed a vagabond, lashed by bitter demons? Or will the uncomfortable ticks lead to enlightenment? What fate awaits?_

The answer came after I ambled several side streets...

Cordial fate provided a place to bask in passion! Tucked in the basement of a snug brick edifice was an establishment for slackening men. Behold the drinking den! I made the ascent and entered the shadowy habitat.

I fretted my tattered, clammy blouse and linen were emblems of a rootless urchin looking for a place to dislocate from the present. A probing peep into the cloistered world of the homey chamber assuaged anxiety. Those in the drinking den were a motley bunch. Several rumpled men, occupied in intense dialogue, were settled at a rickety table. They remunerated no observance. Another eccentric -planted on a wormwood bench near the entrance- burbled in near silence. Every few seconds, he sipped from a cloudy jug and then grimaced as the mephitic brew slopped down this throat. His head bobbed side-to-side, touching one pointy shoulder blade before bouncing to the other. His daze was interrupted by my manifestation; squinty-eyed, he slurred reprehensible oaths what caused me to flinch.

The salty mood of this sot conveyed the disposition of the lair. Alas, the clime was not an oasis from the oppressive daytime heat. The circulation into this cavity came from the entrance, but the tepid movement of air wasn't robust enough to dissipate the dour fragrance of rotting fish, spilt spirits and liquor sweat. Overpowered by the stink, I held my breath and staggered to the counter for a libation.

The proprietor appraised me with weariness. I did the same to him as my eyes adapted to the weak light. Like playing with a Matryoshka, I pieced his appearance together. He was built like a boulder -round and swollen- with an unctuous sheen to his ashen skin. Indeed, it appeared he'd been trapped in this dungeon since conception!

I sat my knapsack on the bar and leaned against the wood in a casual fashion. Dawdling in pursuit of inebriation is an economical regret. Best to embrace the spirits as a forsaken lover, not with the peck of lips tendered to Mother, but with a malicious spasm of lust.

I pointed at the rumpled fellow near the entrance and ordered: 'A flagon of his potation.'

The proprietor judged me a rogue. 'You have brass?' he growled, wiping hands on a dirty towel slung across his right shoulder.

'Of course,' said I, fishing dengas from my stocking.

He scooped the coins from my palm, counted the change under his breath, and then spun to fetch a jug. Returning, he set the vessel and a glass on the counter in front of me. I thanked him as he left me to it. Concerning my new companion, it would be a friendship borne out of necessity with no need for introduction. Disregarded the glass, I snatched the jug and placed the lip of the bottle to my mouth. It was like kissing the wing of an angel. I felt keen, and how!

What a place, the drinking den! The mad man near the entrance continued to slurp his spiritual mizzen and chat to ghosts. Next, I cast eyes on the group seated around the table. A careful inspection of this collection revealed a variety of ages and dispositions.

There were five men: One -an older gentleman adorned in loose fitting clothes- crossed legs and stirred only to fetch a sip from his tumbler. Indeed, the dandy appeared indifferent to the activity around him...

The four other fellas (two of whom wore the articles of artisans and the sneering countenance of ruffians) thundered in argument. The mussed duo were the most persuasive talkers, often thudding fists on the table while raising their voices.

Topped by styled, greasy hair, the remaining pair dressed in less wrinkled clothes, and they spoke in a hushed, controlled manner. I judged them of money, for their contorted faces and clenched fists betrayed the gait of a speculator or unscrupulous investor. Of all human beasts, only men of money appear like a tranquil solvent _and_ display the insecurity of bankruptcy. Go on, peep them, comrade. Who does not hoard with suspicion of skullduggery but the men of money? They should discern backstabbing, for they've bowed to such tactics to earn their share of tithings!

'They may not drink like Ginto there,' the proprietor said, following my stare, 'but they have other addictions.' Then he brayed with an indifference reserved for the elderly approaching death. Oh, the mug of demise may scare a young man, but never a smug old one!

I said nothing and continued in observance. On the tabletop heaped playing cards and coins. _Ah, gamblers,_ thought I. Or they were feigning as much. While they went through the motions of speculation, their discussion had nothing to do with a game of Zhensky Preferans. I'd catch drafts of the conversation when a head turned my way and, in short order, I ascertained...

These men argued politics!

If you should ask the significance of this point, you'll need to be patient while I discuss my astonishment. First, not many citizens engaged in public banter of that sort. I'm certain nothing's changed since I found a home in this cell. When men debate the policies of the Tsar, they find places unexposed to peripatetic ears. In other words, if one is to rant and rave about Nicholas, such talk is best reserved to private rooms. Foolish is he who disregards this precaution. Iliosovy often cautioned me about running my mouth. _'Knowledge is both a blessing and a curse, comrade pupil,'_ he explained. _'And any man who knows the policies of Uvarov, and can converse about them in rectifiable gradations, need not be reminded Firovich was shot because he ran his mouth at the local market.'_

Nevertheless, I found it appealing they discussed their topics with no secrecy. My entrance didn't stifle their conduct. I could've been an officer in the Third Section, intent on eavesdropping, but they weren't concerned. These fellows weren't about to alter arguments for a stranger.

And what a discussion it was!

I recall it ranged from the positive and negative aspects of the Organic Statute to the social merit of Chaadaev's Philosophical Letter. These men roved the articulate passages of conversation like I wanted to roam the countryside. I sensed the practicality of prodigious minds in exertion and grinned. Yes, what glorious noise!

'I contend,' one of the groomed fellows voiced, 'The Tsar _must not_ consort with the United States. Chaadaev is correct when he writes we have no business emulating them.'

'Heed!' his match intoned. 'Comrades, Vasily speaks the truth! If Nicholas stays his course, we Russians shall be consumed by constant turmoil and upheaval.'

I found myself drawn to the talk like an insect to fire in the dead of night. I couldn't help myself as I gathered the jug and knapsack. I found a table nearest the card players, sprawled into the chair, and situated in such a way my back was to them.

'Fools, the both of you!' argued one of the ruffians. 'There is merit in Western philosophies! Merit _and_ democracy!'

'We cannot subsist on superstition,' a fourth voice added. 'Evolution dictates methodical exercise, not holy supplications. And what of upheaval? Violence is the best instrument to alter mentalities.'

The first speaker responded: 'Do you expect our comrade countrymen to discard a system of beliefs, ingrained into its national consciousness, for innovative dogma? This is a puerile suggestion. The Skoptsi will not bow to Western mythology!'

On and on they spoke. Squeezed between nattering, the five hawked cards and drank. In the meantime, I perceived the grain had gone to my head. I beheld the saturated Ginto. His crown rested on a table. If I wasn't prudent, I'd find myself in a similar position.

I couldn't fathom sitting another second. Gathering my knapsack, I stood and fought the urge to vomit. Alas, I was in no state to stumble outside and search for an inn to rest my bones. Faced with limited options, I approached the proprietor and begged for compassion.

'I'm in dire need of a room for the night,' rasped I.

He took a generous swig from a carafe and then boomed, 'What luck! I have rooms, comrade! _Nice rooms!_ Twenty kopecks buys you an evening! There is not a better deal around!'

Thus, our transaction transpired. He led me to the rear of the den and up a narrow flight of stairs. I found myself in a tapered corridor, the walls just wide enough to accommodate the stocky guide. Another weak kerosene lamp hung from a hook in the wall.

After a short walk, the proprietor jerked open a flimsy door and declared, 'A nice room, comrade!'

Nice, _perhaps_ , but humble and cluttered. A tiny bed stretched across the interior; a nightstand was scrunched between the foot of the cot and the far wall. On the table sat a chipped, mildewed wash basin. A single window next to the bed provided feeble sunshine.

'Wonderful,' pronounced I, stepping across threshold.

The proprietor slapped my back as a portentous grin dispersed the wrinkles carving his face. This sinister smile gave him the youthful glow of conquest. Why, he beamed like a victorious crusader before the walls of Antioch!

'Comrade, could I interest you in a woman who holds a yellow card?' he asked. 'My sister is a wonderful girl, full of vigor and affection.'

My eyes raked the man. Did I appear wanton? Did I look debauched? Did I ooze carnal degradations?

'I'm content with rest,' I muttered.

'As you wish,' he said with a shrug.

'But there is one matter,' I said, stepping forward. 'Those men downstairs throwing cards...are they frequent visitors to your establishment?'

'Ah,' he cooed. 'I should've known. You seek a game of chance.'

Without hesitation, I answered: 'Of course! Who doesn't wish to engage wit and whim?'

'If you're interested in playing a hand, it must be a sociable venture. I don't want the gregarious ether of my domicile disrupted by petty disputes.'

'I'm no rogue, sir.'

'I'll hold you to the statement, comrade. As for those idlers...they appear from time-to-time. Perhaps the fools will show tomorrow. Now, I must take leave. Ginto sometimes helps hisself when I'm not about. Enjoy your rest.'

The proprietor departed, shutting the door behind him, and I collapsed on the bed and closed eyes. The vodka swirled my mind in a mesh of blackness. For the first time in weeks, I sank into a slumbering whirlpool, forging smoldering fantasies into reality like a skilled blacksmith.

# CHAPTER 3

### A Reason For Moving On

Soaked in sweat, I awoke and fumbled for my timepiece. Sweltering heat portended late afternoon, and I wondered if I had slept twenty-four hours or twenty-four minutes. But the timepiece announced it be five after eight in the morning. Though groggy, a sudden excitement permeated my soul. Soon, I would be mired in conversation and thereafter, I'd skip to the next abode. The road cajoled! Quick-like, I gathered my belongings and bounced downstairs.

Even at this hour, when the sun was squat and ambiguous, folks were remedying trifling preservation. These denizens -older men with stubble and bloodshot eyes- fixed me with aching gazes.

There is nothing more enlightening than drinking oneself into a stupor. The abstemious deem drunkenness an act of selfishness, but I ascertain it is a search for satisfaction. Alcohol is an assured relaxant, a medicine for the mind, devised by the gods to consume in healthy quantities. Why else would the Greeks and Romans have a specific deity to celebrate intoxicants? Impudent quests of abstention does nobody any favors, comrade. This I declare from experience! Personal cares are parasites, and private anxieties drown a soul. Without booze, the brain stiffens. Yes, make the mind malleable, amputate trivial cares and escape the wretched world!

The proprietor approached and boomed: 'Good morning, comrade! Help yourself to porridge. There it is, hot on the table.'

I ladled the gruel into a bowl and took a chair. It be a modest repast, but only a prosperous man tweaks a beak at sustenance.

'I trust you had a fine snooze,' said the yob.

''Twas delightful!' I gushed. 'I heard naught.'

'Are you invested in another evening?'

Before I could answer, voices resonated from the entrance. The five men from the previous day shuffled in and meandered to the same table. One of them produced a single deck of cards, which he shuffled several times. He placed the deck in the center of the table; one at a time, each man picked a card from the top and then laid their selection face up. Without a word, one of the ruffians crossed the chamber until he stood across from the proprietor.

'I'm holding the purse today,' the disheveled purchaser greeted. 'Five bottles of pertsovka.'

'As you bade,' the proprietor answered. Then he glanced at me and said, 'Say, you have a fellow gambler, comrade. He inquired about joining your party.'

The ruffian's visage articulated consternation: his peepers narrowed and both shaggy eyebrows came together at a point above the bridge of his nose.

'I made it clear there is to be no tomfoolery,' said the proprietor as he departed for the liquor cask.

The card player crossed arms and growled, 'You claim allegiance to gambling, do you? I think different. Tell me, what is your _real_ interest?'

I smiled to disarm trepidation and said, 'Comrade, I was here yesterday and noticed you and yours engaged in a card game. I only yearn for a spirited contest and, mayhap, intriguing conversation.'

'You'd be wise to mind your business,' he spat. 'Bother me again and I'll turn you inside-out.'

His tone shocked. Why the animosity aimed at me? What had I done? I felt resentment, but resentment at whom? I wasn't a government flunky, just a soul searching for companionship and discourse. Comprehended the agents of the Third Section: fiends -faceless entities- roaming in shadows and pouncing on perceived insubordinates. Behold the legacy of Nicholas's regime: the power to make citizens distrustful. Here, before me, stood an example of the Tsar's demeaning strategies.

What a fool I be...

A fool what watched the ruffian return to his comrades.

A fool what observed them speak amongst themselves.

At once, they rose and made for the egress...

I was a fool what frightened the group away.

There I sagged in dejection, a demeaned, pitiful sight. I craved for the world to be smashed to bits and grabbed my knapsack. Lumbering past apathetic patrons, I scaled the stairs and was consumed by bright sunshine.

Greeted by the swarming street...

Clamor...

Claustrophobia...

Stifling a shout, I pushed through the mob.

And there came a moment when the shrill whistle sounded:

_EEEEEEEEE_ -

But I ground my teeth until gnashing replaced madness.

No...

No, I would not unravel.

No tempest would sink my vessel!

Not here!

Not ever!

Foolish had I been to stop.

D—— foolish!

What I perceived...

A vast conspiracy...

To come of age in the bowels of abjuring civility!

Perhaps I knew:

A man searching for paradise is a fool.

But I wanted to drift in solitude.

My eyes seized the horizon.

I counted the cadence of footsteps.

And I thought:

_Good riddance, Moscow._ _Good riddance to every miserable citizen and their suspicions_.

Therefore, I slung the sack over my right shoulder and introduced meself to the road.

# CHAPTER 4

### Enduring Countryside (Part A)

To be alone and watch the dawn.

Calm mind, no disturbance.

Drowning in the sunrise.

Ablaze with sensitivity and modest observance.

Heed _..._

Heartening instants.

Persistent awareness.

Of course, introspection is not derived from uncomplicated innocence.

In long, unwinding monologues, Nature states a claim for dominance.

Mysterious evening: darkness shrouds every sound; imagination embellishes monsters where none abound.

But flush with daylight...

Marvelous verdant ground!

I meandered under trees dripping jumbles of leaves; through scrolls of grass like fine thread; into the space where ground and sky mate.

The heavens...oh, comrade, the sky be a boundless ocean! Its smooth Alpheus skin is marred only by a concoction of creamy vessels gleaming in vivid aspect. As the bodies of these shrouds pass, their white wispy wakes unwind, left to wander the heavens as tokens of the imagination.

But the sky splinters! Unabashed destruction resounds like cannon shot. The firmament tears its limbs to shreds, dragging bowels across the land below, chaffing consecrated soil as we mortals cling to each other in horror.

The electricity in the air is like a deific finger passing across skin. A dismembering tool, incontestable power harnessed boundless regions of milieu, fused in the dominion where thunder roils exclamations of divine uneasiness.

Lo, the wind against my cheek! Lo, the congenial sensation of catching kisses from the environment! Lo, the sweet the smells carried in the breeze!

With the sky overhead and plenty of natural companionship, I strode east and discovered uncharted liberation. On occasion, I received rides from travelling folks. These excursions often took me no more than a versta down the road, but resting my feet be a blessing. More courteous souls took me to their cottages, plied food and offered comfortable rest.

Despite those hearty restorations, my nourishment came from suckling nature's teat. There are certain freedoms in the human soul one can find when alone. My time spent in solitude amongst these comforts revealed the truth to me. I may have been a castaway, with no city to haunt and no room to keep, but I consorted with the essence of outlaws and the supplications of mortality.

I was free! Comrade, I beseech: _Who has experienced liberty with as much conviction as I?_ Each step...each lifting of the foot...made me distinct! I became canonical...a descendant, not of another man, but of another _entity_. Beset by nature's beauty and bound to her bosom, I found intimate affection. The roots of all the flowers and trees galvanized my nerves; the rains were sudoriferous excretions propelling me; the wind cooed like a spouse...

# CHAPTER 5

### Enduring Countryside (Part B)

Yet, as I stated, evening turns the world into an assemblage of phantoms! Hark, I do not lie! Frightening Leviathans reside! Tree limbs transform into twisted, monstrous arms. The brain cries: _What beast is attached to those terrible claws_?

Wait, there's more! Creeping insects haunt, unhinging the human jaw in dread. Oh, those invisible pests! Oh, how they invade the citadel of humanity with buzzing wings chittering voices!

The wind, the wind! How the wind rushes through the sanctum of the soul, thrusting for the heart. A gust can heave the realm, calling forth the voices of specters in a single, moaning breath.

This is not a common world, a sphere where imagination can be dismissed. This world is the spine of all mystic qualities; this world forges rudimentary powers; this world strings together rumors and makes them true. Darkness dares the mortal to dismiss suspicion. Despite my resolve to remain staid, delusory terror quaked inside me. I squandered many sleepless nights with my wandering mind...

# CHAPTER 6

### The Spiritual Explanation

I paraded east for months, totaling hundreds of desiatinas during the passage, but I didn't know the reckoning at the time. Years later, I stretched a map and calculated the distance. Goodness, what an undertaking!

The end of my journey be a fate of happenstance. One evening, I halted at a modest inn on the outskirts of a peculiar hamlet. I bathed and then, in a meditative state, tore a page from my journal and composed a missive to Iliosovy. I shared radiant details of my exploration and assured him both my health and cognizance were satisfactory. In addition, I informed Iliosovy my location, lest he worry.

Had I not written hisself, I wouldn't be sitting here today. Comrade, there must be a reason I dragged a pen across paper. There must be a reason I halted where I did. There must be!

Am I delusional? If so, who pronounces the verdict? No man can understand destiny. Those charlatans brandishing knowledge of the future are masters of persuasion. My crimes, though heinous, are the result of decisions influenced by context, spanning backwards decades if not centuries, set in motion by forces unfathomed. I cannot claim guilt for my engagements, and I condemn the label bestowed upon me by gossip mongers and newspapers. I've been cataloged as _malevolent_. Ha! Malevolence defines nothing but deed. Who delineate the contour defining evil from virtuous? Right and wrong are fuzzy lines. The limitations of moral sketches are reliant on the philosophy one chooses to cuddle.

Hear me now: I consider my actions _extraordinary_.

I'm a _visionary_ amongst the blind.

I'm the tide compelling you to swim.

You scoff, but I've done what few have the courage to undertake. My conventional peers don't parcel their lives; they aren't rash enough to contemplate their existence; they never question those who assemble in decree of their body and possessions. Pardon my feelings of superiority, but I'm not the least repentant. Sorrow would grant persecutors victory over my humanity. They'd control the narrative, regurgitate hackneyed anecdotes and chastise radicals as miscreants. I will destroy this impression, comrade! Let my comportment be judged by this confession!

# CHAPTER 7

### The Opium Den

After dispatching the correspondence, I filled myself with food and drink. Contentment was soon disrupted by a troublesome pain in my stomach what caused raucous flatulence and loose stools. In this weakened condition, I decided to rest for several days. I commenced a regime of spirits and discovered intoxication subdued agony. Hence, one day of respite became two, then three and so on. It wasn't long before I deadened my soul and abandoned escapade. Moreover, an imploring inner voice argued I deserved a spate of relaxation. Yet, every time I awoke after an evening of overindulgence, common sense trumpeted:

' _You're a sloth in a state of liberality.'_

But reprimands worked only when headaches raged. Indeed, no shaming curbed my drunken appetite. Oh, the mendacities I contrived in the clutch of inebriation. Pacified by pretense, tricked by perception, I dwelt in a prison but denied its conception.

After a stretch of uncountable days, a vestige of adventurous passion pushed me out of bed. I portended demise and concluded it be time to move or succumb to lethargy. Head bursting with pressure, I left the inn and sauntered on a narrow dirt road what led to the adjacent town. Small, ramshackle cottages dotted the avenue on both sides; women hung linen on sagging yard lines; four men leading bleating goats on ropes trundled past in the other direction.

A typical village, comrade.

Except...

I noticed a yellow pagoda capped by a red peaked roof. The unconventional building and color drew my attention; then curiosity dug into me and I walked in its direction. Removed from the main road, the abode was accessible through fragile brambles. I tugged the branches aside, broke the threshold to the other side, and peeped an old Oriental man seated on an overturned pail. Slumped, limp arms hanging, his body took the posture of a half-eaten bag of animal feed. He wore a rumpled purple smock; narrow, gangling legs -what looked like desiccated twigs- protruded beneath a soiled fringe. His bald head sat upright upon a scrawny neck; clasped between chapped lips, a small brass pipe spewed gray smoke what smelled like the breath of a fairy.

I approached and greeted the stranger with a kind word.

His pinched eyes appraised me from shoe to crown; then a grin ignited his furrowed visage.

' _He-he-he_ ,' the fellow giggled. _'He-he-he. He-he-he...'_

Wondered I: _What about me instigates humor?_

' _He-he-he,'_ brayed the fool.

Intuition warned he simmered in lunacy, and I almost turned away.

But then it occurred to me...

Several deep breaths later, I discerned poppy sizzled in the Oriental's bole.

I'd heard stories about opium from several colleagues who had the prosperity to feast from this salver. Absolute power raged in the flower; I recalled satisfying anecdotes: bliss, giddiness and relaxation. And the aroma, I was told, invoked a charming, alluring, indelible impression.

As you know, comrade, opium is illegal throughout the Empire. The autocracy has the public convinced opium turns men into monsters. Ha! The poppy user rides a papaverine wave of euphoria. And there's something else: whence addled, the mind discovers unexplored dimensions.

Lo, the handsome flower...

Building kingdoms...

Multiple realities!

The brain's capacity cannot be fathomed!

' _He-he-he,'_ the Oriental tittered.

Tranquil, he be.

Tender and wrinkled.

I ask you: _'Shouldn't the poppy rule the world?'_

# CHAPTER 7a

### Conversely

Granted, opium can summon dependency.

Infrequent use evolves into requisite routine.

Primitive predispositions surface.

Enslaved by inebriation, the addict scrutinizes inanities.

Coherent thoughts disappear.

The jagged frontier of despairing dusk,

Doomed to freeze and challenge us!

With fragmented hallucinations;

Doom and seclusion!

Bruised we go;

Bent;

Awkward!

You can turn the mind to rubble when the poppy blossoms in your temple.

I should know.

I crossed the divide and transformed...

Fusing reality and ritual, I discovered ruination is a wilderness.

A domain without respect.

A domain where a demon lurks,

Prospecting for conquest!

# CHAPTER 7b

### Alchemy and Alchemists

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Ahem...

Let me return to the spot where I accepted entreaty:

The Oriental stopped laughing and inhaled.

Smoldering nibbana captured my nose.

He swayed on the pail, considered the heavens and then whispered, 'You taste the air.' Each word, accentuated by a fragrant billow, drew me closer.

'Look how the smoke wends,' he crooned. 'It envelops like tangled hair, _he-he-he_.'

Speechless, was I.

Speechless and hypnotized.

Continued he: 'Divine magic for a novice traveler. You mate with miracles, _he-he-he_. _'_

Mmm...how I desired a hedonistic touch.

The headrush.

Oh, the lust!

After another puff, the Oriental said: 'The alchemist seeks a potent tincture, but the panacea is here.'

'Where?' I panted.

'Yonder hive. Follow me and relax your anxious mind...'

# CHAPTER 7c

"I stood beside..."

I stood beside as my chaperon pushed a curtain aside. He then summoned me into a hazy chamber staged with benches. A hexagonal tsuridoro hung from the apex of the ceiling.

'Sit,' he ordered.

There were others; silhouetted figures engaged in solitary ethereal pursuits.

Soon, I would join them...

A woman materialized through the smoke. She knelt on the floor, lit a small spirit lamp, and dug into Buddha's sack. The proceeding events happened fast; my attendant was skilled at her craft. She produced a pipe from her bag, held it over the flame...

'Sit,' the old man repeated.

'Let me partake in the purge of reality,' I begged.

'Sit,' the old man said.

I complied; thereafter, I received the pipe.

'Smoke,' the Oriental said as he nodded his head.

My lips cupped the mouthpiece...

I inhaled deep.

Smolder penetrated both lungs;

A tickle on my tongue.

Quick like, a queer sensation swept over me:

The room shimmered; nothing seemed real; who was I...

The Oriental cooed: 'Blow.'

Out came the kernel...a fantastic, misshapen cloud...

The poppy made me keen.

Dreamy...

How the mind flowed in verse!

_Incomprehensible breath,_ I mused. _Unveiled in the gloom, igniting existence!_

Praise the handsome flower!

Praise its influences!

Praise unrestrained indulgence!

Praise the pulverizing of physical assertion!

# CHAPTER 8

"Listen..."

Listen, comrade, I know boredom permeates your mind.

Apologies, but my thoughts meander as I describe this time.

Understand the excitement of innumerable ideas;

Of schemes and enterprises.

But now I must admit an obvious frailty.

Be warned!

The poppy seized me.

Dissemination, replication, relationships, considerations...

The weighty enormity!

Let this be a lesson about how man can become encumbered in individuality...

Savage meditation.

Lo, I wandered a maze.

Using the poppy to probe, I discovered broken segments...

# CHAPTER 8a

### Constructed Awareness

Let us gaze at the universe, into exodus, into the swirl churned by infinite revolutions;

Let us unwind the coiling cosmos.

Mighty sacrosanct sky...

Your mechanics doth science hasten to describe.

But I don't want to ponder learned observations.

I wish to build great pyramids...

Monuments, minarets and cathedrals.

The scholar can search for cognizance and seek answers to ambivalence.

But I will construct a singular awareness, free of inconsistency...

# CHAPTER 8b

### Deconstructing Awareness

Alas, it must come to pass:

What was once sanctified becomes a cenotaph...

A spectacle drawing ignorant spectators.

Prelates and pharaohs...novelties picked apart by curious hordes and money-makers!

Who will save me from despoliation?

Comrade, the sage does not consider the consequences of destroying sanctuary!

They tromp amongst the stones;

Revel in destruction;

Stand over bones!

Bound by obnoxiousness, the erudite layers judgment:

Thine edifices are pointless!

# CHAPTER 9

### Inquisitor Monster

I wrestled with such conundrums and dissolute notions.

At some point, introspection yielded to lunacy.

It was then I confronted a heinous and disturbing beast.

The nexus of malevolence...

Madness!

He wore no clothes and greeted me as I wandered the perimeter...

Hark, the Inquisitor Monster!

# CHAPTER 9a

### Appearance of the Inquisitor Monster

A blasphemous sizzle;

The floor swirled;

Groans...a collective wailing of lamentations...melded into a protracted screech.

I gauged it be another in a long list of deliria.

But the cacophony intensified.

The agonized begged: _'No more! No more blows!'_

And I rejoined: _'No more! No more moans!'_

We bellowed, enjoined in torment...

Cried I: _'Leave me alone!'_

Quick like, a lithe, nimble body leapt from the forsaken, spinning floor.

You jeer!

Of course!

Comrade, pristine affliction is hidden beneath cosseted robes. Pull the sash aside and allow the Inquisitor Monster to inspect your bones.

# CHAPTER 9b

### The Presence

He was gorgous, this beast...

Lean, naked and gleaming.

An Everest of sensuality!

Blond curls layered atop a faultless cherubic face.

How his lips pursed and nostrils flared!

He summoned with a seductive smile;

The monster, pursuer of countless mates:

Columbus wore the mask during his visits with Isabella; the humble Josephine de Beauharnais, duped by the same festive smirk; Cleopatra cast this idol across her Grecian skin. Mark Anthony, I understand your dilemma. May you rest in peace!

Who possess the will to resist the Inquisitor Monster's captivating assets? Who refuses temptation? Can it be you, my patient spectator? Does the greedy womb not coax your loins? No! You slide into the maw and let it swallow you whole.

The Inquisitor Monster knows...

He winked and informed: 'Comrade, I'm here to claim your soul.'

# CHAPTER 9c

### The Conversation

'To claim my soul?' asked I.

'To tap your core,' the monster explained.

'Be it a gentle plunge?'

The monster shook his head and said, 'It will leave you sore.'

'If I say _no_?'

'Do you want to grow old?'

I stammered: 'I-I do not know.'

'Oh, come now!' he spat in exasperation. 'The route you strove leads to the headstone!'

'I'm an explorer!'

'You are sullied and profane!'

'Naught I!'

He laced an arm around my waist and whispered into me ear: 'Violation is an element of the sacrament.'

Repulsed, I flinched and cried: 'What did you say? Violation?'

'The timeworn carry scars but not sacrifice. You're special, comrade; you can attest to the latter. The moment is here. Take the dagger from your bag and slice thy throat.'

My stomach twirled and I swayed on weakened legs. _Sacrifice,_ hisself said. _Sacrifice_...but to whom?

As if reading my thoughts, the monster said: 'There are many gods of this domain. Worship a man and you make him a deity. Of course, I'd be remiss to mention the supernatural...but goodness, there are too many. Verily, I'm a god, comrade. Temptation; fornication; intoxication...everyone craves debasement. The chaste, chancy, rich and poor; the sedentary; the explorer; the-'

'I believe in nothing,' avowed I.

'Then prove thy boast,' the monster hissed. 'Grab the dagger and cut your throat.'

'No!'

He freed his arm and said, 'You're stubborn and stupid. Self-worship has made you a subject of thine whims. Hack the thread, comrade!'

'Sir, I am free! I'm free to roam and ruminate!'

'Hush,' he soothed. 'Hush and heed: You're stuck in a prison of your own devise. Liberate thineself.'

The fiend...oh, he brimmed with persuasion.

But he spoke the truth.

The horrible truth!

My rippling world...

Wasted.

Curdled.

Filthy.

Cursed.

Requisite misery...

From afar, I saw the face I must forsake.

'Freedom,' I muttered.

'Climb on my Handsome and snap the reins!' the monster ordered as the moaning from the netherland howled.

A blistering cacophony!

Madness was upon me...

# CHAPTER 10

### The Rescue

At ease and staid, I slashed me vein.

Strange...

Strange the pleasure I felt from the blade.

Pain...

Pain did not resonate.

Redemption bade.

Commotion faded.

Skin flayed.

The Inquisitor Monster praised!

I lazed, hollowed like Hadrian...

The Cremona's played!

At last, free from the inane masquerade!

But the moment I reached the end of the maze...

An exclamation of both sorrow and aid: 'I am here to save!'

'Twas Iliosovy!

What transpired...I cannot give an accurate account.

Slick with the intercourse of insanity, Iliosovy and his driver dragged me from perdition.

Swaddling...

Sun surge...

The warm seat...

Ligatures.

Crackling whip; the clop of hooved foot...

Iliosovy rubbed my head and whispered: 'My poor boy, what have you done...'

# CHAPTER 11

### Contextual (1847)

I owe my life to Iliosovy, _he-he._

Redemption...recovery...lucidity...all those hackneyed terms...

Despair receded...

Until it returned.

Meantime, a year passed. Under Iliosovy's care, I regained a semblance of sanity. But we rarely talked of the distressing episode...

The subject seemed taboo; Iliosovy presumed the past would not interfere with the future...whatever it be.

I had no desire to teach; indeed, venturing in public instigated panic and a quickened heartbeat. What would I do if the dreaded whistle returned?

EEEEEEEEEEEE...

How could I bear the noise?

I couldn't.

And I wouldn't.

Iliosovy didn't fuss about my presence. _'You're invited to stay as long as you see fit,'_ hisself informed. He even suggested a heartening technique to salvage stability: _'Put your feelings on paper. I'm told writing helps purge emotion.'_

So...see, it was his idea, comrade. And like I said: _Words are a mystery locomotive._ Trivial jottings evolved into protean suppositions what soon consumed my interminable attention. Stitching cohesive notions together took concentration, but the prodigious work never vexed or fatigued. Writing became analogous to congress; the pulsating pen I gripped in my hand spurted vital seeds of vocabulary. Ah, the power of sculpting progeny into sublime orchestration.

Six months later, I held the machinations of a lengthy first draft. If memory serves, my effort produced around five hundred pages. Iliosovy read the monstrosity in four days, the entirety of which I spent pacing his house. As his opinion meant the world, I hoped my work impressed.

At last, my caretaker emerged from his parlor and praised, 'A worthy offering! Evocative but sinister. Your attention to detail is marvelous, and the characters are well sculpted.'

I wasn't as certain. The saying about beauty and the beholders eye, a statement I once dismissed as frivolous, is an articulated truth. 'You're plying with flattery,' I derided. 'Please, don't be diffident. Give me the brunt of your complaints.'

'I wouldn't say as much if I didn't believe it to be true. My goal is not to lead your gentle, delicate soul astray.'

'What of others? Would they like my story?'

'Well, it's a bit dark for my tastes, but there's a market for the less fickle. Yes...I believe your pages have potential.'

Boyed by Iliosovy's praise, I went about improving the manuscript. Months came and went; second and third drafts were composed. During this time, moments of frustration overwhelmed; I'd break to flex my writing hand and peep the sheets. Insipid, hollow prose returned my stare.

Daydreams interrupted creation.

I wasted hours looking out the window.

The sky clacked with castanets.

Divine solipsism begged me to join the grand highway;

To wander the wilderness;

To forget...

You cannot comprehend the compulsion of the poppy. I escaped the flowers demise and swore never to return. But, for no reason except ennui, illicit cravings yearned. Fantasies of fleeing Iliosovy's estate seized me!

After presenting hisself with the third draft, I said: 'I know it's far from complete, but I must take a break, comrade.'

'Yes, of course,' he clucked. 'You've earned a respite. With the weather turning nice, you can help in my garden.'

I took a deep breath and then continued: 'I believe a trip is in order.'

'A trip? Well...I suppose we could-'

'A _solitary_ trip.'

Iliosovy frowned.

'Your genoristy knows no bounds,' I said. 'And I can't thank you enough. As of late, tho, my concentration has become...less robust. Composition has turned into drudgery. Perhaps a change in scenery would stimulate.'

'You're using pretext to justify what we both know is true,' he spat.

'Pray tell?'

He raged: 'Don't be daft! You want to revisit the scourge; you wish to recite the cantos of a murderous world! You were on the brink of ending yourself! Had I arrived a moment later...oh, I can't bear to imagine the consequences. You've been reborn and possess the talent to make a name. And you wish to toss it away? Won't you reconsider and stay?'

His supplication pumped me with compunction; I shrugged and avoided eye contact.

'My lad, how I fret,' Iliosovy fussed. 'If only there was more I could do!'

What happened next...

Aberrance took hold of Iliosovy. He embraced me, pecked my cheek...

I should've pushed him away, but the intimate words he whispered into my ear evoked intense stimulation. Alas, I folded beneath his lyrics.

'I've harbored fondness for you since the day we met,' said he. 'Decorum kept me from fusing dream into reality, but those days have passed! Let me banish your sadness!'

He oozed affinities...

Tunneled a savage symphony!

Triggered a deafening crescendo...

Oh, Iliosovy!

Glorious, the ejaculates of congeniality...

A slippery, sticky miasmic reckoning!

Oh, Iliosovy!

There be no spasm of debasement or immorality.

Warm waves gushed through me...

And delivered a bouquet of ingenuity!

My muse, provoked by perversions...

Roamed free!

# CHAPTER 11a

"Official Nationality"

Forbidden intimacy stirred both fear and brashness;

A roughish sentiment detained rumination.

This dichotic mixture begged for adroit but costumed prose. I spent weeks in seclusion revising an already complicated narrative. How could I resolve the conflict between illicit and artistic expression?

I knew a bawdy story would not circumvent the Tsar's censorship edicts. Conventional storytelling reigned; literature addressing cultural taboos or divergent political statements were impossible to publish.

Of course, there existed an underground determined to disseminate subversive material. But this avenue appeared pointless; Chaadaev's scrutinizing prose didn't see the light of day for almost a decade! My ego sought more than a meager audience of dissidents. After spending a year courting my work in progress, I harbored a need for adulation. I also didn't want to draw the attention of the loathsome Third Section.

Recall: In December 1825, Nicholas, third son of Paul, followed his Uncle Alexander to the throne. The day of his ascension, a mob of young Army officers staged the Decembrist Revolt.

The mutiny, like many uprisings, was strewn together by liberal ideologists. The conspirators sought to influence the common soldier to rebel against this Nicholas in favor of his cousin Constantine. An ultimatum was sent, and some shots were exchanged; soon, several military structures fell under the weak control of the radicals. In no terms was there an indication this idealistic army would swell and seize power for themselves. The coup's organizers never meditated beyond these stages. Besides, the schemers anticipated to leverage their gains for a modicum of reward. Outraged, Nicholas sought no mediation. He gathered his most venerable garrisons, sent them into the Saint Petersburg barracks and routed the troublemakers. Like a boot on a colony of ants, the uprising was crushed. What's more, Nicholas presided at the show-trials and convicted the rabble the gallows at Peter-Paul.

The rebellious event fortified the young tsar's resolve to prevent insurgents from undermining his sovereignty. The Decembrists confirmed the worst stereotype of his subjects; the Decembrists reinforced mistrust. Lest you forget, when Nicholas was a boy, his father was assassinated. I suspect the experience forged his fear of zealots. Thus, Nicholas became an enemy of serious political and social reform; he contends these maudlin concepts would lead to his demise.

The establishment of the Third Section followed the Decembrist executions. Designed to control the actions and behaviors of Russians through suppression, the Section promotes more sentiment against the Tsar than it does to prevent it. But there are terrible stories of those who fell victim to charges. Many dissenters take pleasure in banishment; they view custody as an indication of effective antagonism. I didn't appreciate the sentiment; toil in a labor camp did not appeal to me.

Working under this premise, I set my tale in a foreign country, littered the leaves with clever nuances, and molded a parable of repression and abject seclusion. Drawing from personal experience, my sensitive protagonist attempted to handle the pressures of a judgmental yet indifferent world. When the strain became too great...

# CHAPTER 11b

### Hero/Heroine

I completed _Hero/Heroine_ in the fall of 1846. Oh, the joy of achievement! I had finalized a draft defining -in my unpretentious opinion- the essence of the human dyad. My previous experiences molded a stout certainty: _there are two conflicting elements contained within the soul._ One part is feminine; the other male. One fragment is cautious; the other impatient. One nurtures while the other scolds...

For most, the stringent balance of rueful contradictions is ignored. But the sensitive spirt is overwhelmed by incongruity; be it a gradation of destiny or mental defect, a sickening paroxysm subverts rational conformity. Hence, the ensuing fall from equipoise prompts a dearth of corporeal equilibrium.

Posed I: _What is an apt response to fervent consternation?_

How can one blessed with shrewd perception exist amongst the sullied and insincere?

Is it noble to choose death over strict righteousness?

My protagonist, Monsieur DeMiroir, is spurned by scrupulous brashness. Comprehend: DeMiroir is fortified by the scripture of sanctified men. Ascetic in discipline, flagellating desire, the secluded DeMiroir denies compulsion and renounces joy. But stubborn abstinence leaves him frustrated and knotted.

Hesitant to indulge in desire, he stumbles through years of torment. At last, he confronts a moment of lucidity! DeMiroir recognizes collective happiness is repressed by the tactless will of blessed men who use a whip of shame to beat their parishioners into obedience. The clergy...nothing but thieves. They take coins from the poor to finance their covetous enterprises.

My hero binges on anger; during a drunken delirium, he devises a horrific plan. At mass the following morning, DeMiroir storms the church and shoves a sword through the priest. A moment of bliss rushes through his body; the release of tension is intense! He departs the cathedral, stands in the middle of a busy street and chooses the autonomy over imprisonment. _'I resist the world by killing myself!'_ DeMiroir announces before committing self-immolation. As fire consumes his soul, my hero experiences the return of concentrated fulfillment. He burns to ashes without protestations, but his fiery demise serves as kindle in the dry cognizance of the citizenry. Igniting ache, rising as one, they challenge the authorities and instigate change!

# CHAPTER 11c

### Enter Nekabov

Iliosovy read the final manuscript and then pronounced: 'Your story is an allegory, but the greater message resonates!'

'Do you think it's publishable?' I asked.

'Indeed! Matter of fact, I have a contact I can take to task.'

'You desire to pass a bribe!' I cried in consternation.

'A bribe? No, of course not! I'm owed favors by a certain party who is in dire need of material for his broadsheet...'

As gracious donor of the local historical society, Iliosovy's mammon afforded him movement within the cultured upper class. A careless whisper at a social gathering became currency Iliosovy bartered to the curious ears in the media. One such editor was indebted to Iliosovy for his intrinsic tongue-waggling.

The confrères was named Nekabov. At Iliosovy's behest, hisself met me one fateful afternoon and skimmed a sliver of _Hero/Heroine_. Though the editor appeared unenthused as he thumbed my manuscript, he soon developed a change in deportment. Thereafter, our collective future became encased in grit.

The short, petite Nekabov dressed like an English dandy: top hat, Elton collar and walking stick. In short order, I realized the man thought his skin gilded. His inflated sense of purpose spoke volumes in place of the silence he bestowed. When he did talk, Nekabov puffed his chest and up-turned his head. The conversationalist couldn't help but stare into the abyss of his fat proboscis. He nattered in a squeaky voice, interrupting statements to inject a comment. Yes, Comrade Nekabov abounded in irritating mannerisms.

When he arrived, the editor entered Iliosovy's house and thrust his coat and hat at the domestic without acknowledging my presence.

'Comrade, I am here at your beck-and-call,' Nekabov informed Iliosovy. 'I pray this visit won't be for naught. I'm a busy man.'

'Good to see you!' Iliosovy greeted. 'And now, I'd like to introduce the magnificent scribe-'

'You can forgo the fawning,' interjected Nekabov. He looked me over with flaccid courtesy and then asked: 'You're the one I've come to assess?'

_What an unpleasant fellow_ , thought I while presenting a gregarious smile.

Before I could answer, the editor brushed past me and entered the parlor.

'He's an acquired taste,' Iliosovy whispered in my ear. 'Men of his ilk are in the business of provoking antagonism. Exercise patience and stoicism, my boy.'

Thus, I shoved detestation aside and committed to make the best impression.

As Nekabov flipped pages, I mollified nerves by twiddling fingers. He paused to light a cigar, and I thought he might drop the match on my manuscript! Puffing and muttering and flipping pages...

Mockery polluted the atmosphere worse than the foul smoke.

I feared his smarmy conduct would drive me to fits!

At last, he set the story aside and said: 'Unpolished...melodramatic...but contrite. The first few pages grabbed my attention and-'

'Do you like it?' I interrupted.

'Mm...' Nekabov hawed. 'Mm...there are wordy, egregious passages...I could strike a line through much of the second chapter...yet, you bleat a captivating tone. Let me take this home and peruse the remainder.'

A week passed; I paced Iliosovy's yard countless times. My paramour claimed fretting incited negative reflections. He tried to distract, but I failed to fulfill amorous expectations.

After a series of flaccid shenanigans, I cried: 'Woe the wait! I'm bound by angst!'

'Shh, be patient,' Iliosovy said, stroking my cheek. 'You'll see. Everything will work itself out.'

His relaxed response did not mollify. I stewed and paced while oaths thundered in my head.

But -as Iliosovy presaged- my agonizing proved a waste of energy.

Nekabov returned with a satchel and announced: 'I'd like to distribute _Hero/Heroine_ in serial form. Given the length, I foresee thirty-two episodes -two a week- at twenty rubles each. In addition, if sales of my newspaper are bolstered by your story, I will offer a _fractional_ percentage of those royalties as compensation. Say...two percent paid at the end of every month. Young man, considering you're an unheralded author, this arrangement is more than fair. Now... _ahem_...I've gone to the trouble of drawing a contract...'

My head felt light as I watched him arrange a diminutive stack of papers. Exquisite, indescribable joy made a home in my breast. To think...

'You've done it!' Iliosovy cheered. 'Do you see what your so-called _drudgery_ has produced?'

I understood:

The days and nights of endless scribbling;

Starvation and self-doubt...

My tussle with fever and sorrow bore accomplishment!

Lo, to gain form and make a face in the horde!

Bah! What naivety!

I should've deduced downfall follows success...

# CHAPTER 12

### The Cardplayers

In mid-January 1847, _Hero/Heroine_ was released -as Nekabov pledged- in serialized chapters. The narrative found a home in Nekabov's newspaper but, as my prose gained popularity, periodicals and almanacs throughout the Empire circulated the story; thereafter, a publishing house in Moscow paid a weighty commission to distribute the script in bounded covers.

At once, I found myself saturated with requests: an oratory excursion through our district; manifestations at lavish engagements...

Validation lulled me into the communal sphere.

There, my aversion to civilization tempered under the barrage of cloying accolades.

Next came the temptation of intoxicants, which I refused after making a pledge of sobriety.

But the adoration triggered a bacchanalia of rowdy perversions.

What a debauched time!

In my mind, carnal merriment equaled endorsement; therefore, I no longer required Iliosovy's validating affinity. He took my slights with requisite sorrow, but Iliosovy didn't pine or howl. Therefore -and in what I ascribe to juvenile guile- I assumed he realized our affair had run its course.

To wit: I surmounted travail.

I propagated new breeding along the erotic highway.

Iliosovy's tempered nurturing...

His ardent plugging...

Dizzy stinging and drenching spores...

The slow burn of night soaked in passionate sowing!

He-he.

I didn't require studious benevolence anymore.

But to make a home in someone's hole...

To haunt the backbone;

To find succor in humid alcoves...

Iliosovy's infatuation existed beyond the corporal!

I should've known...

My tartlet accepted dismissal with fraudulent aplomb!

Saith hisself: 'I won't challenge your aspirations, my boy. Independence is a keen motivator. Nevertheless, I want you to _always_ remember I have your interests at heart.'

I have your interests at heart.

I have you interests...

Humph.

We remained comrades which, I suppose, permitted Iliosovy to assert a degree of control and take liberties I failed to resist. And when he felt my _interests_ weren't being met...

Well, he expressed consternation.

Jealousy, my welfare, his adoration...everything...

Ahem.

The situation became intolerable.

Until then, it came to pass: I toured for a stretch before tiring of both travel and fleshy delights. During an intense visitation of energy, pretense foretold of mortgaging body and soul. _Disgusted_ , described I. Disgusted _and_ fatigued.

I craved solitude, the chirrup of nature, and a plot I could call home. Using publishing credits and fees harvested from speaking engagements, I purchased a small, two room cottage and byre on the outskirts of V——. Though isolated and ensconced by antediluvian timber, my diminutive hovel was an apt harbor to read, write and ruminate. I procured a black Kabardian and some livestock; I planted a garden; I was self-sufficient, comrade.

At ease.

Comfortable.

And then Nekabov begun badgering me for _the next great story_. He enticed, _'Strike while the iron is hot!'._ Though I'd been sketching a tale, I told him I'd think about it. Shrewd insight dictated: _Your name is recognizable now. A publishing house would pay a higher commission than a local editor._

But the compassionate side of me reasoned, _Nekabov gave you an opportunity. The least you could do is remain loyal._

Iliosovy urged me to negotiate: 'Comrade Nekabov owes the rebirth of his tabloid to your creation. Make him understand you're not working for free.'

'I did well with _Hero/Heroine_ , and Nekabov bears much of the credit,' countered I.

'He didn't write the story!'

'Advertisement is worth its weight.'

'Fine, I understand you're not willing to bend,' Iliosovy grumbled. 'At the least, let me sit at the table where the handshake is to take place.'

On the appointed day, Iliosovy and I played find the fool while we waited for the editor.

'I don't want you getting pushed around,' Iliosovy said. 'Stand your ground and demand a thirty percent commission.'

'Thirty percent!' I cried. 'Are you crazy? He'll never agree to thirty!'

'Then let me do the talking.'

'No, I don't need your help.'

'Yes, my boy, you do,' Iliosovy tutted. 'You've always needed my help.'

Oh, the conceit! I conjured a witty rejoinder, but the clattering of a carriage announced Nekabov's arrival.

'I'm capable of handling myself,' I said, waggling a finger.

' _Humph_ ,' grumbled Iliosovy.

I greeted Nekabov at the door; he thumped his hat twice to agitate spores and then said, 'Regrets for the tardiness. My driver, the incompetent! We rode in circles for an hour! Of course, it would help if you were on the beaten path. Why have you staked roots _here_? You should strive for something befitting a man of success!'

'I value serenity a mite more than you,' I said. 'Besides, one novel does not make the novelist a fortune.'

'I cannot help with tranquility,' Nekabov said. 'But of fortune, I'm capable.'

'Then let us confer,' I said, sweeping an arm to welcome him in.

'We shall, but please, I have my Drozhki out front. I'd like to put my horses into shelter. My boy can wait with the beasts. Perhaps he can mastermind a less circuitous route back to V——.'

Once his business had been handled, Nekabov sat at the table and cleared his throat.

'First, a couple hands,' I announced, nodding at the deck of cards.

'Fabulous,' Nekabov said with zero enthusiasm.

The three of us engaged in trivial conversation and played several games of find the fool. Finally, Nekabov could bite his tongue no more. He placed his cards on the table and said, 'Eh...I'd like to speak about the purpose of my visit.'

I glanced at Iliosovy. He paused in the middle of a throw and cocked his head.

Continued Nekabov: 'Comrade author, your newest work in progress...mayhap you have an idea when it might be finished?'

'We were just speaking of the subject,' Iliosovy said. He gathered his cards into a pile and added, 'Are you aware large publishing houses are courting our comrade?'

Nekabov propagated agitation and huffed: 'Nonsense! No copyreader in a big house will have the time, nor the inclination, to treat your work with caring hands. Yes, I have plans, comrade! I'm devoting a section of Sunday's edition to the arts! Think of it: an entire panel showcasing talent! What's more, I have other young, brilliant writers under contract. In no time, my paper will hold sway over this district and the next.'

Iliosovy snorted.

'Someday, people will pay _me_ to publish _their_ work,' Nekabov said, crossing arms.

'What _other young, brilliant writers_ have you signed?' I asked.

Hummed the editor: 'Oviavich, Prostovok, Bukowski...a few women...oh, and I'm attempting to woo Ivan Medvelov. The rouge...nobody in Saint Petersburg will touch him. I've been warned to stay wide, but his bawdry poesy is popular among rural, simple-minded folks.'

'Which explains why I've never heard of him,' Iliosovy muttered.

But I had. I became familiar with Medvelov's verses as I ascended the grand literary staircase. Like Nekabov said, _bawdry_ described the poet's style...but beneath the clever rhymes lurked stimulating acerbity. The previous spring, we were scheduled to do several readings together, but Medvelov bowed due to "illness". His absence generated enmity amongst other touring writers, and they made the most disparaging remarks...

'He's a detestable sort,' confirmed Nekabov. 'Thorny. Rash. The man drinks to excess and runs his mouth. His temperament has irked previous publishers but...um...' He paused, leaned on both elbows and cracked a smile.

'You have a gleam,' I said.

'I've been blessed by idea,' Nekabov said. 'Your common concerns might motivate conversation. In this vein, perhaps you can speak to him on my behalf?'

'Comrade Nekabov,' Iliosovy fussed. 'Mediation isn't our lad's responsibility.'

'I'm willing to pay commission,' Nekabov said.

Iliosovy decided to end the small talk: 'Concerning his coming story, our adept author demands thirty percent of newspaper royalties.'

'Please!' Nekabov jeered. 'Thirty? Impossible! Do you know what I make when the dust settles? Not even close to thirty!'

'Twenty-five,' Iliosovy hacked. 'Twenty-five...plus the wage for entertaining this Medvelov character.'

'Ten,' the editor countered. 'Ten and a one-hundred-ruble commission for Medvelov.'

'Two hundred,' challenged Iliosovy. 'Two hundred for-'

The bartering would've wound into perpetuity had I not pounded a fist on the table.

Thud!

Both men snapped their mouths shut and looked at me.

'Enough,' I said. 'Ten percent is fair. As for Ivan Medvelov...Comrade Nekabov, if our paths cross, I'll whisper into his ear...'

# CHAPTER 12a

### Enter Medvelov

Like me, 1846 was an important year for Ivan Medvelov. The moody writer released a compendium of sonnets and aphorisms what lambasted conventional views of genial rapport.

Or so I concluded.

On the surface, his poems poked fun and invoked mirth. He penned: _M_ _an's humanity is gained when misery is his ball and chain_ ;

Oh, the shrewish nag, lashing with her breath! Goodness, can I please be saved by death;

Heroism was once a quest to scale allegorical villains; but today, a victor is one who can remove his wife's linen!

_He-he_...he had a rapacious wit. And his verses took a hammer to romanticized drivel. How could I not desire to pick his brain?

Some days after our meeting at my cottage, I visited Nekabov at his office in V——to ink our contract.

I had no sooner made my last mark when the editor said: 'Say, there's a gala at Widow L——'s manor the weekend next. I've gone to the liberty of securing you an invitation. What better way to celebrate our partnership?'

'My compulsion to rub elbows is over,' I said.

' _Tsk_...what a shame. I'm told Ivan Medvelov will be attending.'

'Ah, you want to commence introduction.'

'If you'd be so kind.'

'Well, I'd rather speak to him in less public confines.'

'Yes, yes, I know you've become an eremite, but-'

I silenced him with an impatient hand wave and said, 'No, I've learned to appreciate peace and quiet. Inebriated flatterers are a noisy bore.'

'Truer words have not been uttered, comrade.'

'S—— in my mouth,' I laughed. 'What did I tell you not more than a second ago?'

'There's no need for snappish comportment. I agree with you, and not because I'm pulling wool.'

'How about we stage a private meeting? Does he reside near?'

'A few hours ride. He has an estate outside the S—— prospect.'

'Splendid! I can go to him.'

'Eh...previous experience has shown me... _ahem_...Medvelov prefers not to entertain.'

'Then he can come to me.'

Nekabov sighed and then said, 'Listen, it's better this way. The man lacks the propensity for social grace, but he'd be a million times more truculent in the solitude of his home.'

'Must you with the hyperbole?'

' _Facts,_ comrade. I recite _facts_. And the fact is, I need you to speak to Medvelov. We agreed you'd try.'

'What if he presents me an inconsiderate shoulder?'

'So be it. But the commission is payable upon success, not failure.'

'I'll do my best,' I said with a shrug. 'Horse to water, eh?'

The editor leaned back in his creaky chair and said, 'You know, my occupation permits me unconstrained access to rumor and innuendo. Loathsome as they are, servants can be adept eyes and ears. They have no loyalty if money is changing hands. Being said, I went to _great_ pains to secure both your invitation and those of Ivan Medvelov and his wife.'

'And?' I asked through a yawn.

' _And_?' Nekabov snorted.

' _And_ what's your point?'

'My point is, opportunity necessitates coercion.'

'What are you talking about?'

'I've given my word to...eh...a _certain_ individual...I will keep a secret in exchange for invites. But should your _chance_ encounter with Medvelov bear no fruit, I will have leveraged knowledge for naught.'

'Leveraged _what_ knowledge?'

'Well...Widow L—— is a _scandalous_ woman. She's involved with the governor...a sultry affair, or so I've heard.'

Intrigued, I leaned forward and whispered, 'How do you know?'

'Recall: her husband died last summer in a mysterious accident. I _speculated_ the horse what ran him down was spooked. And I'm right, comrade! He was murdered to keep the affair secret.'

'A conspiracy?'

'Indeed!'

I laughed...

'The governor's wife is the grandniece of the Tsar,' Nekabov argued.

'I'm losing track of the players,' I wheezed while wiping tears.

'You mustn't say a thing,' Nekabov advised. Then he pushed a sealed envelope across the desk and said, 'Your invitation. I will see you at the event.'

One week later, I dressed in my finest and rode to Widows L——'s manor. Battling nerves what stimulated the bowels, I devised several possible scenarios: _Medvelov would talk to me; Medvelov wouldn't talk to me; Medvelov throws a bottle at me..._

Next, I pondered the commerce behind my invitation. I recalled the community consensus: several serfs contrived a trap and startled the horse what trampled the widow's partner. This anecdote was reported as _fact_ in Nekabov's newspaper, causing the district military commissioner to launch an investigation. After a hasty probe, the death was ruled accidental, life returned to normal and Widow L— inherited the vast estate and its trappings. Nekabov's newest information confirmed murder was the case, but the retainers weren't to blame.

Nonetheless, I considered both theories nonsensical. Horse's get loose; people get pulverized...it happens all the time. _Pfft._ Gossip knows no bounds!

I entered the estate and mixt amongst what seemed like hundreds of military bureaucrats and aristocratic vanguards. Locating Nekabov proved futile. My, what a fine situation! I knew nobody and moved from group to group like a panderer. Perhaps I'd locate Ivan Medvelov by chance...

But his grand entrance spoiled the hunt.

A thin, disheveled fellow lurched around the parlor, collided with shocked denizens and, at last, collapsed upon a sofa. He murmured slurs before summoning the bottle of aquavit clasped in his right hand. Lo, the dynamic process of disbursement! I watched him guzzle and felt tingles. Goodness, the desire to join him!

Stuffed into rumpled formal wear what looked like it been pilfered from a long-ago buried corpse, the drunkard depicted the soul run wild: greasy hair reared at angles; an unkempt beard concealed most of his face; eyes, the leaden color of a cloudy winter's day; grim, pallid mouthline; an averaged sized nose brocaded with large red blood vessels what resembled rivers of lava athwart a despoiled landscape. Hisself flared nostrils as if inhaling the unpleasant scent of the consecrated; his glare elucidated one who knew nothing but the knout.

'What a dishonorable sight,' a woman whispered with the firm conviction of a seraph.

'His name is Ivan Medvelov,' replied another socialite.

'Who?' asked a third woman.

'He's a poet, so-called,' replied herself all stuffy-like.

'Yevgeny Baratynsky, now there is a versifier!' a military man avowed.

This statement launched the group into a discussion of rhyme during which I broke away and edged towards the sofa. I wondered how to begin a conversation with Medvelov while avoiding his ire...

Medvelov watched me approach and narrowed eyes; when I trundled within arm's length, he barked: 'I saw your disagreeable stare from across the room! What do you want?'

'I...eh...I-I've been wanting to meet you,' stammered I.

'Leave me alone,' Medvelov spat.

'You don't understand. I'm not just a fan of your poetry, comrade. We were supposed to do a tour the summer past, but you fell ill.'

'Wha...wha tour?'

'A reading tour across the district. I'm an author, like yourself, and-'

' _Like yourself!_ ' he howled. 'Ha!'

Heads turned our direction.

'Do you enjoy writing pointless drivel as much as me?' Medvelov asked.

'I don't judge your verses as drivel,' I answered with deference.

'Eh? What would you know?'

'My opinion, sir.'

'S—— in my mouth, your _opinion_. Everyone and their _opinions_! I loathe _opinions_...eh...what is your name?'

I answered and then beheld a remarkable response: the poet sat upright, blinked several times and then grinned. 'Could it be the composer of _Hero/Heroine_?' he gushed. 'S—— in my mouth! You wrote a brilliant story, comrade! And the end...choosing death over life...perfect!'

My face felt rosy; emboldened by the praise, I stepped closer...

'I've never had the discipline to endure the chastisement of the chore,' Medvelov said.

'What chore?'

'Writing a novel, of course!'

'Oh, yes, well, I'd be lying if I didn't say the process isn't taxing.'

'Verily...' Medvelov said as he lurched to his feet. 'Come, comrade. Let us continue our conversation free from scrutiny.'

Dragging me in tow, Medvelov charged through the manse seeking an unoccupied nook. At last, he discovered small den in a neglected corner of the estate. A single window emitted the bright light of a glorious harvest moon. Medvelov didn't bother firing a lamp, and we took divergent seats in dusty chairs. He extracted a pull of tobacco and papers from his breast pocket. Soon, we were sharing the aroma and flavor of the well-cut.

'Ah...beautiful moonshine,' Medvelov droned. 'Reminds me of childhood.'

'Where did you reside?'

The poet ignored my question and slapped my thigh. 'What luck to cross paths!' he cheered. 'And my apologies for missing the tour. Had I known you were conscribed...but I was waylaid. My...eh...my cough refused to lessen.'

'Full confession, it isn't luck what brought us together.'

'No?'

'A Comrade Nekabov...he operates a periodical in V——...is interested in handling your future publishing endeavors.'

'I'm familiar with the parasite,' Medvelov bristled. 'He approached you to do his bidding?'

'I accepted if just to meet you.'

'S—— in my mouth! You flatter with your refined responses!'

'I'm nothing but truthful, comrade.'

Medvelov grunted and offered his bottle, and tho I felt a twinge in my drinking hand, I shook my head. 'An abstainer,' he declared. 'More for me, then.'

I explained: 'I used to indulge, but intemperance led me to a sordid place.'

'The point, is it not?'

'Perhaps, but I approached the brink of madness. Woe to me if I return. Now, I'm clear-headed and desire to remain so.'

'Lucidity crafted your story? I would never have guessed!'

'Lucidity born from chaos. In fact, I started writing to sooth my mind.'

'I write because I'm bored. Bored and sullen. I used to act, comrade. Troupe theater. Town-to-town. It's how we met, Lavenia and I. Thereafter, I took the pen. But it's not _real_ writing. Anybody can hash dreadful rhymes.'

'You're not serious!' I cried. ' _Dreadful rhymes_?'

'Beauty and the eye,' he replied before taking a drag.

'Explain why Comrade Nekabov desires to publish your _dreadful rhymes._ '

He stared out the window, exhaled and then said, 'Because he's a parasite.'

'I admit, the man has shortcomings-'

' _I resist the world by killing myself_ ,' Medvelov interrupted.

'Pardon?'

'The last sentence DeMiroir says before flames consumed him. His bold sacrifice...anointing the earth with burned skin...ahhh...to choose death over the joints of time. To sacrifice self and...and accept a world of fire! I have mulled the same sentiments, comrade. The lament of the likeminded, eh? Yet to embolden such brilliant prose on paper...oh, should I be blessed by the wand of your muse!'

'Goodness,' I tittered. 'Who is flattering who?'

And he was flattering...

Charming.

Congenial.

We spent hours discussing political and philosophical topics. Tipsy as he be, Medvelov maintained articulation; he expounded with rational inclination; he displayed a passion for academic conversation!

A kinship formed, one I didn't want to expire as the night grew long. But when the moon shrunk to the size of a shriveled orange, Medvelov stretched arms and yawned.

'Comrade, it's getting late,' he sighed. 'I have a long ride with the wife; therefore, I must bid _adieu_. But... _ahem_...perhaps we'll meet again. No doubt we could find something to ponder.'

Which reminded me...

I cleared my throat and then said, 'I'd be remiss if I didn't broach the subject again.'

'Hmm?'

'Comrade Nekabov.'

'Yes, the parasite,' Medvelov bemoaned. 'What does he want? My soul or some nonsense?'

'He'd like to discuss-'

'Publishing my work. I recall.'

'There's a chance he's about if you-'

'S—— in my mouth! I have no desire to talk to him now!'

'Later?'

'My, you're a pushy acolyte.'

'Listen, Comrade Nekabov has contrived a grand plan with his paper.'

'Do tell.'

'A section devoted to writers.

'A section?'

'Indeed. In fact, Nekabov has commissioned several authors, including myself. I have signed rights to distribute my second novel through him.'

'He's leaning from the scandalous tripe?'

'I can't say anything of the sort, but he appears serious about propagating our craft.'

'Em...perhaps...but I surmise the parasite is attempting to push copy.'

'True, hisself is a mogul; however, I owe my success to the man. Without his help, _Hero/Heroine_ might've been lost to the ages.'

Medvelov snorted and rolled his eyes.

'I have no cause for exaggeration,' said I, all solemn-like. 'I'm only relaying Comrade Nekabov's invitation in good faith. If you're interested, he has an office in V——-.'

'I already know the location of his lair. The fool's been pestering me with letters asking for a sit-down. Now he's sending an envoy. Ha!'

'You know...eh...Comrade Nekabov is...he's stubborn,' I hawed.

'I tip my hat to his obstinacy,' Medvelov chuckled. 'Ah...fine...tell him I'll visit at my convenience.'

'As you wish, comrade.'

'Better yet...' Medvelov muttered as scratched his head. ' _Hmm_...perhaps we combine business and pleasure?'

'What say you?'

'Kill two birds in a languorous location. I'll entertain the parasite's proposal; then we'll delve into solemn discourse.'

I snapped fingers and said, 'Do you play cards?'

'And how! Vint, rubber bridge, bura, durak...need I go on?'

'Then it's settled! My cottage say...'

'The coming Wednesday? Late afternoon?'

'Yes, to both! I'll give you directions-'

Interrupted Medvelov: 'Might I bring a comrade?'

'A comrade?'

'A jovial fellow! Older. He doesn't get out much.'

'I don't see why not.'

'Excellent! Next Wednesday! Now, those directions...'

I rode home feeling like a king:

Swathed in gilded linen;

Corpulent;

Elated;

Endowed...

Which is, on reflection, a testament to Ivan Medvelov's charisma...

Or a pronouncement of my gullibility.

So, comrade, you've now heard how The Cardplayers formed: in the parlor of the bequeathed mansion of a scandalous woman.

A fitting spot, _he-he_.

# CHAPTER 12b

### A Conversation with Iliosovy

I called on Nekabov the next day and delivered a pithy version of my conversation with Ivan Medvelov...

'...and he agreed to a meeting,' I concluded. 'My place, next Wednesday, suppertime.'

'I knew he'd come to senses,' the editor said all haughty-like. 'Medvelov just required the sweet voice of a compatriot.'

'It won't be all business, comrade. He wants to throw cards.'

'Yes, whatever, I don't care.'

'And he's bringing a companion.'

'Eh? Who?'

'An old, jovial man, hisself said.'

'An agent,' Nekabov hissed. 'You watch! Medvelov is going to try and pick my pocket! _Humph_...I'm no fool! I've negotiated with harder men...'

Thereafter, he babbled about being _the flypaper, not the fly_ through a handful of clock ticks while I impishly thought: _Won't this be an interesting evening!_

Later, I paid a visit to Iliosovy and conveyed an invitation:

'I'm hosting a card game the coming Wednesday. You're welcome to join us.'

' _Us_? Who is _us_?'

'Comrade Nekabov, Ivan Medvelov and his comrade...I don't know the man...which makes four.'

Iliosovy knotted his brow and said, 'Medvelov is the poet Nekabov described as...what was it? _Thorny. Rash. Drinks to excess_?'

' _Pfft._ Nekabov is prone to embellishment. Ivan and I engaged in a delightful, intelligent conversation last night. Is he temperate? _No._ But what artist is?'

'You, for beginners.'

'And I intend to remain abstinent. Lest you forget, I toured for months and did not indulge.

'No, but you became involved in other corruptions,' Iliosovy lamented.

His woeful voice intoned jealousy; he took the sagging posture of a voided soul; his eyes brimmed with tears...

And I felt bitterness.

The nerve!

What gave him the right to dictate with whom I could associate?

Besides...

'It's formality more than pleasure,' I said. 'Nekabov hopes to thrash a contract. In the interim, I anticipate we'll engage in cards and conversation.'

Iliosovy took my hand and whispered, 'You mustn't be cross. You have a book to write, comrade. Idle talk is wasted time.'

Oh, Iliosovy!

Lo, his mysticism!

'My handsome comrade,' cooed hisself. 'I _only_ have your interests at heart.'

Oh, Iliosovy...

Sad, solitary Iliosovy.

Comprehend: I realized my comrade would always make me _his_ problem.

Forevermore, Iliosovy pronounced authority to lecture me!

He'd stand on my shoulder and chirp in me ear...

My long-gone despondency...his weapon to wield.

Mayhap it be this moment...yes...it _was_ the moment...I manufactured an antagonism to the man.

But I gave into perversions... _he-he._

And when the rollicking ceased, he laid his head on my back and said, 'I'll come Wednesday.'

# CHAPTER 12c

"First Of All..."

Comrade, do recall the blizzard what dumped mounding snow on eastern Russia in September 1847? _One for the ages,_ saith the old. Lo! The cold...the wind! Anemoi's shrieking conjured wraiths and demons! The simple folk's maxim be: _Snow in September heralds a bitter winter_. Though the enduring nature of my countrymen is extolled, a brutal fall tempest makes the heartiest Cossack shiver!

Find me on the appointed Wednesday squinting out my window...

A bottomless bucket of powder fell on the earth.

Perception in the white maelstrom proved impossible.

My mind envisioned appalling destinies for the immature traveler testing the elements. Specifically, I foresaw Medvelov seeking my habitat...vexed by weather...mislaid...blinded...overtaken by nature and left frozen for spring's thaw. What an ignoble end!

Medvelov's fate also induced Nekabov's profound angst: arm's crossed; fretting; pacing the cottage (hob to table and then the former). I'm certain the editor's concerns were business related, but I discerned a small portion of Nekabov's anxiety be related to the writer's demise. At one point, he halted midstride and said, 'I'm sending my driver to look for Ivan.'

'You'd be sending him to his death,' I answered, to which Nekabov bit his lip. Thereafter, back and forth he went.

Meantime, Iliosovy sat at my table and played a solitary card game. He had arrived several hours earlier -before the first snowflakes appeared- and we discussed a chapter of my work in progress. Next, Nekabov pounded at the door. By then, the snow topped a boot toe...

'Such odd weather,' Iliosovy remarked as he dealt another hand. 'Hot yesterday, warm this morning and now...I can't recall an earlier snow.'

'This is a portent,' Nekabov whined.

'No doubt Ivan's been bushwhacked by the weather,' I bemoaned.

'You both worry too much,' Iliosovy clucked. 'Comrade Nekabov, how about some news to lighten the air?'

The editor stopped striding and sighed.

'There must be something,' Iliosovy prodded.

'Eh...fine...' Nekabov hawed as he took a seat. 'Have you heard the latest news about O—— and her friend, the cagey horse breeder G——?'

'Is it delectable?' Iliosovy whispered as he pushed aside the fanned kites.

'I received information they are _quite_ close,' Nekabov trumpeted. 'In fact, they're exchanging pleasantries reserved for a couple intent on producing a child rather than conducting official business at G———'s livery.'

'She's an immoral vixen,' Iliosovy said.

Giggled Nekabov: 'By the sounds of it, O—— appears to be in a continuous mating season.'

_Ugh,_ the editor's braying cackle.

I dropped the curtain over the window and cried: 'How can you laugh at a time like this?'

'Perhaps your comrade is not coming,' said Iliosovy. 'Perhaps the storm caused him to turn back or halt.'

'Perhaps he's stuck,' countered I.

'Perhaps we could use a splash of wine,' Nekabov said. 'I brought a tartlet Rkatsiteli.'

'I don't drink,' I said.

'What?' Nekabov screeched. 'It's a way of life among you literati!'

'His father was a drunkard,' Iliosovy explained.

'And I'll enjoy taking your money when you are too uneven to see,' I said.

'Oh, I understand,' Nekabov said. 'This is your strategy, hm? If so, Medvelov will leave destitute...or more destitute than he is. Provided he arrives, of course...'

'He's a wastrel?' Iliosovy asked, raising an eyebrow.

Nekabov explained: 'I have it on good authority Medvelov's debts encompass the breadth of several districts. Seedy gambling salons call his name, which is why, despite his truculence, I knew he'd come to me. The man needs a squeeze to keep the collectors at arm's length. Worse, he's spent a sizable amount of his spouse's bequest and she...Lavina Checknova...eh...if you believe the gossip, and I do, she's powerless to stop the dirge.'

'How disgraceful!' Iliosovy exclaimed.

'Yes, it is,' Nekabov responded with a nod. 'There are whispers he only married her for the dosh. Regardless, Ivan and Lavina exist in a world of denial; they race to destruction as if reward awaits on the other side.'

'Goodness, the morose chatter!' I jeered. 'Speculation is not proof.'

'Well, I'll tell you what I've heard and let you pronounce judgment,' said Nekabov. 'Lavina Checknova...'

# CHAPTER 12d

### Nekabov's Narration

...handsome and busty, be the lone child of a successful structural engineer who helped construct the rail line connecting St. Petersburg and Tsarskoye Selo. Herself and parents lived in splendor outside the town of F——, a stone's throw from the capital. At sixteen, she was sent to Prague for a studious education at a female seminary. A rumor subsisted regarding her absence: Lavina had been tangled in an unsavory romantic escapade with a married man. The result of this dalliance affected her father's business relationships and generated consternation in the household. Father Checknov's solution of banishment appeared to satisfy two problems, the second being his daughter's salvation...

Or so alleged the gossipers.

Lavina's exile was short-lived: ten months after she arrived in Prague, Father Checknov perished in the catastrophic Rzhevsky Bridge Collapse. However testy the relationship between father and daughter, the old man bequeathed her a large dowry and the family's second home outside S——. Emboldened by the latitude of money, Lavina returned from abroad and engaged in ribaldry. She consorted with numerous men, deriving both a grubby reputation and the ire of her mother. It was during this period Medvelov, then a performer in a Shakespearian theater troupe, trundled into S—— for a week-long performance of _The Tempest_. Lavina developed amorous feelings for the thespian and the two began a passionate romance. It goes without saying these trysts are usually brief; travelling men are the worst at monogamy, but a bard with the gift of histrionics is without question the most unprincipled philanderer. Deaf to her mother's strenuous demurrals, Lavina's ardor persisted well-beyond the usual life span of puerile flirtations. She joined Ivan on his tour and when the performances were complete, he returned with her to S——.

Whatever Medvelov's hex, he wrested Lavina into a swift courtship followed by matrimony. The womenfolk in S——, led by a meddlesome snake named A——, took pains to besmirch the union. You know the hysterical animosity females harbor for each other...their eyes glow with viciousness as their fat mouths blather outrageous claims. Over tea and frosted cake, A—— imparted shadowy tales of Lavina's past and present. Like a plague, the gossip spread throughout the city. Lavina's mother caught the brunt of the searing talk; strangers pressed her with insulting accusations: _'How could you let your daughter fall to such levels'_...and the like. The constant interrogation pushed Mother to hysterics. At last, herself confronted Lavina: she counseled: ' _Ivan is a rascal pursing your wealth!'_ ; and then she threatened estrangement until the _reckless girl_ left the rouge in the gutter _from whence he spawned!_

Daughter answered Mother: _'Then I shall never see you again!'_ Wet-eyed, flushed and in a rush to depart, Lavina tumbled down a staircase and fractured her left arm.

Quick like, a rumor engulfed S——: Ivan Medvelov had broken his poor wife's limb. Incensed, Medvelov confronted A—— at the market, flattened her with a stream of obscenities and pushed the harpy to the ground. This behavior did nothing to redeem hisself's status; rather, it bolstered Medvelov's uncouth reputation. After the regrettable episode, the couple took refuge in their estate. They weren't seen for several months...which stimulated dire chatter. But the Medvelov's hadn't met with misfortune. Ivan wrote a passel of poems and peddled the prose in Saint Petersburg. Lavina sometimes accompanied him on his trips, but she appeared a shadow of her former radiant self. Muted, pale and haggard, she found solace in alcohol. As Ivan's literary accomplishments increased, Lavina became more reclusive and dependent. He took control of the finances and, it appeared, squandered a large portion to satisfy his gambling appetites. In addition, success emboldened him an ego; aided by the boon, Medvelov made enemies of publishers and sponsors. The risk of working with the belligerent poet compelled most in the industry to shun the writer. Meantime, debt accrued...though Ivan seemed indifferent.

In rare instances, the couple graced social functions. Those settings offered Ivan Medvelov a stage to play a churlish role, tho it'd be a stretch to say he was acting. No, the man took pleasure insulting the cultured. And the disparaged Lavina? She tolerated her husband's atrocious conduct...

# CHAPTER 12e

### Enter The Major

'...without complaint,' Nekabov concluded.

'This is the scoundrel you've invited?' Iliosovy asked me through a scowl.

'Exaggerations,' I said. 'The smear of-'

And then I heard a sound what cut me off midsentence:

Rising above the squall, the shrieking of stressed horses!

I pushed the curtain aside, pressed my nose to the frosty window...

Between wafting streamers of snow, I discerned a delightful sight: a troika; three steamy beasts of burden; a duo disembarking from their sleigh...

'He's arrived!' I cheered, bolting toward the door.

'You mustn't go into the cold!' Iliosovy warned.

But I didn't heed. I rushed outside and encountered a red-faced Medvelov and his comrade (hisself's visage swaddled in a scarf), whom I'll introduce in short order.

'Ivan, you made it!' I shouted over the wind. 'Oh, how I worried!'

'To God's ear!' Medvelov exclaimed. 'S—— in my mouth, what a fretful ride!'

Already, a chill nestled in my bones; teeth chattering, I gestured at the outbuilding and ordered, 'Put your kit in the barn and hurry inside! I'll see you in a moment!'

'You will catch a fever in such a state,' Iliosovy scolded when I returned.

'Fleeting exposure won't make me ill,' I said, strolling to the hob and rubbing hands.

'Did Medvelov come alone?' Nekabov asked.

His question was answered in short order after the door flew open. Ushered by a swirl of white, the two travelers entered and began unpacking from frocks. Medvelov's companion worked his mittens off, stomped boots and then unwound the icy scarf...

The flickering yellow flame of candles cast a mystical glow onto the stranger, and I observed his features through a buttery taper. He appeared no younger than the oldest person in V—— (timeworn Comrade L——, who alleged an age between sixty-five and seventy). Hairless and clean-shaven, my caller's pasty skin hung in several folds below his chin; wrinkles underneath his eyes appeared to collect the particulates lingering in the air. I imagined parting those furrows with my fingers and raking derelict specks of ageless dirt from the folds. As he removed a thick pelt, I observed a blue military uniform hanging from his puny frame. Three gold medals dangled from the left breast of the outfit, and he thrust his chest in an audacious display of valor. Blinking eyes magnified by thick spectacles, the old soldier swung his head right to left like a lighthouse beacon.

'In whose hearth do I grace?' hisself asked in a robust voice.

'It is my home,' I greeted. 'Make yourself comfortable, sir.'

He nodded and said, 'Major Vladimir Tschoschy, retired Russian Army, at your service.'

'Salutations, Comrade Major,' I said with a bow.

'My _profound_ appreciation for the summons.' Then The Major (as I'll refer to him for the majority of my account) turned on his heel and ambled to Iliosovy and Nekabov.

Frostbitten and wild-haired, Medvelov sidled next me and whispered, 'Do tell, comrade: Is the parasite champing at the bit?'

Though I cracked a smile, Nekabov's gossip resounded in my head. Reconciling fact from fiction is an impossible task, and there are two sides to every tale. Anyway, it wasn't my place to pry into a man's past or present. To do so seemed...vulgar. Or it did at the time...

'Eh?' the poet pressed, jabbing an elbow in my ribs.

Diplomatic like, I answered: 'Like the rest of us, Comrade Nekabov grew worried as time passed.'

'But is he _champing_?'

'I'll let you decide after you've spoken to him.'

'Well, I may be speaking to him for a spell. Nobody's leaving if the weather remains grouchy. In any case, let us...um... _begin the festivities_.'

'One thing...' I whispered as we approached the trio. 'Nekabov believes your comrade is an agent.'

'An agent?'

'A negotiator working on your behalf.'

'I don't require a mediator to steel a favorable arrangement,' Medvelov mumbled out the right side of his mouth.

Nekabov appraised the poet -toe to head- and grunted; Iliosovy scrutinized through squinty eyes.

I pointed at the latter and said, 'Ivan Medvelov, this is the man who compelled me to take the pen and make it flow: Comrade Iliosovy.'

Medvelov cocked his head and then pronounced, 'You're his muse, so to speak.'

Iliosovy blushed.

'I didn't mean...eh...' Medvelov chuckled. 'I think...all of us are inspired by something or someone. And with inspiration comes intimacy. 'Tis the keystone of-'

'Comrade Medvelov!' Nekabov interrupted. 'At last, we convene!'

'-sculpture,' finished the poet before addressing the editor with a merry: 'Greetings, sir! You must be the parasite.'

'Ex-excuse me?' sputtered Nekabov.

'Vladimir,' Medvelov said as he kicked The Major's left shin. 'This is Comrade Nekabov, the publisher of a scandal driven tabloid in V——. He's eager to sway me.'

'Sway you?' The Major asked.

'To compose simple cantos,' Medvelov said. 'He also believes you're a...what is it? My agent?'

'We are here to hash, are we not?' Nekabov asked.

'Vladimir and my father served together in the army,' said Medvelov. 'And after Father suffered injuries in combat and withered to naught, Vladimir helped me chart a course in this woeful world. One thing he is not? My mouthpiece. I speak for myself, sir. Hence, Comrade Nekabov, instead of squandering time, I'll come to the point: I want one hundred rubles per page with an advance of three hundred rubles effective the second after we emboss parchment.'

'One hundred per? Be serious, man!' Nekabov spat.

'You have the brass,' said Medvelov. 'How much did you pay our author comrade to wrangle me?'

Saith Nekabov: 'Appreciate: I'm doing _you_ a favor; I'm giving you an occasion to prosper.'

'You've heard my terms,' snapped Medvelov.

'I don't need your words to flog sheaves,' Nekabov grumbled. 'My newspaper is the highest seller in this district!'

'I can tell you why,' Medvelov retorted. 'Comrade Nekabov's pulped rags feel like an angels touch on the a——!'

The shocking comment sent my jaw to the floor; Iliosovy registered a look of eye bulging astonishment; The Major -head tilted upwards at a forty-five-degree angle- sat like a statue as if he'd not heard a word of the conversation.

'Why, what an appalling statement,' huffed the editor.

Medvelov exclaimed: 'Come now, comrade! What's terrible about the truth?'

'Gentlemen!' Iliosovy intervened. 'Let's act as if we have breeding about us!'

'The only thing purebred about _Comrade_ Medvelov are his dreadful manners,' Nekabov fumed.

'A worthy declaration,' The Major said.

'My goodness! I suppose there's a first time for everything,' Medvelov sniggered.

In a shrill voice, Iliosovy suggested: 'Perhaps we should play a hand.'

'I shall not continue to allow myself to be a target for Medvelov's self-hatred,' Nekabov said.

' _Self-hatred_?' cried the poet. 'You mistake our discourse, comrade. If a man cannot take comfort in others having a laugh at his expense, then perhaps the man believes he is the center of the universe. Conversation is a game of jest, is it not? Now,' he said, slapping the table with his right hand. 'Are we going to play or what? I have an advance of three hundred rubles to wager!'

Ah...what a memorable night! You should've heard Medvelov and Nekabov joust! But they came to terms, at last, on a deal what advanced Medvelov two hundred rubles and paid seventy-five per leaf.

I felt buoyed by the agreement. Recognize me: a savvy broker of a virtuous relationship, _he-he_.

Thereafter, we played several hands of crazy durak and discussed both foreign and domestic politics. When conversation coiled around the newest revolution in France, The Major regaled with accounts of battle against Napoleon's Grand Armee during the summer and winter of 1812. He was a splendid storyteller and painted the gut-wrenching clashes across the ether. Behold The Major, hero of the Great Patriotic War! Behold this gallant warrior who shared a place alongside Voronstov, Kutuzov and the brave masses who challenged the colossal French military!

'The Empire lacks an army of character now,' alleged The Major. 'Nicholas is nothing like his uncle! Russia is destined to regress if men of leadership do not step forward. Mark my words, comrades: We are slipping into an abyss!'

'A thousand agreements,' Iliosovy said. 'Refinement is absent from today's society!'

'Was there ever refinement?' Medvelov asked. 'Yes, I know the gilded tower doesn't allow a view of the commoner-'

'I taught history,' Iliosovy interrupted. 'I'm acquainted with the struggles. But when squalor permeates, one must take soapy water to the stain.'

To which Medvelov replied, 'I agree, comrade. _Wash clean, make pristine_. A laudable philosophical mantra, is it not?'

'Hear, hear!' The Major bellowed.

What refreshing emotion! Our dialogue knew no bounds! Hark, even Iliosovy loosened his tongue!

The wind and snow decreased before nine; by midnight, the accumulation registered as powdery and knee-deep, but a manageable burden for the warm, rested horses.

Nekabov was the first to tender farewells:

'Despite the start, I had a delightful time. Comrade Medvelov, I expect to see you within a fortnight to finalize our contact. To the rest, until we meet again, I bid good evening.'

'Comrade, I was thinking...' Medvelov said as he checked a pocket watch. 'You know, why should I travel all the way to V—— to scribble my name on a few pages?'

'All the way?' Nekabov snorted. 'V—— is but a half-hour from here on a bad day!'

Medvelov tucked the watch away and then said, 'True, but I have a lengthy excursion as is. Shaving thirty minutes each way...an hour total...you see?'

'Then I'll travel to you,' said Nekabov.

'Eh...Lavina is not one for company,' Medvelov said. 'How about...well, if it pleases our host...I propose we do business here.'

'Here?' Nekabov asked.

'Why not?' Medvelov answered. 'This homey atmosphere is more accommodating than your, I presume, fusty headquarters.'

'Quite,' The Major seconded.

The idea sounded pat to me...

But Iliosovy prickled at the notion and said: 'Our comrade's home is not a vessel for your dealings.'

'Why don't we ask our comrade?' Medvelov posed through a smile.

Answered I: 'There is no reason why I cannot accommodate. In fact, I have enjoyed tonight's banter and desire another evening of the same.'

'As you wish,' Nekabov said. 'The sooner the better though, Comrade Medvelov.'

'A week from today,' the poet announced. 'Suppertime again, or thereabouts.'

'Then it's decided,' I said.

Nekabov nodded and fetched his garments from the rack in front of the fire.

'My regrets, but we should also depart,' Medvelov said to me. 'We have a long ride to S——.'

The Major stood, smoothed his uniform, and presented his hand to me. 'Comrade, I appreciate the hospitality.'

'Think nothing of it,' I said, pumping the twiggish arm. 'And I hope to see you next week.'

'At your command,' said The Major.

A chill disturbed me as I watched them dress and then depart, but I tallied the sensation to ecstasy. To think! Genuine companionship be forged!

_He-he_...

Ah, the fool's lament...

_If only I had done this instead of that_.

But I remained enthused as the chill endured...

Such was my state of mind.

Yes, I failed to thaw in front of the hob...

Because broken, be I.

# CHAPTER 12f

### Iliosovy's Concerns

How quick I fell ill...

Quivering!

Perspiration dribbled down my back...

Serpent slick, I abandoned the fire and sought solace on the divan.

From across the room, Iliosovy said: 'My boy, you look wan!'

I rattled a flurry of coughs and then rasped, 'Aye, I'm not keen, comrade.'

'What are thy symptoms?'

'I...I'm...cold,' I said between chattering teeth. 'Yet...I-I sweat.'

'Becalm! I shall boil water and create a rejuvenating brew!'

Becalm!

I stared at the planks above...

And crafted an emotional stanza:

Some small part of me is possessed;

Somehow my soul's been pressed!

Can vultures be awaiting my death;

Merging with the ceiling overhead?

'I warned you not to step outside,' Iliosovy scolded.

Lo, the desire to shush him!

Continued hisself: 'When will you comprehend I have your interests at heart? Must I recall your repellent tumble? Do you desire to wean on the milk of The Erinyes's?'

Invoking The Furies...the audacity!

'Destiny is the biding of Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos,' muttered I, closing eyes. 'Imprudence yields prosperity. Comprehend: amidst fever, my mind forges rhymes.'

Iliosovy hustled to me and placed the back of his hand on my forehead. 'You're scalding!' he cried. 'Let's get you into bed, and fast!'

I cannot recall the subsequent journey, but I remember lying athwart a quilt.

My half-opened eyes fixated on a dancing candle flame...

Black smoke spiraled to the rafters.

Iliosovy undressed me with practiced hands; unlatching suspender clasps, he fussed: 'I have your interests at heart.'

The tug of my trousers...

A snake-shedding skin equivalence.

The paroxysm of infection...

Fright and ambivalence.

'I have your interests at heart,' repeated Iliosovy again and again.

_My_ interest _._

_My_ fate.

_My_ sickness.

_My_ dependency.

Though I desired to contradict, the candle hypnotized; I plunged into torpor...

And whilst I languished, alarming events conspired to shape the future.

# CHAPTER 13

### A Brief Description of a Felonious Crime

During my convalescence, a bizarre event transpired in the P—— Oblast. As this affair became (in the opinion of many) a precursor for revolutionary fervor, I'll devote a moment to illustrate the specifics. The serious nature of the misconduct cannot be inflated; however, I _assumed_ the acts of viciousness had nothing to do with organized resistance. This crime is but a countless example of the violence what afflicts every culture.

On the evening of the frigid September blizzard described previous, a Polkovnik affiliated with the district registrar was slain...or assassinated...by several axe blows. The murder -described in Nekabov's paper as _a savage dispatching responsible for blemishing the floorboard and walls with refined viscera and blood_ \- occurred in the bedroom of the officer's estate, but the barbarity did not stop with the slaughter of Colonel Borotoz.

Mistress Borotoza, dragged by her flaxen hair to a closet, was beaten into unconsciousness with blunt objects. In another section of the mansion, a young son endured unnamable degradations.

The boy's caterwauling roused a nimble servant who chased the bandits from the manor with a pistol. According to the domestic, the outlaws numbered four, and they wore gray codpieces and covered their faces in white maskirovkas. Though local authorities scoured the grounds, the rabble could not be found. Logic dictated anybody donning guileless costumes in harsh conditions faced a problematic future. Indeed, I caught a fever after just a few minutes of exposure!

Because our village sat _atnıñ könlek yulıscant_ -a day's ride by horse- from where the delinquency occurred, the incident caused a sensation. It was ordained as truth amongst the populace: _The monsters are tucked in a safe house, waiting to pounce again._ The district's police commissioner -a First Section dunderhead- demanded his agents produce a suspect to pacify the agitated community. His fearless watchdogs scoured the dregs of society; forty-eight hours late, they manufactured a suspect.

This dubious individual was a parochial dupe named Kedva. Pitiable Kedva, a petty thief, could be discovered wherever handouts were plenteous. Despite embracing the characteristics of a revolting personage, it seemed doubtful Kedva committed the vile assault on the Borotoz estate. The domestic described four miscreants; moreover, Kedva -thickset and bent backed- suffered from arthritis.

Imagine what happened next!

Nekabov's paper levied solemn questions as to the legitimacy of Kedva's capture; the public levied accusations of a conspiracy! In response, the police commissioner reassured -with embellishments akin to an actor- Kedva was the lone assailant.

Perhaps he was indifferent; perhaps he lacked the intelligence to comprehend his condition...whatever the reason, Kedva claimed responsibility. At his sentencing, the fool stood in front of the magistrate and said: 'I'm guilty of these crimes, and I'd do it again, so help me!'

No doubt the judge recognized the farce, but he played his part without compunction. 'S—— in my mouth!' the magistrate roared. 'I find you a reprehensible example of humanity! Giving you the noose would satisfy me to no end...but condemning you to a lifetime in chains is a worse punishment. Therefore, you're sentenced to one thousand years of hard labor at Grovka Libokin. If you should live this long, consider your debt repaid. If not, may you suffer for eternity!'

'Yes, sir!' Kedva retorted. 'How I thank you, sir! An educated sir granting me, modest Kedva, mercy? It's storybook!'

The magistrate glowered and snapped fingers. Seconds later, a half-dozen soldiers dragged Kedva from the chamber. And do you know what the idiot did in departure? Despite the shackles around his ankles and wrists, Kedva spewed profound cheers!

He-he.

I suppose Kedva felt more comfortable inside the gulag than outside. Indeed, most of his life was spent behind enclosure. I imagine the scoundrel as a juvenile, tossed into perdition for one reason or another. Perchance thievery or gambling. Maybe he insulted a tetchy mestnaya. Or -as is the case with creatures of his kind- Kedva loitered in the wrong place at the wrong time. Poor, young Kedva shivering with cold and fright...and this be moment he is torn asunder! A comrade prisoner -an elder worn by the drudgery of internment- plops on the bench next to him. Picture the man slinging one arm around Kedva's shoulders, and other around the boy's waist. A soothing embrace punctuated by the matriarchal stroking of skin; a squeeze of the thigh; a penetrating look into the eyes.

'Hear me now, comrade,' the sneaky convict would whisper. 'There is no order in this place but the order of survival. I've been around; I can preach the doctrine. So, now's the moment you decide if you want to live or die. I'm going to have me my way with you, whenever I want, or I'll jab a tool in your guts. And you best not make noise.'

Thereafter, Kedva's can be split cleaner than the coal mines in Neroyo Koyilyo, _he-he_.

My point is...I mean, can you blame Kedva for offering joyful exclamations at his sentencing? The fool was returning _to be_ the can splitter!

But... _ahem_...I digress...

In V——, the subject of Kedva's arrest and conviction didn't dissipate after the criminal boarded the convict train. Nekabov continued to pick at the story; in a scathing editorial, he wrote: _District law enforcement is staffed by known incompetents! They've bungled less serious crimes in the past; what makes anyone believe they handled the Borotoz investigation with proficiency or competence? I contend shenanigans! I demand the commissioner produce more evidence than the confession of a simpleton!_ _Until such a moment, I won't sleep sound knowing murderers' roam among us!_

The following morning, Nekabov's printing press and offices were vandalized, _he-he._ _Ugh_ , the incident...it made Nekabov a self-proclaimed martyr, see? He spouted about being the _voice of reason_ and other nonsense. Comrade, give a man the power to print and you license unrefined egotism. Worse, you're handing hisself a key to lunacy!

Yes, it became contentious debate. Through the twisty rationality of loquaciousness, the Borotoz Incident dovetailed into a condemnation of pedigree. Nekabov maintained crime in the Empire was perpetrated by Chinese, Mongol, Latvian, Balkan, Slav, Prussian or sundry untamed species.

_Could Kedva, an ordinary countryman with the same blood as you and me, be responsible for the vile acts of a barbarian?_ Nekabov mused in celluloid. _Hear me now: Foreign revolutionaries are sweeping through our parcels! With the help of ineffectual police, these pests are succeeding! They will stop at nothing to harm you, comrades!_

Goodness, the editor's fiery words found quite an audience! Vibrant voices hollered, _'There are revolutionaries at work!'_ People became strange in the head...

Sneaky...

Fearful...

Bah, what fools!

Anyone not five fingers across the forehead knew what transpired at the Borotoz estate: four frustrated laborers took vengeance on the household responsible for their misery. Not every possessor is a saint, comrade. Some are abhorrent creatures who treat their serfs worse than animals. What man doesn't seek revenge on the architect of his wretchedness?

The inability or refusal of our countryfolk to grasp fact from fiction -a hindrance engrained in the fiber of delusory bodies- incited the insipid inferno from which forged a cavalcade of idiocy.

And then our cherished provincial governor perished after choking on a slice of veal.

Ha! What timing!

His Excellency's manner of death was ironic, for the premature snowfall had ruined late harvests. Allegations of food scarcity abounded. The new governor -Fyodor Bykal- settled into the manor atop Gregorski Mount, saddled with two bothersome controversies...

# CHAPTER 13a

### Enter Zupricka

My fever broke after five days of illness. When I was well enough to move, Iliosovy's guided me to a rocker what sat next to a window.

'You were quite the sight,' he told me. 'Feverish, incoherent, restless...I considered summoning Comrade G——.'

'I can't recollect anything,' I said, rubbing the window clean of furry hoar. 'A curtain dropped on my mind.'

'Well, all is better. And look: the sun is shining today. Now, relax and warm yourself. I've prepared a samovar of delicious schi.'

The hot bowl felt wonderful in my hands, and the steaming gruel slicked a road of ecstasy into me gorge. I couldn't eat fast enough!

Iliosovy watched me devour the dope and asked, 'Delicious, yes?'

I grunted before stuffing another spoonful in my mouth.

'I purchased the finest cut of reindeer at market,' said Iliosovy. 'Comrade Zupricka's stall is open again.'

'Zupricka?' I mumbled through a mouthful. 'Why, it's been three...no...four months since I've seen him. Where's he been hiding?'

'I didn't have an opportunity to engage in conversation. The crowd...you can imagine. He's been missed.'

'The truest words. My, what an ebullient fellow is he. I must tender a hello.'

'Agreed, but we mustn't hurry restoration. Besides, I have some interesting new to relate while you consume your meal...'

Iliosovy informed of the latest happenings: the slaying of the colonel, the arrest of Kedva, and the passing of the governor.

'An avalanche of events in just five days!' I exclaimed.

'Um-hmm,' hummed Iliosovy. 'And Comrade Nekabov is making mountains.'

'Oh? Do tell.'

'He's alleging revolutionaries killed Comrade Borotoz.'

'Revolutionaries?'

'A preposterous declaration, but one our comrade villagers embrace. There is a nasty buzz in the air, my lad.'

'Why must you exaggerate so?' I scolded.

'You'll see...' answered Iliosovy, all prim-like.

I felt keen the next morning and convinced Iliosovy I could handle a ride to V——. My horse -confined for days and therefore bursting with gusto- kicked a continuous white mist; I gripped the reins and sucked refreshing air into me lungs. We hit the village at a canter and sauntered down M—— Street; I scanned kiosks scattered amongst the bustling market...

And there he be, peddling organs and meat; there he be, amiable Zupricka!

It is best to describe hisself by conjuring the image of a man who become _extraordinarily_ corpulent over the span of several months. However, comprehend: Zupricka's thickness wasn't only a physical handicap; philosophical fat headedness heaped a weighty load.

Modest Zupricka...

Dense but congenial.

I see him as if he stands before me...

He wore a hideous face squashed between three chins and a bulging, wrinkle-lined forehead; a glazed, greasy film coated his skin. A malodorous cloud cloaked the man, and his outsized aprons were soiled by blood stains and stagnant patches of secretion. A butcher by trade but an astrologer in practice, he often spoke of the effects of celestial bodies in motion.

I slid off my Kabardian and then tethered him to a post next to Zupricka's stall. On most days, a pushy throng huddled 'round the booth, but I caught a lull in commerce and joined a line what measured three deep. When I reached the front, I hailed: 'Comrade Zupricka! How wonderful to see you again!'

A smushed smile spread across hisself's sweaty mug. 'Comrade author!' the butcher cheered. 'I'm heartened by your salutation!'

'Lo, man, months have passed. Where have you been stashed?'

Zupricka rubbed his hands together, leaned towards me and then whispered, 'I went abroad for a protracted stretch.'

'Ah, a sojourn from toil!'

'Quite, though I kept a hectic schedule. Have you visited Ottoman Egypt? It's a marvel, but reaching the ruins is no small adventure.'

'You devil!' I cried, slapping his back. 'A pilgrimage to Arabia? Lo, I'm jealous, comrade! What curiosity flogged those fancy feet?'

'I've always wanted to gaze Giza at sunrise.'

'I never knew you cared of antiquity?'

'It's more than a curiosity.'

'Did you scratch the itch?'

'Yes, and something else: the monuments confirmed my runestone perceptions.'

'Eh? Elucidate.'

'Those structures be the splendor of erection; a testament to stargazing; the model of relentless universal gears. Contemplate the undertaking to understand the mechanisms of being. Such was the task, it took a century to complete said edifices.'

'Always with the prophecy,' I chided. 'Lest you forget, those leviathans were built to house the pharaoh's ka.'

'While I don't disagree, you must peer beyond the obvious. The emblematic world isn't beholden to the nearsighted. Though the intricacies are debatable, it's obvious the pyramids transcend their intended purpose.'

'If there's a lesson those monuments impart, it is this: the iron manacle of demise. One cuff is birth, the other death, and the interlocked chain binding the two represents a lifetime. No man can snap the ringlets and abscond.'

'Hark!' Zupricka intoned. 'Behold ye hearty declarations!'

'I only mean to suggest the pyramids are a demonstration of presence. Life and death sealed in stone, comrade. Woe to those who cook a rock and attempt to glean sustenance.'

'We can agree to debate, which I'd like to do in the future. As for the moment, a line collects behind thee.'

'Pardon my garrulity. I'd like a scrumptious funt hock and a two lots of suet.'

The butcher nodded and procured my order. While wrapping the articles in parchment paper, Zupricka remarked, 'What is this conversation of revolutionaries?'

'Revolutionaries,' I tittered. 'Comrade, pay no attention to the gibberish.'

'It can't all be nonsense.'

'Bah, think it through, man. Comrade Borotoz is murdered, mayhap by his serfs, they escaped, and this is the work of revolutionaries? Radicals attack royalty, not petty colonels.'

'You sound as if you are an expert on this topic.'

'I'm no expert, but I have common sense. And look, the police are so embarrassed by their wretched work, they arrested a scrounger who lacked the acumen to commit the crime. Don't let yourself get wound around hysteria.'

Zupricka seemed not to have heard me: 'The newspaper reports there are murderers sulking here and there. What if they're scheming further blasphemies? Can you imagine? Our proud conurbation the sight of profane offenses! It sends shivers along my spine, it does!'

Goodness, the absurdity! 'Though the villains weren't apprehended, it's dubious they're under foot plotting acts of mayhem,' said I with a tang of arrogance. 'Conspiratorial tosh is a fantasy of the collective mind. Where does the speculation end, eh? Here me now: like a riddle, it never does.'

His grotesque face puckered into a pout.

I could've spent countless breaths ridiculing the dullard; he would've spent countless more refuting my salient points. Wedged at this impasse, I collected the goods and tossed brass on the counter. But as Zupricka counted the dosh, an idea tickled my soles...

'Are you familiar with Comrade Nekabov?' posed I.

'Of him. The publisher, correct?'

'Yes. He's a pot stirrer, this Nekabov. Sensationalism is good for his business. If you don't believe me, I invite you to spend an evening with him.'

'Do you presume I have the courage to intrude on his domicile?'

'No...eh...listen: Nekabov and I have a working relationship which has evolved into amicable soirees. He will be at my cottage tomorrow eve. Should the urge strike...'

'Say no more! I long to hear what nuggets your comrade holds!'

'Splendid! But a word of warning, comrade: we throw both the satin and French style. Bring a purse and prepare for war.'

'Er...I'm not a heady gambler,' fretted the butcher. 'I hope the verve isn't too much for a scanter like myself.'

'The stakes are modest; besides, we'll squander more time talking than finding the fool. And with the recent developments in our district...yes, I'm certain conversation will rule the night...'

# CHAPTER 14

### A Discussion of Affairs

Let me take a moment to expound on a concept while you fill your cup, comrade. Perhaps this digression abounds in justifications, but I desire to reinforce the structure of my saga. You've posed the question _why_ , and I sift through detritus to plunder a reckoning. _Lunacy_ , you decry, and aye, the reptilian brain doth enterprise. But left to me own devices, I portend an alternate demise:

The absolute freedom...

Of artist immersed in his ego!

Sigh.

A stupid, improbable fantasy.

I couldn't handle isolation.

Thus, my rebirth came with a hefty valise.

_Needy,_ be I.

Needy and afraid.

It be ordained: Without camaraderie, I'd tumble into a pauper's grave!

_Humph_.

The wreckage of my life should be relayed as a fable!

Avoid entanglements and embrace estrangement!

Do not become the puppet of those you venerate!

He-he...

If it were so uncomplicated, eh?

Hear me now: a force compelled me to coddle communal inclinations!

Funny, is it not? There was a time I denounced Zupricka's astrological babble.

I tallied the nattering as an _illusory proclivity_.

_He-he_...my mind's been changed.

Ancient magic drips on the novice traveler;

Ancient magic weaves distortions into halcyon fabric!

Behold my comprehension:

I'm a prophet doomed to catalogue the past, and the past reveals a predetermined tract...

# CHAPTER 14a

### Medvelov's Confession

Recall: the previous week, Nekabov shared concerning details concerning Medvelov's domesticity. At our second gathering, rumor took the form of fact. In a moment of weakness, the poet succumbed to humility. Elegiac intensity aglow, his anguish fumed like ash from an erupting volcano!

First, tho, the setting:

Such was his enthusiasm, Zupricka landed an hour before the others. While I tended the kiln, the meat cutter scooped pstorki, gulped spirits and expounded -in monotonous detail- on his Egyptian journey. The one-sided conversation came to a merciful end when Nekabov and Iliosovy arrived.

Upon sighting the robust interloper, Nekabov squawked: 'I see we have a new victim.'

'I am Comrade Zupricka,' hisself greeted.

'Zupricka...Zupricka...' pondered Nekabov.

'He's a meat cutter with a stall on M—— Avenue,' said I.

The editor fanned his cape and proclaimed, 'Hark! I'm Nekabov, good sir!'

'The virtuous purveyor of the press!' Zupricka returned.

' _Virtuous_?' Iliosovy heckled. 'How much have you consumed, Comrade Zupricka?'

'Disregard the jester,' Nekabov bristled.

'Comrade Nekabov, I am an avid consumer of your periodical. And of the current transgressions...eh...I...' Zupricka trailed off, looked at me and then wet his purple, bulbous lips.

'My comrade is interested in discussing radicals,' I explained to Nekabov. 'Naturally, I've steered him to you. Who better than an expert?'

'An apt pronouncement,' Nekabov said as he plucked a bottle of wine from his satchel. 'The theme of revolutionaries is alluring but complicated. Let me fortify before we begin. Your hardware?'

I gestured at yonder cabinet and then recoiled when the front door flew open and whacked the wall.

Thump!

Trailed by the doddering Major, Medvelov entered and tossed his gloves aside. Without a word, the poet walked to the scullery, snatched the liquor from Nekabov's feeble grip and took an extensive tweak.

'What a delightful fellow,' Iliosovy griped in a teeny voice.

Meanwhile, The Major took a chair next to Zupricka and introduced hisself to the meat cutter; like he had the previous week, the old officer took pains to display his trio of chest decorations.

His pomp drew the intended response: Zupricka's eyes widened as he fixated on the awards. 'I recognize those from illustration,' the butcher whispered. 'Honors of the Patriotic War, are they not?'

The Major fingered the medals and said, 'Yes, I earned these decorations for the action you mention. As a younger man, I had the pleasure to contest Emperor Napoleon and his abominable army. I make no boast about bravery; these commendations speak on my behalf. General Voronstov recommended me for The Order of Honor, this ribbon here, while I was attached to the Second Grenadier Brigade of the Second Army of the West. I received the second laurel, the Cross of St. George, after Borodino. And the last, of course, is the Medal of Order _with_ Swords.'

'What did you do to receive the Order with Swords?' asked Zupricka.

Straightening his back, The Major answered: 'Valor at Leipzig.'

'Bra- _ah_ -vo,' Medvelov hiccupped.

The Major ignored the comment and continued, 'I should have more garnishes on this tunic. It's a shame how heroism is rewarded in this country. Look here...' He rolled his right sleeve, flashed a puffy scar what jagged from wrist to elbow, and then broadcast: 'I took this wound at Gimry and received no commendation!'

Medvelov cleared his throat with a rattle and then asked, 'How many men in Gimry did you kill, old man? Or did you only hunt women and infants?'

'How dare you!' The Major cawed.

'Enough,' Nekabov sighed. 'Comrade Medvelov, can you delay the bickering long enough to complete our agreed upon business? I brought the accord, tender slip, and-'

'Let me slacken,' Medvelov interrupted.

'At another time, I'll tell you the sordid tale of what becomes of proud military men in this country,' The Major said, patting Zupricka's hand.

'I could pound the hominy,' Medvelov muttered.

'I'm sure the story is worth its weight,' Zupricka said.

The poet cocked his head and said, 'We haven't been introduced, Comrade...'

'Zupricka, kind sir.'

'Are you one of Nekabov's conquests?' asked Medvelov through a leer.

_Bewildered_ best described the look on Comrade Zupricka's face: eyes blinking; lips pursed; forehead creased...

'Nekabov collects writers,' Medvelov explained. 'I'm his next trophy...or I will be after I finish this bottle.'

'Comrade, I'm no writer,' Zupricka giggled. 'My hands were fashioned for holding knives.'

' _Knives?_ ' asked The Major.

'I'm a butcher,' said Zupricka.

'Ah, a dismantler of beasts!' Medvelov praised. 'A noble undertaking, and one not devoid of creation. Your paws craft beauty from carnage.'

'A gracious compliment,' Zupricka said.

Medvelov bowed, straightened and then said, 'On another subject, I've been invited to recite a requiem at our new governor's inauguration this weekend.'

'Oh?' Nekabov purred. 'I didn't know you were conversant.'

'In a matter of speaking,' Medvelov said, spilling into a chair. 'Comrade Bykal's daughter is acquainted with my work. It seems her opinion carries weight.'

'Congratulations!' I hailed. 'You must be thrilled!'

'Yes, what good fortune,' the poet deadpanned.

'I don't believe in luck,' Zupricka proclaimed. 'The future was ordained the instant the universe came to be. Events -good and bad, so called- are the consequence of cosmic manifest.'

' _Cosmic manifest_ ,' Nekabov scoffed while rolling eyes.

'Kind sir, I would never have taken you for an astrological sort,' Medvelov said.

Zupricka nodded and then rasped, 'Astrology explains _everything_.'

'Hogwash!' Nekabov huffed.

'Comrade, I assumed you'd be openminded,' Zupricka said.

'Predestination is an unimaginative philosophy,' said Nekabov, all offended-like.

'There is no free will,' countered Zupricka. 'It's a mathematical certainty.'

'You can't convince me _I_ don't make choices _every day_ ,' Nekabov argued. '

Medvelov spun in his seat and scolded, 'Quiet, Nekabov. Let the butcher talk.'

'I know you have bizarre predispositions, but you can't believe this nonsense,' Nekabov said.

'I wonder...sometimes...' Medvelov said as his grip tightened around the bottle neck.

' _Ahem_ ,' Zupricka hacked. 'If I may, I'd like to expound on my perspective.'

Before Nekabov could protest, the poet said: 'Continue, Comrade Zupricka.'

Hisself said: 'You must acknowledge _all_ objects in the universe...stars, planets... _everything_...are constrained by the laws of gravity and motion, or so Newton postulates. Thus, objects steer a path determined by complicated arithmetic. If two stones collide in space, they were always meant to collide. Not a thing can be done to prevent it.'

'I can't speak on the topic,' mumbled Nekabov.

'Calculation is a faultless art,' Zupricka said. 'Two plus two equals four; it cannot be anything but four and four it will always be. Can you not appreciate every interaction has a factual outcome prophesied by equation?'

'Vladimir, what do you think of our comrade's rationality?' Medvelov asked.

The Major said: 'Eh, I ascended in a fog of superstition. My elders blamed happenstance on the whims of Deity. Though I thought the explanation lacked imagination, I accepted it...more or less. But at the academy, I learned the defined properties of angles and trajectories as it related to artillery. Engineers calculated the tracks of mortars with sines, cosines and tangent angles; always, like magic, canisters struck the intended zone. Can you imagine my awe? The svetza directed fire like my delusory parents believed God directed the lightning or the locusts. I began to see the world otherwise and...yes, I find our comrade butcher's logic lacking naught in common sense.'

' _Lacking naught in common sense,_ ' Nekabov parroted under his breath.

'Comrade, tell me what is _not_ predicted,' said Zupricka. 'The Earth moves around the sun...this is an inevitability. The sun will set and rise; math recons, to the _minute_ , when it happens. Seasons roll, year-upon-year, century-after-century; leaves yellow and tumble in the fall and return as buds in the spring. Why, scientists have correlated that the moon's gravity affects tides! Are we not composed of water? Perhaps the pull of some celestial body manipulates human behavior. Regardless, our paths -the lot of us in this room- are fated to always converge.'

'Arranged since the beginning of time,' Medvelov droned.

Answered Zupricka: 'Correct. Now, imagine if the intricate mathematics of interaction is deciphered. Learned men and women have determined to solve the equations. In fact, several ancient societies understood complicated natural laws.'

'What good it did them,' Nekabov said.

'I don't believe it's possible to solve everything,' Zupricka said. 'There are supernatural problems the human brain cannot comprehend.'

'Then...then _what is the point_?' snorted Nekabov.

'It allows a modicum of acceptance when a reprobate world dashes into you,' Medvelov declared.

'You speak from experience, hm?' Nekabov hummed.

'I'll tell you a secret,' Medvelov said. 'And so help me, if any of this appears in your paper...'

'My word,' Nekabov said, raising his right hand.

Medvelov glanced at The Major and then continued: 'Years ago, when I was a young actor in Moscow, our newest governor's daughter and I began a licentious relationship. Even after I joined the S—— Troupe, even after I married Lavina, the...eh...the indelicacies persevered. I've tried ending the tryst; tarnation, we haven't seen each other in four months. But now...my recital at the inaugural assures rowdy intercourse! The scamp won't leave me be!'

'I've heard a strapping officer hath won her hand,' Nekabov said.

'A colonel, and he's a revolting brute,' said Medvelov. 'It doesn't matter, though. She and I have an unquenchable desire to ravish each other again and again. 'Tis the magnetism of our attraction and, it appears, a forgone conclusion.'

'Preposterous logic,' Iliosovy derided. 'Sir, you deny responsibility as a matter of convenience.'

'If I desired to argue, I'd contend believing in destiny is _less_ convenient,' Medvelov said.

'You've confessed enough immodest secrets to make me think otherwise,' said Iliosovy, crossing arms.

'Quite,' The Major snuffled.

Nonplussed, I riffled a deck of cards and whispered, 'A round of Durak anyone?'

The game proved an insufficient distraction: Medvelov drank and tossed brass; Nekabov pestered the poet to sign his contract; Iliosovy didn't make a peep; Zupricka nattered about the weather...

And The Major glared at Medvelov.

The old soldier's narrowed eyes conveyed an animosity I mistook for annoyance. Medvelov's earlier comment deriding The Major's service must've rankled, assumed I. Later, when the entire story emerged...

Comrade, I will delve into the specifics soon; however, let me recount a subject I styled previous: the demise of our beloved provincial governor, an affable Muscovite...

# CHAPTER 15

### Death of a Provincial Governor

...who succumbed from asphyxiation the day after the slaying of Colonel Borotoz. The tragic event transpired during a dinner party after a special telegram arrived from the Tsar.

The messenger -described as a pockmarked-face captain- had ridden uninterrupted from Tsarskoye Selo to the governor's mansion atop Gregorski Mount, a trip what took several hours in inclement weather. Reticent and exhausted, the captain entered the mansion in haste, shouldered aside the governor's alarmed butler and said: 'I have a dispatch for His Excellency from the Emperor. Show me to his quarters.'

'The governor is entertaining in the dining room,' the butler said, gesturing towards closed double doors at the rear of the hall. 'If you wait a moment, I will-'

Flogged by explicit directive, the captain turned his back on the retainer, hustled to the room in question, pushed open the doors...

Picture our doomed, masticating comrade sitting at the head of a shiny ebony table; also present: the governor's robust, gregarious spouse (a grandniece of the Tsar, no less), and a second cousin of the governor, home from a trip to America.

'Sir,' the messenger said, clicking heels. 'I carry a missive from the Emperor.'

'A missive?' the governor garbled.

Springing forward, the captain removed a red envelope from his coat pocket and placed it next to the governor's plate; hisself dabbed lips with a napkin and then opened the packet with a butter knife.

The Tsar's words are unknown which, in the days to come, spurred public speculation. It's been argued Nicholas planned to sack his administrator, and a bevy of justifications were bandied: insufficient loyalty; larceny; largesse; a mystic's recommendation.

There is another, less salacious, reason: Nicholas sent a nameday greeting. Verily, the governor would celebrate his fiftieth episode in the coming week...though, if the message contained congratulations, why the urgency of a courier?

After scrutinizing the telegram, the His Excellency tucked the paper into the pocket of his formal vest and then resumed eating. I suspect the attendees anticipated an explanation; alas, the governor felt no desire to expound.

Instead, the hisself commented: 'The veal is scrumptious.'

The declaration proved to be his last...

An account of the drama -provided by sundry domestics- illustrates the fragility of mortality. I shan't go into explicit detail, but the incident progressed in rapid fashion: eyes bulging, the governor dropped his utensils on the dinnerware; thrust both hands to his throat; exercised his mouth in a silent scream.

Woe the great man's dreadful final moments!

Measures to help the stricken man weren't administered until after he collapsed on the floor; noting the spastic movements and purple tint of His Excellency's countenance, the messenger took a knee and began pounding the governor's back. Hollow thudding echoed off the vaulted ceiling; hisself's wife, thrown into a panic, brayed lamentable supplications; the cousin stood, kicked his chair backwards, and rushed to assist the captain. Each man bashed in tandem, but the exertion accomplished naught.

At last, the captain said: 'It will do no good to beat him, comrade. He's expired.'

The proclamation sent the window into despair; she fell to the deceased's side, gripped his limp left hand and wailed.

'How can it be?' the cousin sobbed. 'What compelled this tragedy?'

'I believe he choked on his meal,' the captain said.

A physician from the hamlet of R—— was disturbed, but his examination confirmed the captain's unlettered diagnosis. Death by obstruction...my, what a banal way to exit the world. The funeral was held in St. Petersburg, but a procession of provincials traveled in a large caravan to attend. It was reported the Tsar whimpered throughout the consecration. Not since the death of his daughter Alexandra three years prior had Nicholas mourned with candid grief.

# CHAPTER 15a

### Enter Fyodor Bykal

Though uncomplicated in description, His Excellency's death conjured talk of a conspiracy:

The first theory speculated the messenger sprinkled a poison onto the governor's meal during the exchange of the telegram. Logic argued against such a scenario; why would the governor be targeted for assassination? Of course, the theorists cited a convoluted explanation: both the murder of Colonel Borotoz and the elimination of the governor were part of a rebellious plot what intended to bring about the end of the Empire.

But -believe it or not- the second theory sounded more implausible: His Excellency committed suicide. Again, _why_ be posed; the purported answer pointed at the unknown characters of the dispatch. It is accepted: our pedantic Tsar values fidelity. Mayhap the governor got tight and uttered a remark in jest; perhaps he bickered with Nicolas about guberniya policies. Whatever the reason, the transgression called for a reckoning; thus, fictitious charges were levied against his excellency. The message outlined the allegations and ordered the governor to remain at Gregorski Mount -under the watchful eyes of the captain- until the devils from the Third Section arrived to arrest him. Faced with the prospect of ignominy and internment, the governor took his life by suffocating on the veal cutlet. Disguised as a freak accident, the suicide spared his wife the humiliation of a spectacle and ensured hisself died in good standing. Indeed, the governor was interned with full honors at Tikhvin Cemetery; moreover, his widow collected a substantial pension.

I have an opinion on the matter, and it postulates naught of assassination or self-harm. Recall my conversation with Nekabov concerning the indecent behavior of His Excellency and the widowed Mistress L——. If news of the dalliance reached the Tsar, there was zero possibility Nicholas would sit on his hands while his grandniece endured the adulterous insult. Hence, the terse telegram levied accusations and threatened the governor with judicial review. Stunned by the frank verbiage, His Excellency failed to make work of the dope...

In short order, Nicholas appointed the aforementioned Fyodor Bykal to occupy Gregorski Mount's vacated administrative seat. Sundry facts painted Bykal in muted tones: a spectabilis Dvoryanin; former fifth grade state privy in the M—— province; aide to the Imperial Council agricultural minister (suggesting Bykal simmered with sycophantic tendencies); a stickler for bureaucratic edicts; an antagonist of uncouth proclivities.

A mere hour after his investiture, Bykal sacked the district's police commissioner and then appointed his daughter's suitor -a stormy Podpolkovnik named Petyor Ivanovich Vyskilovich- to the position. It became clear Vyskilovich was aware of the pattering conversation of radicals; newspapers like Nekabov's rattled an unending stream of supposed depravities. All manners of lawlessness in the region -even the paltriest offenses (like the swiping of Comrade S——'s horse coat at market)- were cited as examples of "extremist" mischief.

Well, you know the saying: _The stupid head doesn't leave feet in rest._ In my unassuming village, Vyskilovich's officious puppets strutted about in their dandy linen and stopped those deemed "suspicious". I encountered three mestnaya strikers on the trek home from market one morning; they asked my business and then demanded I empty the grocery rucksack in the snow. The demeaning intrusion stoked an ire I fought to smother. Swallowing my tongue, I watched the trio root through my goods and swipe a tin of sugar. What recourse would I gain from making a fuss? _Naught._ Thus, I stomached indignation and permitted the thugs to pilfer.

Meantime, The Cardplayers met every fortnight through fall. There were occasions when somebody couldn't complete the ensemble; most times, though, the group numbered six.

I presumed the soirees satisfied unquantifiable desires:

Intercourse nourished Medvelov's pate;

Nekabov enjoyed the saturation of rhapsody;

Zupricka was compelled by fate;

The Major earned a respite from stodgy isolation;

Iliosovy attended to keep me safe.

_Humph_...

How quick our lives intertwined, growing thorny and thick...

How quick did meddling affiliation drag us into a tangle of sedition.

Perspective failed me until the other shoe dropped, comrade. Genial comingling; jokes and jibes; raucous hilarity...

These were facile confections summoning blind choreography.

This is not to say discord wasn't roused; on occasion, kindled passion and potent spirits ignited disagreements.

Medvelov and Nekabov clashed often, and their quarreling ended countless hands before the caboodle be settled. Conjecture affirmed antagonism boiled due to the tempestuous nature of their professional relationship. While amusing, the banter was better suited for private rooms than at our dos...

But since Medvelov refused to conduct business in town, my homey cottage served as the squabbling chamber.

At the end of November (our sixth get-together, if memory serves), Nekabov demanded Medvelov present his first lyrical installment before the first of the coming year. When the poet expressed indifference to the deadline...

'Your conduct is unacceptable!' the editor howled. 'The contact states you're obligated to submit pages within _sixty days_ of our handshake. Would you like to see the terms? I have the agreement handy!'

'I've been unable to produce anything of substance,' Medvelov said with a shrug. 'What can I do? Inspiration is not summoned by will.'

Nekabov drummed his fingers on the table and then purred: ' _Mmm_...I know what summons your inspiration. I suggest forgoing your concubine until _I'm_ satisfied.'

'You'll be waiting a spell,' Medvelov said through a grin.

'You received an advance against future work, and I _will_ collect,' gnashed Nekabov.

'And I intend to provide said future work when it's completed,' answered Medvelov. 'Until then, you can keep filling your paper with other forms of fiction.'

'Convince me strange events haven't happened in our district,' Nekabov ordered as he crossed arms. 'Kedva didn't murderer and buggerer anyone. It's an impossibility. The governor's death, hm? And who vandalized my presses? I've struck a nerve, comrade. Something dreadful is afoot.'

'Bravo!' Medvelov hooted sarcastically. 'You have remarkable foresight to crack such a conspiracy!'

The comment launched Nekabov into a protracted defense of hisself's _obligation to provide fervent experiences to the unversed citizenry_.

At the conclusion of the editor's rant, Medvelov proclaimed: 'No matter how you sling it, you and your ilk are creative rabble rousers.'

_He-he_...you can imagine Nekabov's reaction!

Needless to say, we didn't finish our game...

# CHAPTER 15b

### Furthermore

Ahem.

The morning following the preceding incident, Iliosovy told me, 'The bickering of those two will drive me mad.'

I nodded and said, 'Yes, they're like an old married couple.'

'I'm waiting for the day they turn to fists...or worse.'

'Nekabov wouldn't dare.'

'It's not he who instigates.'

'Please,' I jeered. 'You were here last night. Comments referencing personal life have no place.'

'Except to illuminate Medvelov's character.'

'Insults are a shortcut to thinking. Besides, everybody is burdened by complexity. Would you like to be judged for who you love?'

'He's married!'

'Ivan Medvelov can live how he desires. 'Tis no concern of mine.'

Iliosovy massaged the bridge of his nose and said, 'Listen...regardless of who lights the fire, uncouth behavior in another's home is disgraceful. The next time discussion gives way to enmity, I'm demanding apologies.'

But two weeks later...

Iliosovy did no such thing.

I had just finished describing my unpleasant dealings with the local constabulary -infusing justified angst into the story- when The Major removed his spectacles and said: 'Your bleating of inconvenience sours my ears. If anyone should have reason to complain, it's me.'

'The mestnaya badger a war hero like you?' Zupricka asked.

'Not _like_ ,' The Major scoffed. 'And yes, they badger.'

'Don't believe a word from this bag of gristle,' Medvelov said. 'He claimed the same nonsense to me. Have they visited your hovel, old man? Spoken to you? Tossed items into the snow?'

'The imbecile in the Big House and I have history,' The Major said. 'It's only a matter of time before Bykal puts me before the broth.'

Nekabov perked in his seat and rubbed hands. Lo, I could discern predatory ambition twinkling in his eyes! 'Eh...what sort of history?' he asked, all sneaky-like.

The Major thrust a lanky finger at the editor and hissed: 'Your scrap isn't helping matters. The radical melodrama you've manufactured reeks of journalistic mendacities. Lies have consequences, sir! Hear me now: Bykal will make an example of me!'

'Vladimir, you sound like a paranoid,' Medvelov tutted. 'Have a dash and relax.'

'What I gave for my country,' The Major griped as he folded his spectacles. 'To be treated like a criminal...it's not just.'

Medvelov scooted his chair closer to the old solider and whispered: 'Why would anyone treat you like a criminal?'

Lowering his head, The Major stammered, 'I-I...I've done something...rash.'

'Rash?' asked Nekabov.

'Bykal will do terrible things to me,' The Major whined. 'Things more horrible than what I witnessed during combat.'

Comrade, the sight of hisself...the ancient warrior trussed in polished flair...sputtering gibberish to my floorboards...

I thought: _The poor man. He's lost his head._

The Major hacked a handful of coughs and then continued in a firm voice: 'But I couldn't help myself. Fyodor Bykal is a _snake_. I endured war! I struggled to skirt the grave! My thanks? The pleasure of having the snake snatch its prey!'

Iliosovy presented me the side-eye...

'S—— in my mouth! Can you clarify what you're talking about?' Medvelov asked.

'The snake and I go back almost thirty years,' The Major reported without inflection. 'And in thirty years, my hatred of him has only multiplied...'

# CHAPTER 16

### Historical Aside

The Major's forthcoming confession was portioned into three bits.

First, hisself explained:

When Napoleon's Grande Armee marched upon Russian soil during the summer of 1812, then Lieutenant Vladimir Ivonovich Tschoschy -billeted to the Second Grenadier Brigade, Second Western Army of the Imperial Army- was one of almost a million Russians mustered in defense. As you know, this sixth month conflict has been christened _The Patriotic War of 1812_.

Tschoschy first experienced battle at Borodino...

'A nightmare come to life,' the old soldier said in a wavering voice.

250,000 men total;

130,000 wearing French colors;

Fifteen hours of brutality;

Fifteen hours of the obliteration of bodies once hectic with existence;

Fifteen hours hoping for a swift death.

Remarked The Major: 'I assumed death was an inescapable conclusion. My academy comrade, Mikhail Igorovich Kyatnazia, caught a ball between his eyebrows. I considered him fortunate. Others...deprived of limbs; gut shot; bayoneted; crushed by beasts...rolled in muck and gore. And the moans...the terrible death moans. Yes, a tap to the forehead seemed a pleasant fate.'

Driven by 'blood lust and fright', Tschoschy found his way to an entrenched Russian position manned by a handful of senior officers, among them the prodigious General Voronstov. The knot stood their ground -employing hand to hand combat when their munitions ran low- and repelled four cavalry charges until the signal for retreat sounded.

'I carried the thrice wounded Comrade Voronstov six hundred meters on my back,' The Major boasted. 'He added me to his command the next day. And while we were defeated at Borodino, the Grand Armee lost around a third of their men and thousands of horses. _Napoleon can visit Moscow, but he won't stay long,_ Kutuzov prophesized. When October came, the Grand Armee began its retreat. Berezina, Maloyaroslavets, Dennewitz, Leipzig...each engagement chipped away at the French horde. Fourteen months later, I rode into Alsace on the back of stallion I found wandering a wheat field outside Maloyaroslavets. Thereafter, my commission was extended; I spent sixteen months in occupied France...'

Granted leave in the fall of 1814, The Major journeyed to Moscow and courted a beautiful woman; she became his in name ten weeks later. The couple lived in 'matrimonial bliss'; they bought a large house in C—— and planned a family. But obligated by military service ( _'The return of the vile Napoleon,'_ spat hisself), The Major cycled to duty in the Chevaliers-Gardes and spent a year abroad. His absence begat a fracture what became evident as herself's once vibrant correspondence trickled to naught.

And when The Major returned home in 1816, his wife was nowhere to be found.

'Everything of value she owned...gone,' he bemoaned. 'Not even a note in parting! Oh, how my emotions spiraled. I fumed and wept; I obsessed! Revenge beckoned and...and I lost my head...'

# CHAPTER 16a

### Enter The Major's Wife

Hence, The Major dug into the second slice of his melancholic testimony:

Here me now: unrequited love encourages foolishness!

There is, in the minds of some, only one lover with whom Far Arden can be discovered...

Lo, in wild promises this haven is constructed!

The intense union of enthralled partners compels smitten companions into dizzying stupidity. Modest actions are celebrated: palaver hypnotizes; a stare excites; caresses paralyze.

But passion is not always meant to survive.

It's said: _To love and lost is better than not loving at all._

Ha!

Consumed by both devotion and insult, the besotted hunts their companion's smell, which they remember well...

The Major tracked his former lover and her new suitor; finding the duo in amorous repose, he took aim with a pistol. Only a last second swell of lucidity prevented homicide, but the wanton affront landed The Major in hot water.

You see, hisself harassed a civil service administrator named Fyodor Bykal. Slapped with a litany of charges, ordered to stand and review before a panel of army adjudicators, only the intervention of General Voronstov saved The Major from cashiering and imprisonment.

This is not to say The Major escaped punishment...

'The Trial Court demoted my rank, expelled me from the Chevaliers-Gardes and dispatched me to an unsettled theater crawling with the mujahedeen,' he reported. 'Considering the circumstances, I would've preferred a stretch in Norzik Palotiz.'

Despite the passage of time, The Major's animosity did not dull. He jealously followed Bykal's political career and relived his chance to square the affair.

'Their existence torments me to no end,' the old soldier lamented. 'I should've ended those two when I had the opportunity! The odds of getting them now are incalculable!'

# CHAPTER 16b

### Bykal's Revenge

The old soldier paused to wipe his brow.

'Vladimir, we've been acquaintances since I was waist high,' Medvelov said. 'You've never _once_ mentioned Bykal...a wife...not a thing.'

'I don't enjoy disclosing the situation,' The Major said. 'The shame of-'

'Stop,' Nekabov interrupted. 'Medvelov, you confessed an adoration for Bykal's daughter! What are the odds? You and her and...' The editor shook his head, pointed at The Major and then finished: '...and _him_?'

'I'm flabbergasted,' Medvelov answered, rubbing his chin. 'But I have a question for my boorish comrade: Are you _certain_ Bykal seethes with vengeful predilections?'

'Yes...well...' The Major hawed. ' _Perhaps_ he believes I skirted justice...little does he know.'

'So, he has men watching your house,' Medvelov pronounced. 'And you contend he'll extract revenge by having you arrested, eh?'

'Indeed,' The Major said.

Medvelov's eyes narrowed.

The Major crossed his arms and mumbled, 'It's true, Ivan.'

'How does he know where you live?' Medvelov asked. 'How does he know you reside _in this district_?'

'Well... _ahem_...now's the moment I explain my...err...rash behavior,' The Major said. 'I-I read the snake had been posted to The Mount. His name evoked......'

' _Rash behavior_?' finished Medvelov.

'I...I lost my senses and penned a missive threatening to finish the job I hadn't completed and...and other things,' The Major said.

'What _other_ things?' pressed Medvelov.

'I had too much to drink,' whispered The Major.

'To h—— with your excuses!' Medvelov barked. 'What did you write, and don't be concise! Let flow the breadth of your outrage!'

As he picked lint from the sleeves of hisself's tunic, The Major related detailed contents of the seditious epistle:

Hisself boasted affiliation in a cabal of militants (the so-called _Reformed Union of Prosperity_ ) bent on plotting sundry acts of mayhem to avenge -of all people- Pyotr Kakhovsky! The Union's first target was Colonel Borowitz; others of pedigree would perish in subsequent attacks, including His Excellency.

'I knew comrades acquainted with several Decemberist officers,' The Major said. 'Count Pavel Dmitrievich Kiselyov was my superior when I drilled in the Chevaliers-Gardes. Though the Trial Court cleared the Count of conspiracy, it's no coincidence Pestel and Bestuzhev-Ryumin garnered inspiration from his liberal creed. I suppose my indirect contact could be interpreted by the authorities with apprehension.'

'And our direct contact to you...' Medvelov said.

'Might also be interpreted with apprehension,' finished The Major.

_Dour_ and _dumbfound_ best described the countenances of those around my table: blood drained from Iliosovy's face; Zupricka respired in wheezy swigs; Nekabov's nervous tongue clicking sounded like hooves on cobblestone...

Medvelov massaged his forehead and then stood. Hands clasped behind his back, he paced in a broad circle, the orbit of which brought him next to our hapless agitator every half-minute or so.

Meself? Mmm...years of strict abstinence kept my mood tranquil and gloom subdued. The Major's admission shattered asceticism as a battering ram destroys a door. I felt faint; a flashback stabbed my brain: a younger me tramping Kiriov Street, disembodiment and chagrined. Heart galloping, dry mouthed...

Then I heard _it_ :

eeeeeeeeee

The forgotten squeal...

eeeeeeeeee

Growing from naught...

eeeeeeeeee

A teakettle over a flame...

eeeeeeeeee

Soft but clear...

eeeeeeeeee

Sluggish-like, I shook my head;

Muted the sinister disruption.

But lo, the urge to snatch a bottle, slick my throat and numb angst!

At last, Nekabov squeaked: 'You signed your name?'

'Of course!' The Major yapped.

'But why?' Iliosovy cried.

'I-I...I don't know,' blubbered The Major.

'You're a doddering...five-pyad...idiot!' Iliosovy seethed. 'If the police are peeping, they might have followed you to this cottage! They could come through the door _at any second_! And what awaits? A group of men... _a faction of radicals_...huddled over a table!'

The pacing Medvelov said: 'Calm yourself, Iliosovy.'

'Look at his brow,' Iliosovy said as he waved a limp hand at me. 'Look how it furrows! And Zupricka...behold his red face and hitched breathing! Open your eyes, sir! 'Tis not possible to remain calm!

'It's obvious The Major's a simpleton,' Nekabov said. 'Thus, his rambling threats will be viewed with mirth and then discarded.'

'Announces the man who claims revolutionaries are prowling the shadows,' Medvelov said.

The Major seconded: 'Yes, your paper and the-'

'I bear no responsibility for your imprudence,' interrupted Nekabov.

Rasped The Major: 'But you do, sir. Recall the murdered colonel? Your conspiratorial editorials inspired my fabrications!'

Nekabov muttered an oath and took his feet. He passed Medvelov without a glance and took a post next to the front window.

Proffered Medvelov: 'Comrade Nekabov renders a legitimate point. Vladimir is guilty of one thing: _poor judgment_. Since he hasn't been detained, I theorize the authorities feel the same. Why, we don't know if the letter was delivered or read.'

Medvelov's reasonable statement encouraged additional debate...

Finger pointing...consternation...sniveling bemoans and rage!

Bah! I lacked the concentration to participate.

The blare returned...

eeeeeeeeee

Nestled in pate...

eeeeeeeeee

Bounding in the hot morning chamber...

eeeeeeeeee...

# CHAPTER 17

### The Haggard Poet

Exhaustion slapped faces whilst a stench of anxiety wafted from our damp linen.

I pushed the curtain aside and stared out the window:

Sunrise spread a bloody stain atop a fresh blanket of snow.

From across the room, Iliosovy called: 'What do you behold?'

'Naught but the rosy finger,' I answered in a jaded tone.

'S—— in my mouth, the fretting,' Medvelov chided. 'I can't take another moment in this cottage. Let's take leave until next week.'

Nekabov raised his hands and said: 'Oh, no! I'm not rubbing elbows with _him_ anymore. In fact, I recommend we maintain a healthy distance from each other.'

'Shush, you,' Medvelov scolded. 'How can we maintain a _healthy distance_ when we have business together? Moreover, our comrade author is another of your partners. Will you avoid him?'

Nekabov thumped his hat and answered: 'I...I suppose we'll...we'll...look, if nothing else, we shouldn't meet _here_.'

'And I say we should,' Medvelov replied.

'I stand with Comrade Nekabov,' Iliosovy said.

The scowling poet mussed his hair with a shaky hand and barked: 'We shan't alter routine!'

'Who are you to give orders?' asked Iliosovy.

'Think, man,' Medvelov said as he tapped his temple. ' _If_ we're being watched, then we must present a calm demeaner and remain loyal to nominal affairs. And _if_ the authorities pester, we argue Vladimir _often_ vomits ridiculous tales. Who can discern the ramblings of a disorientated old man?'

'Medvelov, lest you forget, you're certain to face harsh scrutiny,' Nekabov said.

'We'll _all_ face harsh scrutiny,' Iliosovy bristled.

'He recited poesy to His Excellency,' reasoned the editor. 'Who here can say they've been closer to the man?'

'I'll deal with what's tossed my way,' Medvelov said. 'After all, what am I but a harmless bard twiddling insipid verses?'

Iliosovy turned to me and asked: 'What do you think?'

I eyeballed The Major (hisself stretching arms and exercising fingers) and then muttered, 'Medvelov's idea sounds practical.'

'Comrade Zupricka, you break the stalemate,' Medvelov said.

'What about The Major? Doesn't he get a say?' asked Nekabov.

In a somber voice, the poet answered: 'Vladimir is through making decisions.'

Iliosovy snapped his fingers and yapped, 'Zupricka, what say you?'

Now, I've come to realize Zupricka's vote made no difference; it carried the same weight as the rest of ours...meaning _naught_. Medvelov had decided we were meeting one way or the other, but the illusion of democracy is enough to placate the thickheaded. Anyway, the butcher nodded...tho...I've wondered: _What would Medvelov have done if Zupricka said 'No'?_

To examine such a notion throws snow in the face of Zupricka's superstition.

Two plus two equals four; it will always equal four;

Zupricka will always nod his head;

I will always be here;

You will always be there...

He-he.

Raking thoughts out of season be a foolish timewaster, comrade.

Thus, it came to pass: we connived to congregate in seven days.

'A final detail,' Medvelov said as my guests donned layers. 'We _must_ keep quiet.'

'You can rest assured I have no desire to incriminate myself,' Nekabov said.

The rest of us expressed the same sentiment, and we sealed the promise with sweaty handshakes.

While Iliosovy cowered in the house, I escorted my compatriots to the byre. Zupricka (who spoke little during the preceding hand twisting), departed first. I mistook his silence for consternation; later, I learned blessed indifference fortified him for what the future held.

Nekabov and his driver fled next...

And last...

The Major was settling into the troika when Medvelov ushered me aside. 'I want you to visit me tomorrow,' he said, boring holes into my skull. 'My driver will collect you in the afternoon.'

I would've gobbled the invitation if the situation had been different; but after the quarrelsome evening, I begged off with a persuasive excuse: 'Comrade, I have pages to make. Nekabov wants four chapters by the end of January. I'm nowhere near satisfying his demand.'

Medvelov seized my right wrist and said, 'Listen, man, I'm against the wall too. I pray you'll help tickle the muse.'

He sounded sincere...and appealing to my frivolous acumen endeared; hubris wouldn't allow me any recourse but to chase the lure.

'Consider it an apt distraction,' Medvelov said as he released my arm. 'Otherwise the-'

'Ivan!' The Major beckoned. 'I'm chilled to the bone! Let's roll along!'

'If we're lucky, the old man will catch pneumonia and die,' Medvelov whispered.

Stifling a giggle, I responded, 'Expect me tomorrow, comrade.'

And that was that...

I threw the departing sled a wave and then returned to my cottage; huddled in front of the hob, Iliosovy rubbed hands and announced: 'I'll humor Medvelov for a week, maybe two, but if this foolhardy business continues, I'm demanding The Major presents to the police and confesses his elaborate fabrication.'

Peeling layers, I asked, 'If he digs heels?'

'The idiot's standing tall one way or the other. The difference between the two determines our posture. Comprehend the entanglements! Medvelov sins with Bykal's daughter; Nekabov: editor of a provocative periodical; Zupricka's livelihood...and...and our relationship, my lad. Can you imagine the shame if our love is discovered?'

Magic-like, the din in me head (what had dulled into pre-dawn) grew louder...

I must have grimaced because Iliosovy shook his head and said: 'You flashed the same face earlier, my lad. The look of anguish...how it guts!'

'Please, no more chatter on the subject,' I growled.

'I only have your best interests at heart,' soothed Iliosovy.

Curses!

Those words!

Those stupid words...

Those stupid words and Iliosovy's plaintive face...

'Why don't you strip vestments and loll next to me,' he said.

'I'm too tired,' I whined.

Iliosovy crinkled his forehead.

Explained I: 'Comrade, the night was long, and I must catch rest. I'm naught in condition to pander your requests.'

'Then seize thy rest,' saith hisself. 'But doth naught forget thy cause of distress.'

'Methinks distress is triggered by thee breathing down me neck!' I snapped.

'Woe! Thee blatant disrespect! What hath I doth to merit thee contempt?'

'Bah,' spat I, brushing past Iliosovy. 'Leave me to suffer in the present tense.'

'Then I shall dispense. But hear me now: Come the morrow, our discussion will recommence.'

I opened the bedroom door and said: 'Save your breath. Medvelov asked if I'd be his guest.'

'Did thee accept?'

'Affirmative,' I said before collapsing on my rack.

Seconds later, sleep cradled me in its grasp...

# CHAPTER 17a

### Medvelov's Questions

Medvelov's head rested atop a dark desk covered in crumpled sheaves, empty bottles, books and candles. Behind him, a picture window allowed buttery sunbeams to cut a swath through dust motes.

For the fifth time since showing me to the spacious third floor study, the servant cleared his throat and intoned: 'Master Medvelov, your guest has arrived.'

The poet snorted, smacked lips...

'He...um...he sometimes takes a few minutes to wakey,' the retainer explained.

'I hear you,' Medvelov wheezed. 'Leave us, Dmitri.'

'As you desire, Master,' hisself said, retreating with a bow.

The closing doors stirred Medvelov from stupor; he lifted his tousled head and appraised me with droopy, red eyes.

To stimulate conversation, I said: 'You have a magnificent home, comrade.'

'It...the house...it's herself's,' garbled Medvelov. 'But I'm certain you've heard the story.'

'Bits have been bandied.'

'Well, people say I married for affluence. _Many_ people. Those vicious, unprovoked accusations had a devastating effect on my wife. She became...frigid. Aloof. My unfaithfulness makes sense... _perfect_ sense...does it not?'

'Ivan, I don't want to talk of personal affairs. I came at your request to exercise our craft.'

He ignored my pleading and asked: 'What's your entanglement with Iliosovy?'

'I've told you: a comrade who saved me from the morass.'

'You are close?'

'I was his pupil once upon.'

Medvelov cracked a crooked smile...one I despised the second it materialized.

'My question isn't meant to be intrusive,' the poet said.

Thorny like, I replied: 'I can't help but hold a different opinion.'

'Relax. I ask to gauge reticence.'

'What of it?'

'Regarding Vladimir...eh, can your comrade keep his mouth sealed?'

'Who among us is mollified?'

'I comprehend, but we need to keep our heads, man. Are you aware the quickness by which madness spreads? It's an infection without remedy. 'Tis a verifiable fact! Read Franz Gall; the man is a genius! He argues insanity can be passed through human contact!'

'A robust speculation.'

'You've been to periphery and back. What caused your transposition?'

I sighed and then said, 'Comrade, I didn't come to speak of my ordeal.'

'I'm not in the mood to do anything _but_ speak. From the moment I arrived home yesterday, I've been here...imbibing and peeking out the window. I can't tell poor Lavina anything. _Ugh_...the thoughts spin! But of two things I'm certain: one, Vladimir is a devil. The other is _the necessity of silence._ '

'As previously elucidated.'

'Yes, but how long will silence last? I know you and I are pat. The butcher kneads astrology; he won't make a peep. And Nekabov is right: Blabbing in his papers will incriminate. Iliosovy...see, he doesn't strike me as discrete. The man who put the germ in you must be a persuasive creature.'

'He's more a nag,' I confessed with a shrug.

Medvelov chuckled and then produced a bottle of aquavit from behind the desk. A third of the liquid remained; the poet guzzled most of it in a single punch...

Meantime, I decided I wouldn't be the gaping ear whilst he drunk:

'Comrade, if there's nothing else-'

'No one need fret,' Medvelov interrupted. 'I will leash discontent. Bykal's daughter can be used to glean information on the governor's goals. If Vladimir is being watched, I shall know.'

'If so?'

'Vladimir confesses his fictitious role.'

'He's not too proud?'

'Motivation sometimes requires incentive.'

'Meaning?'

Pushing the booze aside, Medvelov opened a squeaky drawer and then removed a pistol. 'My encouragement,' he said, setting the weapon on the desk.

Thud.

The gun evoked a shudder what snatched my breath.

'I have a plan,' the poet pledged.

Shouted I: 'You can't shoot him!'

' _Encouragement,_ I said. But if it comes to...you know... _ahem_...self-preservation, comrade...then question of him or us isn't open to debate. Of course, there's more than Vladimir's silliness to consider. Eh...sorry, I don't mean to annoy, but _we_ must mind our tongues.'

Eyeing the weapon, I said: 'My vow is staid.'

Medvelov grunted and swept the piece back into the drawer.

I endeavored to conclude the visit; my comrade had dissimilar notions: he summoned Servant Dimitri to fetch another bottle of aquavit...which turned into two not long after. Alternating between curtain pulling and swigs, Medvelov monologued...

He toured bizarre topics: Comrade Gall; conspiratorial seeding of the mind; totems; anthroponomy; miscellany obsessions.

Picture uncomfortable me: Listening...nodding...smoothing linen...rationalizing:

The revolver...a prop meant to threaten? Or had inebriation and insomnia propelled Medvelov to recklessness?

The latter supposition seemed the logical selection, but I had chosen with affection. Fondness 'tis the bane of ignorance.

Amidst Medvelov's slurry lecture, I let play the consequences of confiding the poet's strange behavior to Iliosovy. I reached the conclusion the sequence best be secreted. Who knew what foolishness would follow...

And as Medvelov said: _We must mind our tongues._

An hour before sunset, the bard tossed his latest empty bottle aside and then attempted to stand. 'I...I fetch...I fetch...more,' he rambled. However, equilibrium proved an apt hurdle; he wobbled, pinwheeled arms and fell onto his back.

I waited for him to teeter skyward, but there'd be no resurrection; thereafter, I crossed the floor, scrutinized the prone Medvelov and prodded his flank with the toe of my boot...

Not a flutter of eyelids or a twitch.

The man had been intercepted by inebriation.

The visit ended in this inglorious fashion: I left the study, ascended the winding staircase and sought a domestic. Around the dark house moved I until finding Dmitri in a dining nook, dressing a table with dinnerware.

When he spotted me, the servant cocked his head and asked: 'Will Master Medvelov attended supper?'

'He's...sleeping,' I answered with tact. 'Now... _ahem_...I must take leave. Please summon the driver.'

'It's a lamentable situation,' said Dmitri as he set a single plate. 'Master never eats, and Madame eats alone.'

The man's lack of discretion irritated my fraying disposition. 'Comrade Medvelov's business is his own,' I admonished. 'Being said, collect the driver and make haste, man. I'll wait in the foyer.'

It be there -the foyer- where I heard a door open on one of the two floors above me. I assumed Medvelov roused hisself and braced for another protracted sermon. Yet, no stumbling footfalls resonated; I looked up, squinted and caught a woman overlooking the second story decouner. We locked peepers for a second; then, in a cyclone of wispy hair, she disappeared from whence departed.

# CHAPTER 17b

"I Became Aware..."

The majesty of manifestation,

The beauty of memories,

The power to live without corollary.

To don a mask from a primeval colonnade.

And roam, staid...

Hover above the fray.

Lives relived, reviled, reemployed with alternate terminations.

The indulgence of imagination...

A vein bonding birth and damnation!

What luxury exists in recollection?

'Tis restoration!

Redemption!

_Humph_...

I'm not afforded lustrous ruminations;

Disdain infuses germy ruinations!

I didn't tell Iliosovy about my interaction with Medvelov.

Instead, I sketched the image of the pistol in my head.

And I heeded instruction to _mind our tongues._

_Ugh_ , comrade, nursing secrets is a terrible way to live...

I became aware of a tightening in my chest what increased in increments every hour.

Writing proved impossible.

Troubling dreams chased me from slumber.

Curses, the omnipresent _EEEEEEEEEE_!

I worried The Major would do something _more_ idiotic; I pictured a frustrated Medvelov jamming the weapon against the old soldier's skull and...

_Hm_...

It wasn't meant to be.

It was _never_ meant to be.

To be, or not to be!

He-he!

Oh, how the scoundrel played me!

Oh, his scheme...

Woe, how I fit like a puzzle piece!

Ahem.

So, now you know why solace from imagination fails to pacify me.

It _must_ be destiny!

It _must_ be...

# CHAPTER 18

### Medvelov's Plan

We met for the final time...eh...I believe it be two days before the New Year.

The fateful evening began with Iliosovy's entrance.

Lo, he made his nervousness clear:

'I imagined eyes upon me. Or, perhaps, I'm not imagining.'

I ordered him to stop crowing, but Iliosovy gained a head of steam:

'This ends tonight,' my tartlet ordered. 'And if you won't say something, I will!'

'Comrade Medvelov has worked a strategy,' I said. 'Let's hear what's transpired before you trample feet.'

'Would you care to reveal _Comrade_ Medvelov's plan?' Iliosovy asked through a sneer.

'I don't know the particulars,' I said with a straight face. 'He mentioned a vague remedy when we met, but insisted it be a cure capable of heralding a swift end.'

'You believe him?'

'He detests this foolishness as much as anyone.'

No sooner had I finished the statement when Nekabov bounded into the cottage; echoing Iliosovy's sentiment, the editor declared: 'My trip was most unpleasant, and it wasn't because of the cold! I pictured the woods crawling with mestnaya!'

Once again, I attempted to smother apprehension...

So, Nekabov turned to another bothersome subject: my novel.

'I'm anxious to see your progress,' he said. 'How is the draft proceeding?'

'Piecemeal,' I said. 'Distraction hath made concentration difficult.'

'All the more to end our association with the _distraction_ ,' Iliosovy chirped.

Again, I fibbed: 'With or without, I'd be stuck. Be the curse of writer's block.'

Thereafter, Nekabov griped about the dearth of Medvelov's work. Goodness, the complaining! Iliosovy didn't dampen the mood either; like a sycophant, hisself lauded the editor's testimony.

Consternation drove me into the scullery, and I stirred a crock of kotlety until Zupricka arrived.

Ebullient as always, the butcher strode to me flank, gazed into the urn and smacked lips.

'I inhaled the pong from a versta away!' boomed he. 'If my nose is adept, 'tis kotlety!'

'How have you been wearing, Comrade Zupricka?' asked Iliosovy.

'Wearing...' Zupricka mused. 'Well, with the Great Feast approaching, I've been busy at market.'

Nekabov pried: 'No uneasiness?'

'Why should there be uneasiness?' Medvelov queried from the doorway. His entry had been sneaky; not a one of us heard the clatter of an opening door.

Hands flying to his chest, Nekabov gasped: 'Oh, my! Medvelov, you frightened me!'

'Why should there be uneasiness?' repeated the poet.

'We're concerned about The Major's imbroglio,' Iliosovy said, all grave-like and squinty-eyed.

'Comrade author, are you concerned?' Medvelov asked as he sauntered next to me.

I handed the ladle to Zupricka and said, 'Not in the least.'

'Nonsense!' Iliosovy exclaimed. 'Our comrade author confessed an inability to concentrate on writing.'

'No, I remarked the darning of ideas has waylaid me,' said meself. 'It be the unfortunate writer's block, Comrade Medvelov. No doubt you can testify.'

Medvelov nodded his head and then said, 'Aye, I'm mired in a stretch. And not a word, Nekabov. You'll get poems when I have poems to send.'

Replied the editor: 'Not a word? Sir, I'll speak when-'

'Where's The Major?' Iliosovy interjected.

Indeed, I had also observed the old solider was not prowling or pontificating...

'Ah, yes,' Medvelov said in a cheery voice. 'I planned on tackling his absence before the aside. So...eh...Vladimir has taken flight.'

'Wha...what say you?' hawed Nekabov. 'Taken flight?'

'Loose lips told me the mestnaya intends on staking the old fool's apartment in the coming days,' Medvelov said. 'I convinced him to lay at my estate.'

Rising from his chair, Nekabov demanded: 'Who told you?'

'His mistress,' Iliosovy concluded.

'I can testify: Ivona Fyodorovicha is a ripe chatterbox after a romp,' purred Medvelov.

Iliosovy stomped the floor and cried: 'After what we discussed last week...you let him abscond? Explain yourself, man!'

'I've been pondering Vladimir's plight,' said the poet. 'He's speaks the truth, you know. Whether the threat is a lark or genuine, Bykal will tear him to shreds.'

' _I. Don't. Care_ ,' rumbled Iliosovy.

'Then think of it like this,' Medvelov said as he began pacing. 'Let's say Bykal believes everything Vladimir claimed; let's say Bykal demands Vladimir reveal his associates in the cabal; let's say Vladimir...under terrible duress, mind you...hacks our names. Don't say it's not a possibility; the mestnaya are known sadists.'

'You can't keep him hidden forever,' Nekabov said.

'Vladimir has brass,' Medvelov responded. 'I'll convince him to travel abroad or...er...look, I'll mastermind something. But we must mind our tongues, comrades.'

' _Mind our tongues_ ,' muttered Iliosovy.

Medvelov placed both hands on the table and thrust his face a whisker's length from Iliosovy. 'Simple as squashing an egg,' the poet said. 'In fact, I have a plan, so why don't you shut your mouth and quit worrying about matters beyond your control. You're starting to irritate me.'

Red faced, Iliosovy smushed his lips and stared at his hands.

Straightening his back, Medvelov continued: 'In twenty-two days, the governor's daughter is to be married. You can imagine the security, one because of the recent threats and two, the district police commissioner is the groom. What she sees in Petyor Vyskilovich...the imbecile. Worse, I'm obligated to attend. Ivona wants me to read a poem before the wedding; a poem celebrating eternal love and all its charms. Such tripe...' Medvelov complained in a raspy voice. 'She twists the knife by requesting my attendance.'

'I also received an invitation,' Nekabov boasted.

Medvelov raised eyebrows.

'The grand affair necessitates a wordy summation,' explained the editor.

'You, Nekabov, firebrand of the people!' Medvelov jeered. 'Why am I not surprised you kneel before the nobles like a toady?'

'I report the sensational and the sublime,' Nekabov countered.

'You shan't report anything if The Major is found,' said Iliosovy.

'He won't be located, not with the mestnaya keeping watch outside a vacant apartment,' Medvelov said. 'And on the evening of the wedding, when Gregorski Manor is guarded like a fortress, Vladimir rides northwest. Upon reaching Saint Petersburg, his journey continues by ferry to Kotla or Helsinki.'

Nekabov poured a glass of port and took a long pull; next to me, Zupricka consumed a ball of meat and masticated like a cow; Iliosovy scratched his bald head...

And Medvelov threaded an arm around my shoulder. 'I wager our comrade author discerns the logic,' he stated, all jovial-like.

I entertained a piercing, stomach-churning thought-

( _The Major wouldn't listen to reason, thus Medvelov ended the stubborn old solider!_ )

-yet nodded my head as if pulled by a string.

Behold: the shrewd poet knew I wouldn't voice trepidation; he knew I'd acquiesce with a weary smile; he knew many things...

He knew my eyes focused on Nekabov's glass of wine; he knew I wanted nothing more than a teeny sip because I felt a mite uneasy...

Medvelov knew...

'What can go awry?' hisself posed in the same cheerful voice. 'Besides, I wouldn't risk my neck if success appeared nil.'

'Your neck isn't the only neck at risk,' Nekabov said.

The poet released me and grabbed the bottle of port from the table. 'Nekabov, if you don't feel comfortable, there is another way to handle this mess,' he said. 'Your paper is not afraid to stir trouble. Why not harness the power of pulp and spread the message from high?'

Huffed Nekabov: 'What message?'

'Unmask Bykal: disclose his adultery; his missus of power; his nepotism. Let the people consume veracity; let the truth -truth you publish, Nekabov- clear the fog cloaking our comrade citizens perception. Let's kick down the idol and break it to pieces!'

'Medvelov, I cannot broach the subject His Excellency's infidelity,' Nekabov said. Then he took a swallow, licked his lips and added: 'There are certain improprieties I'd be foolish to expose.'

'S—— in my mouth...I don't understand you people,' Medvelov said before gulping a mouthful.

'Understand my press would cease to exist!' raged Nekabov.

Medvelov swallowed, handed me the bottle and announced: 'Then we have no choice but to proceed with my idea.'

'I have a choice,' Iliosovy said in a calm voice. 'I can visit the authorities; I can reveal where The Major cowers. He must bear responsibility for impetuous inanity and-'

' _And_ throw us to the wolves,' Medvelov finished.

'You've brought the consequences on _yourself_ , sir,' said Iliosovy. 'Aiding your comrade's treachery is not a blade the rest of us should stomach.'

'Realize this _our_ treachery,' Medvelov said. 'You know of Vladimir's indecency; you know and said nothing, which makes you...all of us...a party to sedition. So, yes, you can tattle. What happens then, eh? Well, hear me now: The mestnaya _will_ interrogate and heap charges, not accolades.'

Iliosovy opened his mouth, but then slammed it shut with a clacking of teeth.

Little was said thereafter (Medvelov reiterated the acumen of his strategy and ordered a reconvening in seven days; Zupricka acquiesced whilst shoveling kotlety into his hole; shifty-eyed Nekabov drummed fingers on the table) tho I wasn't tipping but half an ear. The quarter full bottle of port weighed heavy in my hand...

An intrinsic craving...a yearning to imbibe...brought upon by circumstance...a need to stupefy...

After what be bandied...

Ugh, the desire to unencumber!

No doubt Iliosovy felt the same, but he sought consolation in mediation: hisself writhed from the chair and padded to the divan next to the hob. Stretching across the couch, he closed peepers. In short order, a wheezy snoring serenaded across the room.

'What anxiety squabbling produces,' Medvelov lamented. 'The poor soul is wrung dry.'

The editor checked his timepiece, made note of the hour and clucked: 'Additional banter serves no purpose; it's clear you're bent on working the reins, Medvelov. Besides, I have a deadline to meet in the morrow.' Then he donned trappings in haste and uttered: 'Speaking of, I expect comprehensible work before the New Year, sir.'

Responded Medvelov: 'Have you forgotten what I stated at the beginning of this evening? I'm hindered by events what affords little opportunity for-'

'I haven't forgotten!' yipped Nekabov.

Squashing his brow and jutting a rigid chin, Medvelov gnashed, 'I'll bring what's cobbled next week, Nekabov. And whatever meager stack it is, I expect zero grousing until other pressing affairs are resolved.'

Nekabov didn't appear placated; he spun 'round, tripped over his cape, and exited mumbling oaths.

'Even amidst tumult, he hassles about business,' Medvelov bellyached.

'As his nature necessitates,' Zupricka cheeped.

' _Hm_...his nature...' Medvelov ruminated. 'You're right, tho, comrade. Nekabov's mentality is an unavoidable component.'

The poet's statement struck me as a resigned gripe...

But Medvelov knew what Nekabov's nature would incite.

I would come to the same conclusion hours later; until then...until everything went to bags...I had no desire to speak of fate and whatnot. Nay, I wanted a private atmosphere to chew the poet's ear.

Pleasant-like, I shooed Zupricka from my cottage and then summoned Medvelov to the table. He took a seat next to me, ran a hand down his face and then rasped, 'I need to moisten my throat.'

Handing him the bottle, I said, 'Tell me you haven't acted on your petition.'

'Which be?'

'Your pistol? The Major's demise? Need I continue?'

'Drunken chatter,' Medvelov claimed as he confiscated the booze. 'I'm stressed like Iliosovy...like Nekabov...like you, no doubt. Oh, to have the temperate disposition of Comrade Zupricka. A gentleman unperturbed by circumstance is either a simpleton or a sage.' He chased the statement with a long pull which had the effect of restoring color to his pale countenance. After a contended sigh, hisself whispered: 'Maintaining a stoic demeanor amidst rancor is a dreadful weight. Therefore, I must unbraid...'

Fixating eyes on the pronate Iliosovy, Medvelov tucked a hand inside his coat and produced an envelope. Waggling said packet, the poet implored: 'Your discretion is a necessity.'

Tho I swore fidelity, Medvelov nibbled his bottom lip; the display of consternation spiked my curiosity until I couldn't help but snap fingers.

He placed the unsealed mystery on the table; I leaned forward, blinked eyes...

Despite the dim, sputtering candlelight, a given and patronymic name -stitched in gold script across velvety stationary- shined:

Vladimir Ivanovich

'Handle with nimble fingers,' cautioned Medvelov.

I shook out a small card and scrutinized these gilded words, which I committed to memory:

Your Well Born,

His Excellency requests your presence at Gregorski Mount for the union of Petyor Vyskilovich and the daughter of Fyodor Fydorovich Bykal on 8 January, 1900 hours, the year 1848, with a fête to follow the ceremony.

Tracing fingers over the immaculate calligraphy, I asked, 'At what do I gaze?'

'An invitation for our disgruntled comrade,' Medvelov said.

_Confused_ best described I...

A solicitation? Why?

My baffled expression beseeched clarification...

'Bykal called on Vladimir two days ago and delivered this repulsive missive,' Medvelov explained.

Gasped I: 'The governor visited The Major?'

'Let the request testify.'

'Comrade, you must explain,' begged I.

'Mistress Bykal absconded with a round tum,' Medvelov confided. 'Thirty years later, the question of paternity vexes the old man. After Bykal delivered the invite...bah! You should've heard Vladimir! He teetered on the verge of tears!'

'Then...then Bykal is unconcerned about The Major's threats?' I pondered in a hush.

'Liken the elephant to the fly. Yet, pester enough and the pest catches a swat. Now, here is a d—— enticement,' the poet said, pointing a finger at the card. 'Vladimir contends Ivona is his offspring; Bykal believes otherwise. The bane of it all...such nonsense! Ivona's marriage is a sham...a sham mastermind by Petyor Vyskilovich and Bykal! They intend to demean our comrade! And Bykal delivers the invite with a wolfish smile. The nerve!'

Stirred by Medvelov's strident tenor, Iliosovy snorted, rolled onto his left side and then resumed the throaty trumpet of sleep...

'I must control myself,' Medvelov said, wiping a hand across his perspiring forehead.

'Ivan...I-I don't understand,' stammered I.

'Bykal feigns the branch under the pretense of burying the axe. But when Vladimir arrives at The Mount, he'll be apprehended.'

'Why haven't the mestnaya arrested him already? After all, if the governor knows where The Major lives-'

'Aren't you listening?' Medvelov hissed. 'Bykal's goon, the despicable Petyor, will slap shackles on Vladimir in front of high society...in front of his daughter on her wedding day...in front of the media vermin. _They_...they'll display him as a trussed animal...shake his idiotic threats under noses and boast of _capturing a radical_. What a circus it shall become...and don't tell me otherwise, man.'

There seemed a plausible response, and it be the same remedy Medvelov articulated earlier in the evening. 'As you stated, The Major must leave,' I pronounced. 'Boat, rail...whatever thy means.'

Medvelov scoffed and then said: 'The old man is not one to run. You've heard his war stories. No...no, he is _determined_ to square affairs.'

'It can't be so,' I said, shaking my head.

'Some burdens must be slayed, comrade. Never mind the...the...' the poet trailed off...swigged...licked lips...

Asserted I: 'Never mind _what_? You comprehend, yes? The scheme is clear as glass!'

'Shush, you,' Medvelov snarled. 'There is more at stake than Vladimir's fate. Consider Ivona...she's _the_ gull. Matrimony hatched by retribution is naught love. 'Tis a stab to the heart, comrade.'

'She doesn't have a say in the proceedings?'

'I tell you, Ivona is a pawn...' Medvelov then squeezed my hands with clammy paws and added: 'Her father and I intend to save her from the wretched affair.'

I freed myself from his grip and squeaked: 'How?'

'Comrade, I beseech your assistance.'

'Me?'

'Yes, and altho I shouldn't reveal intimate details until we're...eh...more alone, know this: the old men is willing to play a crucial role.'

Again, squeaked I: 'How?'

'Vladimir will shoot both Bykal and Petyor.'

'Shoot them?' I wheezed in disbelief.

Medvelov tweaked his nose.

Tongue tied, I sat back, slackened jaw and widened eyes

I mean...what could I say? The posseted poet...red-faced...perspiring...clenching hands into fists...

Tho I wanted to blame the intoxicant, he wasn't blitzed. Nay, Ivan Medvelov meant business:

'If Bykal wants Vladimir to show his face at The Mount, woe to the man,' saith he in a scratchy voice.

Questions ricocheted in my noggin: What role could I satisfy in this insane plan; how would we avoid arrest...

'Have a chug,' the poet said, sliding the bottle to me. 'A hot dose calms the mind.'

_A hot dose_...

A hot dose sounded pat.

After Medvelov's frank admission...an admission lacking jest...

It wasn't difficult to convince myself: _A hot dose makes sense._

Look, Ivan Medvelov didn't force the port into my hand.

I took the precious vessel...

And drank...

Drank like a parched Sahara nomad.

A feathery warmth flowed from mouth to throat, tingled fingers and toes...

Awash in the hot dose, I slumped backwards and grinned.

'Relaxing, hm?' Medvelov asked as he elbowed my ribs.

We passed the bottle back-and-forth for a spell;

Medvelov primped my ego with drivel; he slurred: 'Only those blessed with shrewd perception exist amongst the sullied and insincere.'

Other pandering platitudes...

The blather sounded dandy as drunkenness took hold, _he-he_.

At last, as we listed to-and fro like distressed ships at sea, the poet said: 'I must depart before I can't see straight. Comrade, visit tomorrow and I'll explain your part.'

He reclaimed the invitation and dressed for the outdoors, side eyeing sleepy Iliosovy the entire time. Donning ushanka, Medvelov opened the door, stepped into the darkness...

A cold draft blew and stirred the tart: Iliosovy blinked, stared into my eyes and then smiled.

'Is everything alright, my handsome boy?' hisself asked in a somnolent cadence.

Maintaining balance seemed an impossibility, but I managed to cross the floor and close the door without falling.

'A breeze, comrade,' I explained.

'Ah...' Iliosovy sighed, closing eyes.

'Yes, rest,' soothed I.

'Yes...' purred he.

As Iliosovy coasted into sleep, I bustled to procure another drink...

# CHAPTER 18a

### Nekabov's Plan

I dozed;

No introspective encumbrance shattered repose.

Come dawn, tho...

Finding meself sprawled on the cold bedroom floor...

Lo, the headache!

What's more, my bladder felt primed to explode!

Scattered 'round me, wrinkled sheaves testified to mad doodling's made under the influence:

Grim contemplation of demise;

Succor induced by scorching the mind;

Untwisting the triad!

Five, ten, fifteen pages...

The script grew sloppier until the utterances were unreadable.

'Bah,' I hacked whilst squeezing sheets into lumpy balls.

Guilt...I felt it...

' _Intemperate nitwit,'_ rebuked commonsense.

But quick-like, guilt transformed into rage.

Rage instigated by guilt!

' _See what compunction doth instigate,'_ seethed inclemency.

Struggling to compose, I heard an impatient knocking at the front door:

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

Standing...shuffling from my room...

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

Oblivious to the racket, and thankfully so, Iliosovy remained prone on the divan.

I opened the hatch before the next volley and was greeted by Nekabov's frost-bitten face.

'Good morning, comrade,' the editor hailed. 'I hope-'

Shouldering Nekabov aside, I sauntered next to hisself's brichka, dropped pants and made water; steam rose from the plashing whilst I groaned like a man in passion.

' _Ahem_...I see you're awake,' chuckled Nekabov.

'Be awake now,' responded I, twirling 'round while tucking me manhood.

Nekabov pursed lips and then snapped fingers. A young boy dressed in threadbares jumped from the front of the carriage; his grubby fingers held a flimsy tabloid, which he handed to me...

My itchy eyes discerned the following headline:

GOVERNOR TARGETED FOR DEATH

Beneath the bold introduction -wending through four columns of the front page- an alarming conveyance: His Excellency had been affronted by a cascade of threats originating from former members of the Imperial Army! Moreover, the same faction slayed Colonel Borotoz...

'I slogged through the evening on the article,' informed Nekabov, all proud-like.

'Are...are you crazy?' I fumed. 'Medvelov told us to mind our tongues!'

'The time for minding tongues has passed! Look at you! Spiked to craziness by this mess! And Comrade Iliosovy...Medvelov...me...oh, we hunker under stress!'

'I see through you!' I cried. 'You're not revealing anything Bykal doesn't already know! Nekabov, you're creating a show! A show to make your pockets overflow!'

Hisself rejoined: 'You're entitled to your opinion...which is wrong. Besides, the-'

Interrupted I: 'What will you say when the Third Section comes to question how you obtained the information?'

'I'll give them The Major if it puts an end his foolishness.'

'No...no, you don't understand!' I snarled. 'You're sabotaging Medvelov's plan!'

'I assure you, sir, I _do_ understand. I understand the want of serenity is wreaking havoc in our heads. Now's the moment our trepidation ends.'

Thought I: _How dare him; how dare his moxie!_

I debated wrapping hands around the foolish man's neck. But I relaxed, smiled and then said, 'Bless your intentions. You are a true comrade.'

Nekabov snapped fingers again; the boy retreated, and the editor said: 'Into the future we go. Speaking of, I must make haste. News will not travel on dead legs. Good day, sir.'

My palsy salute was returned in kind; meantime, I connived a hasty trek of my own...

# CHAPTER 18b

### Iliosovy's Plan

I rushed into the house, strode past the sofa...

And felt a tugging at my pantaloons.

'Comrade,' Iliosovy whispered. 'I heard voices outside. Who called?'

Folding the newspaper under my armpit, I said: 'Nekabov. He's...eh...he's pestering about a draft. The man is a strident nag, Iliosovy. Being said, I strung a few chapters last night after everyone left. I'm heading to his office straightaway with the dosh.'

' _Ugh_ , I have a throbbing headache,' Iliosovy carped. 'Dickering about The Major has taxed me to no end!'

' _Ahem_...as I stated, Nekabov beckons,' I said through a frown.

'Won't you lay with me for a spell?'

To shut his hole, I said: 'When I return.'

'Hours it will be,' lamented Iliosovy.

'Let imagination simmer in the interim.'

Iliosovy rubbed my thigh, blinked doe eyes...

'When I return,' I reiterated.

'I don't want to be alone, my boy. Let's go into V—— together and find-'

' _My_ business is _my_ business,' I growled. Freeing myself, I rushed into the bedroom and stuffed the newspaper into a haversack. When I returned to the main room, Iliosovy rose from the divan and blocked my path.

'Must you be so testy?' hisself asked.

'Bah! You always insert yourself in my affairs,' I snapped. 'My writing, prosperity and...and everything else!'

'But...but I care for you. I have your-'

' _Interests at heart_...yes, I'm aware. Now, stand aside and let me pass.'

He sighed and then relented, tho not without a salty comment: 'Considering your demeaner, mayhap I'll go home.'

_By all means,_ thought I.

However, as I entered the byre and saw Iliosovy's coupe, I embraced a change of heart.

Call it...paranoia;

An abundance of caution;

Foresight.

See, I reasoned it naught be wise if Iliosovy went to town and peeped Nekabov's newsprint.

My frayed tartlet might act unwise...

Why take the risk, eh?

Milling in the stable, my Kabardian and Iliosovy's stallion noshed hay.

Hm...

You know, it's impossible to leave when you don't have a way, _he-he_.

I fastened a rope and bridle to Iliosovy's stallion before mounting my horse. Slow like, we exited the rear of the barn and plodded through knee deep snow. The stallion wasn't pleased; he snorted, dragged feet; studied me with black, murky eyes...

After grinding a wide path through the timber to avoid Iliosovy's probing eyes (I imagined him spying through a window), we reached the barren C—— highway.

My right arm throbbed from yanking Iliosovy's stubborn beast the untold distance; thus, I felt relief when I dropped the tether.

'Go!' I ordered the stallion.

He sniffed the air...

Nickered...

'Go!' shouted I, kicking at the creature.

His stare was either pleading or baleful, but I did not care.

Lo, I crossed the threshold of frivolous sentiment!

Head down, rope trailing like a limp second tail, the beast loped east.

I watched the tramp until he appeared as a small black dot compressed between the white of two worlds.

Then I corralled my mount and turned west...

Towards Medvelov.

# CHAPTER 18c

### The Major's Plan

Given the season, the road was in respectable form; yet the trot taxed both body and soul. Aching cold...the leaden crunch of snow...the Kabardian's flaring nostrils...

Verily, there be little to distract wistfulness. Clutching reins, I galloped under tree branches wilting with icicles; over wracked bridges; beneath winter's blanched veil. The occasional hovel wafted chimney smoke what pierced me rheumy beak; goring snorts stirred a medley of meditations: warmth; homey ambience; coziness; tranquility...

But I shoved plaintive thoughts aside.

I laid continuous lash the last few versta, and my horse responded in kind. As consequence, he was near collapse when we arrived Medvelov's estate. I dismounted while the beast gasped for breath and sprinted to the entrance...

Recall the retainer Dmitri?

Aye, 'twas hisself what opened the front door.

Marching past him and into the foyer, I wheezed: 'I'm here to see Ivan.'

'Master is in the library,' Dmitri said, pointing at a closed door to the left.

'Get my horse into warmth,' I said. 'I can find my way to the alcove.'

I beat for the room; rapped the oak; heard the passive sound of footsteps on carpet. The door opened a crack; Medvelov's squinty, bloodshot eyes examined me through a diminutive gap...

'Did you come alone, comrade author?' hisself asked.

'Alone but with a surprise,' whispered I.

'Eh?'

'Nekabov is touting The Major's crimes.'

'Touting?'

'In his paper.'

'Come inside,' said Medvelov, sneaky-like.

The library be toasty; a vigorous fire burned in the hearth at the back of the room. Legs crossed, The Major lounged in a red, cushiony chair; he wore a sedate mask and watched me like a hawk.

Medvelov sealed us in our den of seclusion. Then he went to a desk and poured me a drink from a decanter. The purplish liquid smelled of berries and tasted sweet. I emptied the cup in seconds and received a second helping.

The poet remarked: 'Your countenance has been abused by the elements.'

'You should see my horse,' responded I.

'Now, you were saying...' Medvelov probed.

I set the cup down, dug the newspaper from my sack and spread the rag across the desk. Medvelov scrutinized the text...

'What's it state?' demanded The Major.

'Nothing of consequence,' Medvelov muttered. He crushed the newspaper, lobbed it into the fire and then added: 'If anything, Nekabov's words will aid.'

Befuddled, I queried: 'You want to proceed?'

'Nekabov's reporting what those holding sway already know,' Medvelov jeered. 'Recall: Bykal invited Vladimir to the wedding.'

'The snake,' snarled the old soldier.

Medvelov opened a drawer and removed a small rectangular paper. 'My invitation to the ceremony,' he explained, holding said item in front of a candelabra. 'An uncomplicated piece of stationary, eh? Ah, but the devil is in the details! 'Tis not a matter of artless forgery. Each request carries a unique watermark. Ergo, anybody presenting a fraudulent summons will not set a toenail past the threshold.'

'What's your point?' I asked.

'Now comes the moment I reveal your role,' Medvelov said. ' _Ahem_...comrade author, you shall attend the wedding as Vladimir.'

I assumed he jested and snorted: 'Um-hmm.'

Said the poet: 'The problem is, we only have two invitations. _How to get the third_ , I pondered. Yesterday, tho, Nekabov mentioned he received a jacket. Voila! Problem solved.'

'I doubt Nekabov will hand it to you,' I said.

The poet tossed the invitation on the desk and then poured me a third hot dose. 'Nekabov won't have a say,' he said nonchalantly. 'His destiny is paved.'

'Quite,' chimed The Major.

' _Won't have a say?_ ' I questioned.

'Eh...the road to Rome is paved in bones,' Medvelov said, handing me the glass.

Hark! Let there not be a question in my mind what he implied.

My head tingled; I took a long drink and...and felt strange...

Walls shimmered; the floor buckled. A throbbing, red aura surrounded The Major. It was then I noticed a revolver on the right arm of his chair.

Explained Medvelov: 'I'll attend as myself and, as requested, swaddle the audience in florid prose. Vladimir will masquerade as Nekabov and you, comrade author, shall enter with Vladimir's invite.'

My molassy mind labored to understand the plot. Me...as The Major? Hisself as Nekabov?

'How?' I croaked.

Medvelov said: 'Sleight of hand, comrade. A wig and makeup. And, yes, you'll be detained...whisked away... _perhaps_ roughened. But with their villain in hand, the mestnaya will relax...which then allows Vladimir -under the guise of Nekabov- to do his bidding.'

'I shall kill the snake!' The Major trumpeted.

'My impersonation is certain to be discerned,' argued I.

'What of it?' Medvelov scoffed. 'After Vladimir instigates mayhem, nobody will care about you. Picture the panic, man! A holy show if ever there be! I will locate thee, comrade; Ivona has shown me Petyor's playpens. Mixed amongst the trampling guests, we make a safe escape...well, minus Vladimir...'

''Tis a one-way trip for me,' the old soldier said in a resolute voice.

_He-he_...I know the plan sounds inane. But my brain...I couldn't think straight. Moreover, a weighty indifference descended upon my shoulders...

I felt compelled to take a seat...

Swirl my cup...

Study jagged flames.

'You comprehend the beauty of my scheme,' Medvelov soothed.

Mayhap I nodded or grunted; mayhap both...

Regardless, I strode the ambiguity separating dream and reality!

Medvelov fetched another drink;

The Major waxed about responsibility...

Loose ends:

The tartlet and the fat man.

A poke to the shin snagged my attention. The leering poet stood in front of me twirling a fire iron. ''What say you regarding Iliosovy's disposition?' hisself inquired before offending with another stab.

I hawed, 'He nags...he frets...and...and claims he has my interests at heart.'

'The tart wouldn't approve of you helping us,' Medvelov pronounced. 'He'd tattle to the mestnaya if he found out, yes?'

My eyes zeroed on the hypnotizing hearth.

Jabbing a third time, Medvelov said: 'Comrade author, we can't trust anyone...let alone a nattering do-gooder who has your so-called _interests at heart_. _Pfft._ Iliosovy cares of Iliosovy.'

A clock on the mantle chimed thrice.

Comprehend: Debate wouldn't have altered circumstance...

Not with Medvelov lording over me with a poker.

And The Major with a revolver at his fingertips.

I was destined to tread the bony road...

# CHAPTER 19

### Three Different Deaths

The canter home through winter's pasty dusk...

In the remnants of light bloomed a monster of musk!

Enchanting potency...reclamation...identity...

Bloodlust.

Sodden by Medvelov's demonic brew, mystical concepts oozed receptivity.

And the brew was demonic, _he-he_.

Blaming the drink on proceeding actions suggests scapegoating; yet there is no way I can demonstrate the effects stirred by the concoction.

For example, tho...the last few hours in Medvelov's home passed like a dervish.

Light as a feather, be I.

Sublime.

Medvelov strutted, rapped his stick...

He explained timing: New Year's, Christmas and the Great Feast permitted a window for execution. The holiday's...you know...people come and go. Planning what came after Bykal's assassination involved twisty calisthenics I endeavored to follow:

Nekabov's oratories...the use of his invite by The Major...

Ergo, the editor would have a reason to disappear.

Zupricka's eccentricities...his penchant for travelling...justifications for vanishment.

Which left Iliosovy...

Pinching my cheek, Medvelov said the tartlet be mine to skin.

'Our actions flower freedoms we long to embrace!' the poet declared. 'Vladimir squares his hedge; I take Ivona by her hand; and you, comrade author, discard an overcontrolling, perverted man.'

_An overcontrolling, perverted man_...

'Tis true Iliosovy lulled me into corruption; he fawned and manipulated...

His pleasured hands summoned immoral magic!

Woe, I was a sullied nitwit.

Woe, my weakness!

'Now's your time to assert innovation!' Medvelov trumpeted. 'Like DeMiroir in your story...resist! Resist! Resist!'

Do you believe it possible to grow wings?

Talons, a beak, and beady, predatorial eyes?

Well, I became a Phoenix.

I soared;

I spiraled into my home...

Iliosovy provoked:

He raged about my inebriation, but woe to him!

Woe, his lecturing tone!

A cacophony...booming discord...blew from his lungs.

My vision honed on Iliosovy's erotic orifice!

Countless times he feasted on my seed...

And countless times he tapped me...

Lo, the blasphemies!

What unbridled enmity attained...

It be the inverse of shame!

Woe, to Iliosovy!

Woe...

The frenzied deliverance my hands bestowed!

Later, we had a civil conversation; then I tucked Iliosovy into my bed and went about getting tight.

The next afternoon...or the one after...there be an incongruity in memory, comrade...I was roused by a tickling under my chin.

'Wakey, wakey,' Medvelov said.

I, curled on the couch, swatted his hand and hacked: 'Let me rest.'

He chuckled and then said: 'Sorry, but it's time we summon guests.'

Muttered I: 'One is present...tho...hisself is transcendent.'

The poet worked his nostrils and then frowned.

'Iliosovy's corpse is in the bedroom,' I reported in a flat voice.

'How...when?' Medvelov stammered.

I pitched my recollections like bread crust: an argument; my hands around Iliosovy's throat; his futile protestations; crushing the tart's windpipe; the limpness of his neck.

Then I packed him to bed...had a few blends...

'Now I'm looking at you,' I concluded.

'We discussed ending them _en masse_ ,' Medvelov hissed as he rubbed his forehead.

My pithy response? A shrug.

While Medvelov checked the bed chamber, I procured a bottle of vodka and fell into a chair at the table.

Brow creased, the poet returned from the foray and said: 'So it begins and...eh...next to bump is Nekabov. I'll cull him from V——, bring him here...' He put hands on hips, looked around the room and then continued, 'You'll distract our idiot comrade in discourse. Think...well, let me hone a talking point and you...yes, remain as is...but lessen the intake, man. I'll need you dexterous and coordinated.'

I managed lessening...more or less; slumped in my chair, I supped, emptied my head and inhaled fetid air until Medvelov returned with our newest victim...

When they entered my home, I steeled by straightening spine and pushing the bottle aside. Nekabov removed his top hat, sniffed and then approached the table. Giving my vodka the side-eye, he said: 'It smells of rancid meat, comrade. Venison, perhaps...'

_You'll distract our idiot comrade in discourse_ , Medvelov had said...

'...spoiled, for certain,' prattled Nekabov. 'I once lost a flank of beef...'

_Let me hone a talking point_...

'...my incompetent staff thought it a wise idea-'

Medvelov interjected, 'I explained to Comrade Nekabov his article knocked sense into my skull. Humoring Vladimir's inanity is a terrible lapse in judgment...a lapse I attribute to anxiety. The impending marriage of precious Ivona...my inability to produce anything worthy of print...other reasons I shan't discuss... _ahem_...point being, I've decided to sway Vladimir from seclusion. He must present to the mestnaya and accept whatever penalty the jurists deem appropriate for his rash behavior, yes?'

'It's in everyone's best interests,' the editor seconded.

'Tho Vladimir will be thorny, I can handle whatever tantrum he throws,' said Medvelov. 'Besides, this nonsense should merit but a hand slap.'

'Best to have the issue resolved before the eighth,' Nekabov said, arching his back. 'We wouldn't want a pall hanging over our heads at the wedding.'

'Yes...' Medvelov said as he stepped backwards to the hob. 'Yes...but, um, as I told you, Nekabov, our comrade author has been begging to see an invite. I described it as a...'

'A beautiful broach,' I finished.

Chirped Medvelov: 'Apropos. And since mine is at home, would you be so kind to show him your invitation, Nekabov?'

The vainglorious man hastened to brandish his prized ribbon; Nekabov stuck a hand into linen...

Meantime, Medvelov salvaged a piece of firewood from the hin.

'Discern the weighty paper,' Nekabov said, dropping the invitation in front of me. 'Bykal spared no expense for the grand occasion.'

The poet tiptoed forward, raised the log...

Stony-faced, I said: 'Amazing craftmanship.'

Nekabov nodded, opened his hole...

_Thunk_ : the sound of wood belting head.

_Thud_ : Nekabov's body striking floor.

Medvelov tossed the log aside and commanded (over the editor's moans), 'Quick! Help me carry him outside! I don't want to bloody the boards!'

I took the legs; Medvelov the arms; we lugged the withering, groaning man out the door...

'S—— in my mouth,' the poet whispered. He dropped his end, sighed and then said, 'I forgot about the coachman.'

'What coachman?' I asked.

The poet gestured towards my byer where Nekabov's britzka, brown mare and the boy I'd seen days prior -the lad what handed me the newspaper- loitered.

Picture him, the unlucky kid: brushing snow pellets from the pelt of the handsome charger when his eyes peeked our felonious trundling.

Mother always said: _A slack mouth collects flies._

To the Motherism I'll add: _And an edge between the eyes!_

'Mind the slab,' Medvelov said. Then he strode to the woodpile, grabbed an axe from a split wedge and made for the shocked urchin.

But for sundry grunts and the rising and falling of the axe head, what transpired be hidden by the carriage. Medvelov returned bearing the bloody instrument; he kicked Nekabov in the face and remarked: 'Not so mouthy now, eh?'

Thereafter, we each took a leg and dragged the editor (babbling, but lacking facilities to resist) into a woody haven.

Garbling oaths, the poet made quick work of his antagonist. I didn't peep the felling; like before, sound provided an apt medium.

Butchery complete, Medvelov imbedded the blade into a tree trunk and then rasped: 'We'll throw Iliosovy and the imp here. The horse can be loosed; the cart destroyed. _Ugh_...'twill be a long evening, comrade.'

Indeed, the night was long.

Talk reduced to naught.

At last, when the moon ascended above our shoulders, Medvelov called a stop. 'I'm tired and cold,' saith hisself. 'Let's get warm and have a cup.'

And then we went inside; started a fire; took to the bottle.

Discussion...

Corralling Zupricka:

'The revolver on him. Strangulation and braining be harder on a man of his carriage. Surprise is key. Take him quick, see? A tap to the head from behind. I think...you bring him here...distract, like you did with Nekabov...and you were a good actor, by the way...and I shoot him... _bang_ ,' Medvelov said, whacking palms.

Hark! His praise heated me more than the whiskey.

Next, Medvelov sketched the strategy: I would ride into town and entice Zupricka to my cottage. Once he stepped from the coupe, Medvelov be springing from coppice...

Bang.

On another subject, the poet said: 'Christmas is two days away, and the wedding falls less than twenty-four hours later. You're welcome to spend the holiday with me; otherwise, you must arrive early on the eighth. Preparations require comprehensive review.'

Spending Christmas alone sounds depressing, but solitary boozing was more appealing. Thus, I passed on the offer, to which Medvelov said:

'Then the eighth it is. And I expect you'll keep your vow, comrade. If I have to find you...and I will...the results won't be pleasant.'

He could've saved his breath: my fidelity was staid; I had zero intention of leaving one way or another.

The following afternoon, I rolled to V—— in Iliosovy's coupe:

Tho hamstrung by customers, Zupricka saw me lingering and acknowledged with a wave. Unwavering patience kept me rooted, but I champed to get the man alone. At last -around an hour or so before supper- the stall cleared; sneaky-like, I approached the butcher and greeted: 'You're collecting hefty brass, comrade.'

'Yea, the Great Feast fills my pockets, yet the work is backbreaking,' Zupricka reported. He nodded to the rear of the stall and said, 'I thank the stars for my apprentice, Comrade Petr. The boy wields a skilled knife.'

''Tis not the stars but the teacher,' I replied.

'Heh, listen to you! Cloying for the sake of a generous discount, eh?'

'Well...no...' I chuckled. 'Thank other business for my visit.'

Zupricka untied his filthy apron and pitched it onto a slab. 'I saw the article in the paper,' hisself said. 'It appears Comrade Nekabov put his foot down.'

'Not appears, sir.'

The meat cutter frowned and then whispered, 'Is Comrade Medvelov angry?'

'At first, sure, but he's come around. In fact, Medvelov has convinced The Major to cede.'

'Cede?'

'Submit to the mestnaya.'

'Thank the stars,' Zupricka sighed.

'There you go again,' chided I. 'Ascribing fate when man's deft hand works the strings.'

'Whatever the reason, the result is pleasing.'

I agreed and then made a show of contemplation: scratching my chin, I hawed: 'Say...are you indisposed this evening?'

'What does thee have in mind?'

Gesturing at the coupe, I said: 'Iliosovy lounges at my home. Perhaps you'd join us for lamb cutlets and cards?'

'The proposition entices,' Zupricka said through a smile. 'I must change these rags, though. My stench is wicked.'

'No,' I clucked. 'Let's not waste daylight, man. Besides, the dope awaits. No sense letting good meat go cold, yes?'

My argument stimulated the desired response: Zupricka rubbed his tummy and tittered: 'Take me to the manna.'

_He-he_...you can always lead a fish to water, comrade.

We passed the drive jawing about inconsequential subjects...New Year's pledges and whatnot...

Hearing the man expound on another planned sojourn ( _America or Great Britain_ , saith he) triggered a melancholic thought: _How had I arrived here?_

From teacher to vagabond to author to...

To a destroyer!

_Look what you've become!_ my mind howled.

So...eh...yes, I felt compunction...

But what of it?

Guilt made queasy...

Discord sounded!

Two minor thirds...a diminished fifth...

The usual nonsense.

My ankles started to itch;

Sweat collected in both armpits.

Listening to pleasant Zupricka gave me fits!

You see, I had no choice but to crush guilt!

Guilt made me sick!

I expected Medvelov to pounce the moment Zupricka stepped from the coachman's board; therefore, I took painstaking time to unbridle my Kabardian. But the promised discharge of firearm did not occur straightway, and I cursed the delay. Seconds passed...five...ten...fifteen...thirty...

Jovial Zupricka waddled to the door; 'Comrade Iliosovy!' he bellowed. 'I've been told lamb cutlets await my hole!'

Then came a thrashing from yonder bramble: gun in his right hand, a hefty ewer in the other, Medvelov emerged from the wooded cloak. He zagged towards the butcher, raised the weapon...

The first shot -taken from several cubits- missed its mark.

My horse snorted and leapt; blackbirds scattered.

'S—— in my mouth,' Medvelov slurred.

Busy reigning the spooked beast, I didn't see what transpired next.

Oh, but I heard the commotion: Zupricka's tinny squeals, like those from a piglet, filled the air.

'Come here!' Medvelov woofed.

'N-N-Nooooo!' shrieked doomed Zupricka.

A second report...followed by a third...

Squealing faded into wheezing what waned into a silence pricked only by the stressed nickering of the Kabardian.

I twisted me head and side eyed Medvelov standing over the motionless dupe. Melon cocked, the poet prodded the lumpy butcher before slipping and falling on his a——. Drunk, he be; drunk and winded.

'Tarnation, man!' I cried. ' _A tap to the head_ , you said.'

Chucking the jug aside, Medvelov panted: 'Bah...I don't want a lecture, you. Get the kart...and make haste. Our tubby boy needs planting.'

# CHAPTER 20

### Medvelov's Story

I arrived dressed in my best outfit, which isn't saying much...

Not like it mattered, tho.

Medvelov opened the door, surveyed the countryside and waved me inside. Dark and frigid be the home; dim light from the library penetrated 'cross frosty gloom.

'Pardon the dour milieu,' the poet said. 'The servants are released for the Great Feast and Lavina isn't a slavish domestic. She'd rather lie in bed, the lazybones. Anyway, to the library we go. But I must warn: Tread light; Vladimir is jumpy.'

Jumpy proved an understatement: Inside the chamber, The Major (wearing a blank trench coat in lieu of his uniform) stood in front of a mirror, aimed the weapon and pulled the trigger.

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.

Over and over...

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.

Medvelov shouldered me aside and announced: 'Our comrade author has arrived, Vladimir.'

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.

The Major's eyes met mine in the smudgy glass...

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.

'Put the gun down,' scolded Medvelov. 'You're driving me mad.'

'It's not a _gun_ ,' The Major hissed as he wheeled from the mirror. 'This, sir, is Francotte Pinfire...a gift from Voronstov after we faced Napoleon at Caronne. The Pinfire has a five-shot capacity-'

'I'm aware of it's capacity,' Medvelov gritted through a clenched jaw.

'And I intend to use them all!' The Major barked. Hisself then opened the coat and revealed the wooden handle of another weapon tucked into the inner breast pocket. 'The original piece I pointed at Bykal and... _her_ ,' the old soldier boasted. 'My Tula...the faithful weapon I rode with at Borodino. It's a flintlock, sirs. Believe you me, I could reload and prime this beauty in less than five seconds. Alas, age has robbed me of dexterity, but I need only one shot with the piece!'

Whispered Medvelov, 'The coupe...'

# CHAPTER 20a

### A History of a Revolver

Before continuing the story, I'll take a tick to roil an aside...

Comprehend: Neither weapon the old soldier hauled had a say in their actions; meticulous, clever ingenuity ordained their life of violence. Aye, when I'm taken to the stake, I'll pardon the rifles and bullets. They mean no ill will.

What's more, the Tula served as The Major's talisman...

_A faithful weapon_ , the old soldier claimed.

Faithful...

More _faithful_ than the woman he married;

More _faithful_ than the Empire he served.

Ergo, The Major saw fit to dispatch hisself with the _faithful_ weapon.

The _faithful_ weapon would naught fail!

At last, the old soldier would feel the _faithful_ weapon's forever kiss.

At last, his soul, wrapped in gun smoke....

At last, ascending liberation!

He-he.

But...sometimes...I think...

Mayhap it be other way, comrade.

Mayhap we are the revolver's tool.

Mayhap the weapon desires its freedom!

At last, the Tula speaks!

He-he...

Now we climb back into the tale:

Medvelov's whisper; the sizzling fire; my silence...

A brooding atmosphere...

# CHAPTER 20b

"Medvelov's Breathing Was Measured..."

'Don't think I'm not brave enough,' The Major snarled, pointing the Pinfire at me.

I raised hands and retreated several steps.

'Vladimir, nobody is questioning your bravery,' Medvelov soothed.

'Because I am brave,' grumbled The Major. He lowered the gun, sighed and then continued: 'As such, I'd prefer to expire with my ribbons on, but a tuxedo must suffice.'

Medvelov looked at me and said: 'Hear him fret, comrade author? I tell him: _Relax_. But he finds another problem to scratch. How many years has it been, Vladimir?'

The Major waved an indifferent hand.

'Playing dumb, are you?' needled Medvelov.

'Ivan, we need to prepare!' shouted The Major. 'Recollection fritters precious-'

'Vladimir saved my life in 1832,' Medvelov intoned. 'The debt...sixteen years of debt...will be settled tonight when I assist our furious comrade.'

'I often think my thirst for vengeance pales to your cravings,' said The Major.

'Come now,' Medvelov chuckled. 'I never devised a plan for my life after leaving Gimry. Everything happened through happenstance.'

'Doubtful,' The Major snuffled.

Explained Medvelov: 'I was a young boy with a different name when the Russian Army rode into Gimry. My father was one of the village leaders; his name is Shamil. My mother -the third of six wives- played a diminutive role rearing me. Instead, I drank from a collective teat. Well, it's easy to get pushed aside when you're the second youngest of nine siblings, all boys. Left to my devices, I got cozy with the few books available in Gimry; I drew pictures and wrote.

' _Humph_...introspectiveness and creativity weren't characteristics my father valued. Why would he? Iman Shamil, hero of Khunzakh, directed the mujahedeen against the Crusaders. A docile lad received little of his attention; worse, he labelled me _spineless_ and _puny_! How I desired to remedy his opinion! And when the enemy arrived in 1832, I was blessed with such a prospect.'

'Prospect for you; punishment for me,' carped The Major. 'The Caucasian War was a never-ending slog. I had done seven years in the mountains when we reached Gimry. _Seven._ We were told Gimry contained a clan of insurgent chiefs; thus, a decisive victory would smother the rebels' resistance...'

'The elders received warning of incoming Russian troops, and they ordered the construction of three successive walls between the slopes of a canyon and our village,' Medvelov said, using his hands to illustrate. 'A defensive stronghold, yes? Yet Gimry was walled on three sides by high cliffs. Droves of my countrymen marched from the north to aid us, but until reinforcements arrived, the town was on its own. Where could we go if the enemy cracked the barriers?'

The Major cleared his throat and then said, 'High command flogged us to move fast, and General Velyaminov devised a heady plan. He took one side of the outermost wall; as expected, the insurgents concentrated on recapturing their flank. A few squads remained to engage the rabble, but Velyaminov posted the rest of us...almost an entire battalion...in concealment behind the front. Yes, the General lured the enemy into a simple trap. It took almost no time rout the rebels; and when the walls fell... _thump, thump, thump_...we poured into Gimry!'

'Poured in like murderous vermin!' cried Medvelov. 'Children were shot and stabbed. My mother...felled by a bullet to the head! I took refuge in a house with my father, brothers and other men. The Russians surround...set fire to the building...and...events became confusing. Some blasted weapons into the smoke; some decided suicide was better than burning. Father grabbed my arm...I suspect he sought one of my brothers and snagged me in the muddle...and declared: _We'll die as warriors, not dogs_!

'He dragged me up a flight of stairs and onto the roof. When we emerged, soldiers swarmed, tossed me aside and began stabbing my father. Though frightened, I understood this was my chance to prove I wouldn't _die as a dog_. I leapt on one of the cowards, distracted him, and Father seized his weapon. Oh, the man could wield a saber. You should've seen him, comrade author. Testify, Vladimir. Iman Shamil is a force unto himself, yes?'

'Aye, Iman Shamil is the most dangerous man in the Caucasus,' The Major said. 'Even today, the Imperial Army hunts him through nooks and crannies. Ha! I'm convinced the man cannot be captured or killed.'

'Your father is alive?' I asked.

'Alive because of this scamp,' said The Major as he nodded at Medvelov. 'I arrived as Shamil killed the fourth soldier. What a sight, Iman...bleeding from wounds, hair matted in blood. We came face-to-face and locked eyes. I raised my Tula; he spat on my boots! The affrontery! Before I could alter the warrior's hostile state, my little comrade slashed my arm with a blade. The Tula tumbled from my hand and Iman vaulted from the roof. It was like Shamil disappeared into the sooty haze. _Poof_. And what did I have for the trouble? A little comrade...but a _feisty_ little comrade. There is a _big_ difference, sir!'

'Vladimir looked at me with venom,' Medvelov said. 'I thought-'

' _Veneration_ , not venom,' The Major interjected. 'Many of my comrades weren't as bold.'

Said Medvelov: 'The Crusaders gave me a choice: become a conscript or go to a prison camp. At the Major's insistence, I elected conscription. He told me I wouldn't survive long in a gulag. They made me a guide, an adversary in my country. Heh...I was the _worst_ guide ever. Yet...eh...nobody noticed when we wandered in circles. For my _perceived_ efforts, I could eat from the officers' mess. Vladimir kept eyes on me, too. Soon, he began schooling; a kinship developed. When Vladimir's commission expired two years later, he brought me to live with him in Saint Petersburg.'

'You'd never believe what I paid to secure Ivan,' said The Major. 'People judged me crazy for adopting a scruffy boy from the Caucasus. Those fools couldn't comprehend my intentions. Both Ivan and I shared jaded dispositions. His loathing need not be explained. As for me...after what I had done for my nation, banishment to the Caucasus for daring to confront the man plowing my wife...it isn't just!'

'Not to worry, Vladimir,' Medvelov cooed. 'Tonight your mind gets put to rest.'

'Ivan will care for my daughter,' said The Major. Then he dug five bullets from a pocket and arranged them in a single line on the desk. 'I only ask he doesn't take her to those wretched mountains,' hisself groused.

'It's my home!' Medvelov trumpeted.

' _Your home_ ,' scoffed The Major. 'You haven't been to _your home_ in over a decade.'

'Bah, s—— in my mouth, old man!' Medvelov spat. 'My home _will always_ be my home!'

'You _will_ take care of my daughter,' The Major growled. 'She _will not_ end up like Lavina.'

Medvelov licked his lips and then smiled. 'The comrade author and I have costumes to don,' he said. 'Why don't you load the Pinfire while we're gone.'

# CHAPTER 21

### The Fourth Corpse

Medvelov led me to the second floor...down a dark hall...and halted in front of closed double doors. Placing his right hand on the handle, he exhaled and then said: 'I have theater powders and wigs scattered around the bedchamber. We'll look like new when I'm through.'

I assumed he expected me to exercise decorum; but the poet waved me in after opening the room.

At once, a morbid fragrance walloped me snout...

'Twas no mistaking the stench of bereavement!

'Good god,' I hacked.

'Shh...' Medvelov hissed. 'She's sleeping.'

_She_ be Lavina...

Naked be she...

Naked atop a sheet...

Lavina be in the _deepest_ sleep!

As I peeped the corpse, Medvelov disappeared into a rear closet. A moment later, he emerged cradling bushy hairpieces and small tin cans.

'Comrade, she's dead,' I said.

'Seems to be the case,' Medvelov replied without inflection.

'Not _seems_ , man. How long?'

'Eh...mayhap a couple days. I sometimes suffer memory loss whilst drinking...not like I must tell you. No doubt she precipitated her doom through argument but...I've remedied the problem.' He bent over Lavina Checknova's face, planted a kiss on her cheek and then whispered, 'They were right, you know.'

'Who?'

'All of _them_ ,' Medvelov said as he straightened his back. 'Lavina, and her money, is a means to an end. How could she comprehend? Indeed, I polished a precious skill during those years in acting troupes: Never underestimate the power of fakery; an adept liar wills the world to power! Now, let's turn you into a changeling, comrade.'

'Not here,' I begged. 'Not in this smell! Not in this room!'

Medvelov glared at the corpse and said: 'Don't be diffident; your handling of Iliosovy inspired me, comrade author. But if you're uncomfortable, we shall hasten downstairs.'

Hasten we did, bursting into the library as The Major loaded the last bullet into the Pinfire. Medvelov arranged the hairpieces on his desk, scratched his chin, and then selected a wig adorned in short, brown curls.

'For you, comrade author!' Medvelov boomed as he placed the horsehair on my head. ''Tis the piece I sported in Caesar! All hail the mighty Caesar!'

The poet opted for a coiled periwig -a lengthy, gaudy monstrosity- and affixed it to his scalp; The Major swiped the lone remainder -a gray, powdered hairpiece tied with a queue- and slapped it upon his head. The old soldier also discarded his glasses...which proved a hinderance later.

Next, Medvelov layered white make-up to my face with a rough brush. When he finished, residue floated in the air like snow flurries. Last came the rouge (applied to each cheek) and a touch of purple stick to my lips...

I couldn't help but feel my clownish appearance would draw attention. However, Medvelov claimed I'd be thankful for the extravagant craftwork.

'After this evening, the mestnaya will seek this pert rube,' he said, displaying my reflection in a hand mirror. 'And after this evening, you'll not be him anymore.'

# CHAPTER 22

### The Carriage Ride

Playing the role of coachman, The Major cracked the silence of the cold, snowy evening with a riding whip.

Crack.

Meanwhile, Medvelov and I hunkered under a quilt in the creaky cab. Interminable bouncing jarred my bones; uneasiness and excitement stirred a tickling in me tummy. And looping in my head? The poet's plan, which hisself presented in the library after our outfits had been tweaked...

To wit: Medvelov assumed invitations would be vetted before entrance into the mansion was permitted. The odds were good I -as the Major- faced arrest after presenting the invite; but if the mestnaya allowed me to pass, I'd amble about the manse -avoiding the grand room- drawing perceived attention. In the ballroom, The Major -as Nekabov- would bide his time until Bykal and the future son-in-law, Petyor Ivanovich, appeared. Medvelov -hisself, of course- was penciled to read a poem before the nuptials were exchanged. During the oratory, The Major would sneakily approach his foil; and when vows were exchanged, The Major squared the record. During the ensuing mayhem, Medvelov would claim Ivona and locate me; he expected escape be but a formality.

I wasn't a nitwit; I realized the scheme leaned on numerous variables. What can I say? As Medvelov elucidated: _The time for reversing course had long passed_...

Be the origin of the phrase, _In for a penny,_ you see.

Still...as we rode to The Mount, I attempted to reckon several curiosities:

'Ivan, does Ivona Fydorovich know The Major is her father?' I asked.

'She has no idea, nor will she comprehend,' the poet said through the smushed corner of his mouth.

'Is she aware of what is to occur tonight?'

Medvelov pulled back the tacked blind and peeked outside.

'Is Ivona aware?' I pressed.

'Nay,' Medvelov said as he slapped the shade into place.

'Then...then what makes you certain she'll leave with you?'

'I'm not sitting here because of uncertainty,' Medvelov said through a yawn.

The whipped cracked...

Once.

Twice.

From high, The Major bellowed a string of oaths at the poor horses.

It was then I recalled a fragment of the conversation between the old soldier and Medvelov in the library...

' _I often think my thirst for vengeance pales to your cravings,'_ announced the former.

' _I never devised a plan for my life after leaving Gimry. Everything happened through happenstance,_ ' said the latter.

' _Doubtful,'_ The Major responded.

Crack.

Doubtful.

Crack.

'The old man's giving it to the team,' Medvelov said.

Doubtful...

'You believe in happenstance,' I said rather than asked.

'Eh?'

' _Happenstance._ In the library you told The Major: _Everything happened through happenstance_.'

Medvelov sighed and then said, 'Listen: Vladimir has waited decades for this day. He'll perform as promised, and when he does, those _refined_ people won't know how to react. The mestnaya...oh, they extol readiness with strategies gleaned from previous acts of violence. But they cannot see into the future, comrade author. We'll be snug in our beds before anyone with commonsense discerns what has happened. Bykal thinks he's plotted the perfect game of cat-and-mouse, but it is he who shall be caught!'

'And how long have you known Ivona?' I probed.

'I've already explained the history of our-'

A pounding from the ceiling interrupted the poet...

_Thunk. Thunk. Thunk_.

A pounding what be a signal from The Major...

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

We were approaching The Mount!

To confirm the fact, the coupe rattled as the mounts labored up a moderate incline.

Medvelov squeezed my knee and whispered, 'Happenstance.'

_Doubtful,_ my mind replied as the coupe rolled to a stop.

Though muffled, gruff voices mixed with the snorting of horses.

'A vanguard,' Medvelov whispered. 'Bykal has men patrolling the perimeter.'

I inhaled, folded my arms...not scared but...jumpy, I guess. Medvelov, tho, whistled and tapped his chin...

He appeared the embodiment of apathy.

Even after the cab's door was wrenched open and we were confronted by a young mestnaya's stony mug, the poet offered a smile and then hailed: 'Greetings, sir! How can I assist thee?'

The prim shined a lantern in our faces; he squinted, perused the garish makeup and then asked Medvelov: 'What are you supposed to be?'

'I'm the great poet, Ivan Medvelov,' hisself flaunted

'Oh?' the soldier snorted. 'Does the _great poet_ and his... _ahem_...companion hold invitations?'

We dug cards from coat pockets; the goon took a cursory look and then told us to exit so he could inspect the cab. After climbing out, Medvelov and I were surround by a half dozen mestnaya what patted us down and checked pockets.

Stroking the horses on their snouts, the shivering Major watched the inspection and decided he had enough. 'Oh, hurry up, you fools!' he cried. 'It's too cold for an old man to be standing here with you baboons!'

The mestnaya who combed the cab stuck his head out the door and yapped, 'You, driver, don't tell me about cold! I've been outside for the last two hours!'

'S—— in my mouth,' Medvelov carped. 'Shut your hole, Dimitri! Our comrade mestnaya are following orders!'

'Sir, I don't see the need for the inconvenience,' The Major argued.

'Praise be, my domestic,' Medvelov tittered. 'Such a mouth on him! My apologies, dear comrades. He's...you know...an ornery sort. Slavic. Bad blood. Not bright.'

Announced a guard standing to my left: 'The coachman carries two pistols, sir.'

'You cannot expect us to travel across this barren land without protection,' Medvelov said.

'If your Slav wanders near the mansion, he'll get a boot upon his throat,' the prim said as he exited the coupe.

'A well-deserved boot!' the poet declared.

'Go on, then,' the soldier bade. 'Take the road up the hill and follow directions to the bays.'

Medvelov bowed and said, 'We appreciate your vigilance, comrade.'

# CHAPTER 22a

### Outside

The mestnaya pointed incoming carriages to a field south of The Mount. There, in the feisty glow of bonfires, coachmen warmed their hands. We parked near one such conflagration; after covering the coupe and blanketing the horses, the three of us trundled towards to the milky lights of the Gregorski mansion.

Though I had never been to The Mount, second-hand accounts spoke of the palace's magnificence.

Let me declare, hearsay wasn't an apt conveyer of His Excellency's opulent residence!

Marble exterior; thick, grooved pillars; orthodox busts; bulbous rotunda; a grand entry united at the egress by baroque steps; precious stone parapets; verandahs; verges...

The manor: an endorsement of hegemony; a testament to frivolity...

'The den of the snake,' hissed The Major.

The robust constitutional (at least a half sazhen) delivered us through a snow-covered hedge maze; thereafter, we joined a thickening line of guests on winding, icy cobblestone.

Rubbing arms, Medvelov said, 'We might be waiting a spell, comrades.'

'I've waited thirty years,' The Major said as he patted his coat. 'A spell means nothing but a chance to enjoy what's coming.'

# CHAPTER 22b

### Grand Entry

Smushed amongst blissful guests, we advanced forward with petite steps. At the top of the stairs, bearish mestnaya holding long guns surveyed the thick crowd. I spied more soldiers on the balconies above -many with field glasses jammed to their eyes- and assumed there naught be a tract impervious to scrutiny.

Medvelov kicked my shin and whispered, 'Look...'

I followed his gaze to the grand entryway. As he predicted, a sentinel collected invitations and hollered names to another soldier who checked them in a weighty book. Upon verification, guests were subjected to another pat down before admission.

'S—— in my mouth,' Medvelov whispered. 'Vladimir won't pass with firearms.'

'What do you suggest?' I asked.

The poet furrowed his brow.

The Major coughed and then said, 'Ivan and I go first. As for you, comrade author...you must create a deplorable ruckus. No hands can grope my garments.'

'Yes, raise h——,' Medvelov seconded. 'Make the mestnaya work for their ribbon.'

'Doing what?' asked I.

'Fall down...fall into a soldier...fall into _something_ ,' Medvelov said.

'If all fails, I'm shooting my way in,' The Major announced.

'Relax, old man,' Medvelov said. 'Over the last few days, our comrade author has honed the art of distraction.'

The Major didn't appear mollified: he patted his chest every couple seconds until I was confident he'd let unload his diminutive arsenal into anyone wearing a gray uniform. The sluggish movement of the partygoers didn't help...

I side-eyed Medvelov; he side-eyed The Major; The Major stared dagger at the grand entry.

_So much for certainty,_ I thought.

An impatient fellow in front of us fussed to the woman beside him, 'Believe you me, I'm giving those idiots working security a thorough tongue lashing.'

Quick like, Medvelov grabbed The Major's arm and barked, 'Indeed, sir! Indeed! Curses to this outrage!' Pushing through jumbled limps and salty comments, the poet continued: 'Step aside, people! I'm Ivan Medvelov and this is the editor Nekabov! We have pressing business inside! Step aside! Step aside! We mustn't be made to wait! Step aside!'

Somehow, the hectic charge worked. With me several steps in pursuit, we wormed our way to the head as people parted.

Of course, at the front, a staid guard blocked Medvelov's path. Placing a hand on the poet's chest, he rumbled: 'Halt, you! Explain the meaning of your belligerent behavior!'

Medvelov slapped the hand away and exclaimed: 'Listen, you, I am Ivan Ivonovich Medvelov! I've been summoned by His Excellency to read before the ceremony! I must get inside and prepare. And this, sir, is the great editor Nekabov,' he said as he wound an arm around The Major's shoulder. 'My comrade is also frustrated by the injudicious delay. Comrade Nekabov, tell this puppet what you told me.'

The Major snapped: 'You can be _certain_ the _incomprehensible_ dearth of organization _will_ be reported in my paper _tomorrow_!'

'I don't care who you are, and I don't care about your stories!' the guard barked. 'The paper doesn't make me accountable to my superior. Now, get back and wait your turn or I'll rip this...this thing off your head and stuff it in your mouth!'

But Medvelov didn't budge; instead, hisself resorted to pleading: 'Eh, comrade...sir...I can tell you're a reasonable man. We're here and... _ahem_...Comrade Nekabov, hand me your invitation. This reasonable man is going to let us in.'

The Major opened his trench coat -during which I saw the handle of the Tula- and dug inside the pockets.

At last, the old soldier produced the thick paper and handed it to Medvelov. The poet slapped the two behests into the sullen bouncer's palm and said: 'May we proceed, sir?'

Hisself grunted and squinted at the print; wooden like, he recited: 'Medvelov and...and Nekabov.'

Thereafter, the fellow holding the list made two marks and said: 'Let them in.'

'Move, you and you,' the mestnaya growled.

I watched Medvelov nudge ahead of The Major and assent to inspection: the poet's coat was removed and examined while busy hands probed his body...

The guard jabbed me in the chest and demanded: 'Request.'

Beaming with contrived overconfidence, I slapped said object into his paw.

'Tschoschy,' the guard read.

Expecting a throng of armed sycophants to tackle me, I tensed and balled fists.

But nothing happened; like before, the scribe made a mark and authorized my admittance.

Meantime, the mestnaya finished frisking Medvelov...

And beckoned The Major.

Hastening forward, I reached into my pocket, jerked out a white kerchief...

Waving the rag, I yelled: 'Sir! Sir!'

Medvelov spotted my rapid approach; he smiled, slid around the group...

And stuck out his leg.

I went airborne and struck The Major in the back; hisself yelped, spun 'round, and skidded into the foyer by the seat of his pants. I also clipped a guard and sent him crashing into a stanchion.

My left arm broke the fall onto the marble portico; pain radiated from the elbow in both directions. But the ruse worked: Catapulted into the mansion, The Major avoided a pat down. Instead, the hands of partygoers assisted him to his feet. Wig askew, the old soldier limped into the interior...

The guard I had hit...well, he wasn't tickled by my slipshod behavior. Spewing oaths, he yanked me upright by my bad arm.

'Idiot!' he screamed, shaking me like a doll. 'What the h—— are you doing?'

I agitated the handkerchief in the guard's face and said, 'He dropped this on the ground and-'

'Who dropped?' interrupted he.

'Uh...the comrade...um...he, um, I don't see him anymore...' stammered meself whilst glancing at the guests in the foyer.

'Just...just shut up and remove your coat,' spat the guard.

Thereafter, I endured a rough, thorough search. It seemed the annoyed mestnaya took pleasure in twisting me this way and the other, not like I blamed him.

At last, the comrade soldier jerked a thumb over his shoulder and ordered me into the mansion. I wondered -again- if His Excellency's forces would scoop me up; however, the only accosting I received be a behest from a pert female domestic.

'May I hang your coat?' she asked.

I saw Medvelov down the hall; leaning against a wall; beckoning with a subtle twerk of his pointer finger.

'May I hang your coat?' repeated the servant.

Because tension had already permeated my armpits with sweat, I decided to lose the heavy cloak.

Heh...go figure...

A coat spelled my doom.

Or maybe it's the stub what did me in...

The numbered paper square served to me by the domestic.

'Present the coupon when you want to collect your garment,' said herself.

I took the slip, shoved it into a blouse pocket and then limped to the poet.

# CHAPTER 22c

### Inside

'Wonderful improvisation!' Medvelov cheered.

'My left arm begs to differ,' I said.

The poet adjusted my wig and then tweaked my nose. 'Good as new, Caesar,' he said through a smile.

I flexed my left hand and gritted teeth.

'Are you hurt?' asked Medvelov.

'I'm not unhurt,' I griped.

'Yea, I apologize for the trip, but it seemed the pertinent thing to do.'

'I saw The Major slide in. Where did he go?'

'Vladimir is...you know...' hawed Medvelov, adding a shrug to sweeten his statement.

'He wasn't caught, right?'

'No, he's around but, eh, don't worry about him. We have responsibilities, comrade author. Remember what I told you to do? Wander. Meander. Stroll. If Bykal's goons grab you, remain compliant and answer their questions. Easy, eh?'

In theory...sure. But I was beginning to question my sanity. The room wavered for a tick...reality got slick...

Medvelov snapped his fingers and culled me from transcendental analysis. ' _Easy_...' the poet soothed. ' _Easy_ , man. _Easy_...'

'Easy,' I whispered.

'Aye, _easy_. You'll see. Now, I must prepare for my oratory. We shall talk later.'

And off he went, my chipper comrade, strutting and self-assured. If Medvelov had been walking atop a thread of ice, bound over a gorge descending to the lair of the devil, he wouldn't have faltered.

Me? I shored with a deep breath, rolled my shoulder, and then entered the mansion's centerpiece:

Behold! The ballroom.

# CHAPTER 22d

### The Ballroom

Heed...

As the ostentatious chamber be the setting of forthcoming bloodshed, I must spend a breath describing the milieu:

Three radiant crystal chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling.

Encamped in the west corner of the room, a twenty-piece orchestra performed the fourth movement Beethoven's Ninth.

A curving staircase ascended in the north corner.

Couples waltzed and whispered.

Carrying platters and beakers of wine, domestics tiptoed around swaying impediments.

Oh, how I desired to seize a decanter...

But Medvelov told me to roam.

So I endeavored into the south wing... and crossed into the dining room.

# CHAPTER 22e

### The Dining Room

Ah, what a fancy trough!

Surrounded by pillowed chairs, illuminated by three pronged candelabrums, the mahogany banquet table piled with china and silverware. Of course, no splendid meal can be complete without the polished demitasse. But I declare: if fish repast from the hazy bottom of the sea with sand in its teeth, then the fish is true to its nature! Thus, I could eat from the sawdust floorboards of a grog house and be happy. What does this divulge of my disposition? How the rich gorge themselves with chalices!

Yes, _gorge_!

For the dining room is the spot where the former governor meet his demise.

The poor man...felled by a piece of veal!

And the conjecture what followed...

Comrade, death is a deity's chore. What other reason explains the perverse nature of bereavement? Great men are cut down by veal and sabers, while lesser men age into the grave, satisfied with the feeble life left in their wake!

Bah!

Not I!

Let me testify!

# CHAPTER 22f

### The Ballroom (Part II)

I left the dining room and wandered...meandered...strolled...the south wing. Nobody appeared interested in detaining me...which was fine. And when I heard a commotion from the ballroom, I wondered if the old soldier had attacked. If so, all the better; Medvelov and I could make an easy escape.

Easy.

Ah fate, the wicked fiend, doesn't believe in _easy_ , _he-he_! Hark! From a divine perch, fate taps her wand and schemes. Oh, cacodemon, see where your meddling has landed me!

Double-timing to the grand chamber, I found the source of excitement:

Flanked by paladins and aided by a walking stick, His Excellency descend the stairs.

Each tottering step warranted more cheering from the assembled fools.

Deafening, addling applause!

The smothering crowd!

People clambered forward...

Shouting...

I got swept in a mass of pointy elbows and spittle...

Swept like a seashell to shore...

Swept towards Fyodor Bykal!

We intersected at the confluence of the stairs and ground floor: Chest to chest with _the snake_ , I summoned a phony smile; Bykal adjusted his spectacles; frowned; studied me head to toe and back again...

Did he know who I claim be?

If so...

But no!

No, His Excellency did naught perceive!

Behind, the horde butted and bawled.

Without room to about face, I extended my right arm and stood tall. Bykal responded by grasping my hand and pumping it thrice.

'Congratulations to you and your daughter,' coped I.

Bykal nodded, released his grip, and continued into the throng; the chattel around me followed His Excellency until I stood alone.

Goodness, the pounding of my heart!

But I had little time to catch breath:

Quick like, a grimacing fellow bumped into me right side and coiled a muscular arm around my neck; then a second comrade sidled next to my other flank.

From the thug on my right, in a malevolent hiss: 'Move.'

He didn't have to tell me twice.

But tho I worked legs, hisself demanded I move _faster_.

We plowed across the ballroom, down a hall and into an antechamber. Thereafter, I was released and shoved into a chair...

# CHAPTER 22g

### Antechamber

I stared at three large men dressed in formal wear. The two who wrestled me into the chair retreated into shadow as a third fellow strode forward.

Lo, he was an ugly man: lumpy head, eyes too close to each other; crooked snout; a jagged scar what ran from right temple to jaw. He looked like he'd been constructed from the fragments of several faces!

He studied me with crossed-eyes and then gripped the armrests. An eyelash hair separated our noses; he snorted, exhaled garlic...

'Do you know who I am?' hisself asked.

Goodness, I felt like a chicken trapped in a coop with foxes!

When I didn't answer in kind, my newest comrade whispered: 'I'm the police commissioner, s——head.'

Ah, 'twas the groom, loathsome Petyor Vyskilovich!

'If it were up to me, you'd be rotting in a cold, dark hole,' continued Vyskilovich. 'I'm not one who takes threats, no matter how weak they _seem_ , with apathy. But His Excellency...he pities you or something. Hear me now, tho: There'll come a day when my word carries weight, s——head. And when it does, you best be far from here.'

Outside the antechamber, the muffled sound of laughter and applause. Vyskilovich turned his head and called over his shoulder: 'Fetch His Excellency, Gregor.' Then the lout returned attention to meself and said: 'You accosted him at the staircase.'

'Accosted?' I laughed. 'No, sir. The crowd pushed me into his path.'

'You knew the rules,' Vyskilovich said. 'You knew the rules and you broke them...as _I knew_ you would.'

Puzzled, I be. What say he? _Rules?_

The door opened, permitting a snippet of Medvelov's invocation...

' _a love worth more than coins, thy heart resumed,_

a ringing in thy loins, a union now consumed'

...and then closed. Though Vyskilovich's bulk blocked my line of sight, I heard the tapping of a walking stick and concluded Bykal had entered the fray.

My notion be confirmed seconds later:

'You have him?' the governor asked.

'Yes, the rogue is here,' Vyskilovich answered as he straightened his spine. 'The nerve of him, confronting you on the stairs!'

'On the stairs?' Bykal asked.

'I told you he'd try something daft,' Vyskilovich bemoaned. 'The s——head can't help but-'

' _Where_ on the stairs?' interrupted Bykal.

'You shook his hand!' Vyskilovich exclaimed.

The walking stick tapped twice and then Bykal demanded: 'Petyor, step aside.'

# CHAPTER 23

### Bykal's Questions

Bykal's eyes widened behind the glasses. 'You...' he whispered. 'Who are you?'

Before I could answer, Vyskilovich crowed: 'It's him!'

Using the walking stick, the governor swatted the wig from my head. 'This isn't Vladimir Tschoschy,' he snapped.

Vyskilovich blinked and scratched his scalp.

'What's your name?' Bykal asked me.

'Iliosovy,' I told him without pause.

'I don't know an Iliosovy,' Bykal said.

'He entered using Tschoschy's invite,' Vyskilovich explained.

'Well, it's _not_ him!' cried Bykal. 'Good god, man, he doesn't even look like Tschoschy!'

'Then he darned a clever forgery!' Vyskilovich thundered. 'I should throw this rouge in the goal!'

'He didn't...' Bykal sighed. 'Look, he must be Tschoschy's comrade. Ergo, Tschoschy gave Comrade Iliosovy his invitation.'

I chimed: 'Yes, The Major...er...Vladimir...is at home.'

Demanded Vyskilovich: 'Why?'

'He believes you'll arrest him,' I said.

'So you came instead?' Vyskilovich scoffed.

'I _thought_ he was being paranoid,' I retorted. 'And I've always wanted to grace a ceremony like this. Imagine humble I amongst pomp and celebrity! _Humph._ Had I known I'd suffer abuse, I'd have stayed away!'

The governor chuckled and then said, 'The ceremony will begin soon, Petyor Vyskilovich. Take a few minutes to compose yourself.'

Vyskilovich glared at me and said, 'Something isn't right, your excellency.'

In response, the governor grunted and tapped his walking stick; thereafter, the room emptied of everyone but His Excellency and me.

'So, what has Comrade Tschoschy said about me?' Bykal asked.

'He...um...he doesn't like you,' I said with tact.

'Did he tell you I stole his woman?'

I nodded.

'Did he tell you he pointed a gun at me?'

Again, I nodded.

Bykal cleared his throat and then said, 'The truth is -and I doubt Vladimir would admit this because he is a _stubborn_ man- I gave Katerina, my wife, a life she'd never have with him. I mean...you know his disposition. Katerina was young when she married...too young. Soon, she comprehend the mistake...but it took years to cultivate the nerve to leave him. Listen, I'm sorry the episode caused Vladimir great pain. At some point, though...lo, it's been decades, Comrade Iliosovy! _We_ moved on with our lives. _We_ raised a family. _We_ succeeded in our activities. What does he do but chew on the past?'

'You don't, eh?' I snorted. 'This elaborate scheme to arrest Vladimir isn't a figment of imagination! Heed: He also spoke of mestnaya watching his home! Could it be...yes, the old soldier is truthful!'

'If I wanted to arrest Comrade Tschoschy, he'd be arrested. Do you know, he sent me threatening letters! Drivel, for the most part...membership in a network of assassins and whatnot. Well, it's obvious the man is a harmless wretch. Petyor Vyskilovich called it unwise, but I went to Vladimir's house and delivered his invitation _without_ armed guards. Why would I waste time hunting him?'

I crossed arms and said, 'Because you wanted to humiliate him in front of everyone here.'

'I have reasons, but it's not what you, or Vladimir, allege.'

'Indeed, you're twisting the knife!' declared I.

His Excellency's raised eyebrows.

'Vladimir told me Ivona is his daughter,' I disclosed.

Bykal listened to the festivities in the ballroom for a moment and then said, 'I know what he believes. Fine, I can't change his mind. Instead, I tried to pacify the old fool by inviting him to attend his _so-called_ daughter's wedding. Heh...mayhap I'm the fool. There are those who will never let sleeping dogs lie.'

Could I believe Bykal? Could I believe His Excellency sought to soothe his old enemy, not betray him? Oh, my mind sought to untangle fact from fiction.

'I only asked Vladimir to uphold decorum,' Bykal said. 'I didn't want Ivona's wedding to become a contentious display. When you approached me, Petyor thought...well, here are we are. I apologize for all you have endured. Let me add: You're a young man; carrying the burden of antipathy is a terrible weight. Best to shed it now, comrade. When you reach my age, God willing, you'll understand.'

It appeared there was much I didn't understand...

With a strong grip, Bykal took my hand and helped me from the chair. 'After the wedding, I want you to dine at my table,' he said, patting my arm. 'Why deprive you of the pomp and celebrity, eh?'

_After the wedding_...

The door behind us opened and in stepped a plump woman bearing a handsome smile across her round, pleasant face.

'Fyodor, we're waiting on you,' herself fussed.

'My wife, Katerina,' informed hisself with a wink.

'You mustn't keep your daughter waiting,' Katerina nagged while waggling a finger.

And then another voice seconded: 'Yea, put a hustle in your bustle, Excellency! You know how women can be!'

'Twas the voice of Ivan Medvelov!

Said Bykal: 'Always with pregnant verse, Comrade Medvelov. By the way, I'm sorry I missed your reading. I had...eh...business to attend.'

The poet bowed and replied, 'Please, the honor is mine. I take no offense to thine absence.'

Bykal tapped his walking stick thrice and then took his wife's hand; they promenaded out of the antechamber like two smitten lovers...

Whereupon, Medvelov shut and locked the door...

# CHAPTER 24

"You Look A Fright..."

'You look a fright,' Medvelov announced. 'Did the beast work you over?'

'Bykal?'

'No, Petyor Vyskilovich.'

I shook my head and said, 'The Major hasn't been forthright.'

'Hm?'

'The governor doesn't wish to arrest our comrade.'

Medvelov rolled his eyes and scoffed.

'Ivan, he told me-'

'Bykal is a politician, and politicians are adept liars,' Medvelov interrupted.

'Am I in cuffs?' I cried. 'No! Not even after I had been revealed as an imposter!'

'The b—— is playing you.'

'He invited me to his table after the vows!'

The poet seized my wrists; fury danced in his eyes; his lips curled; spittle frothed between gaps in his teeth...

Lo, he looked possessed!

I attempted to free myself, but Medvelov dug fingernails into my skin. 'We've come too far to reverse course,' hisself frothed. 'Lest you forget, four bodies are planted on your demesne!'

Lest I forget...

Aye, I was ensnared no matter what I did!

'You comprehend?' Medvelov pressed.

Avoiding his mad eyes, I nodded and sighed.

Medvelov dropped my arms and said, 'Not another word, comrade author. Vladimir is ready to pop the cork. Let's see how the old fool performs.'

# CHAPTER 25

### The Wedding Ceremony

We arrived in the ballroom as the lithe, beaming bride descended the staircase to an ovation rivaling the one her father had received.

Ivona Fyodorovicha presented quite the sight: cloaked in a white French dress (not the traditional red or black costume of an archaic Rus wedding) lined with crinoline, embellished in pearls, and trimmed in lace; a crown of flowers wove into her flaxen hair; jade gemstone earrings dangled from each lobe...

'My beauty,' Medvelov cooed.

When Ivona reached the floor, she flung herself into the arms of her suitor and planted a kiss on hisself's cheek. The poet bit his lower lip and narrowed eyes; a dribble of sweat slithered down his left cheek.

I judged her face through critical eyes: tiny mouth; aquiline nose; diminutive blue peepers...

She looked nothing like The Major.

'He can't believe she's his spawn,' I said.

'Who can't believe?'

'The Major. Ivona has zero resemblance to hisself.'

Medvelov waved a dismissive hand.

'Look at her,' I nagged.

The poet elbowed my ribs and said, 'Shush, you. We must keep alert. Things will happen fast.'

Determined to _keep alert_ , I rotated my head and saw: the orchestra; chattering people; mute domestics; and at the bottom of the stairs: His Excellency and wife; Ivona; Vyskilovich; the wedding party; the representative from the Church...

But I did not observe The Major...

His Excellency waved both hands and attempted to silence the raucous noise. It was then -during the dying applause- my anxious eyes reconnoitered the old soldier loitering at the fringes of the mob. Heavens, he was a specimen of disarray! Wig askew, The Major half-bent to his right as if in pain. Perspiration defiled the white make-up; his face appeared clotted and crumbling, like melted frosting.

I nudged Medvelov and jerked my head.

'S—— in my mouth, he's a sight,' the poet said out of the corner of his mouth.

Bykal kept his right arm raised until the noise faded to naught. Satisfied, he dropped the appendage and nodded in the direction of the suffering Major. From the foyer came the clacking of hooves. A moment later, an amazing display: guided by a young soldier brandishing a whip, a giant red-brown Don strolled into the grand room.

Guests murmured and gasped.

'What is this?' Medvelov squawked.

The Major could've stroked the horse as it passed; instead he gave it the hairy eyeball.

The soldier brought the Don to attention; he handed the whip to Bykal...

My eyes darted to The Major; he sneered...reached inside his coat...

'Come here, Petyor Vyskilovich,' Bykal ordered.

'The Major's grabbing for the Pinfire,' I whispered to Medvelov.

'Petyor,' Bykal said as he extended the handle of the whip. ' _Ahem_...if Ivona is half as feisty as Katherine, you'll require a weapon to defend thee.' Laughter and clapping followed the statement.

With a smile plastered across his revolting face, Petyor took the whip...

The Major removed the weapon; thumbed the hammer; stumbled forward...

Continued Bykal: 'As for the horse...well, _many times_ I've heard the expression about leaving on the horse I rode in on. At last, I've taken the advice to heart!'

More laughter from the audience...

Grimacing as he lumbered, The Major raised the weapon...

Owing to the distraction in the middle of the room, the old soldier went unnoticed by all but two...

Medvelov seized my arm and blubbered, 'He's about to act.'

'Now, we have important business to attend,' Bykal concluded. 'Frivolity can wait until after the ceremony!'

A hearty cheer rang from the throng.

The Major froze, took aim, and then fired.

# CHAPTER 26

### The Major and Bykal

Medvelov demonstrated no visible sign of fear. I imagined him as a young boy with a different name, on the roof of the fiery building in Gimry, fighting attackers alongside his father. He threw me to the ground when the shooting began, and then used his body as a barrier. Though pinned to the tile, I was able to peep the happenings. Strange...I've heard people say sudden violence evokes a catatonic state. Me? I never felt more alive! All the senses were charged like I be burning the poppy, yet a thousand times more! In this intense state, I absorbed the proceedings and committed it to memory:

Vyskilovich took the first pellet from about three fathoms away; the brute moaned, clutched his abdomen and dropped to both knees...

The Don, frightened by the gunshot, kicked its back legs and slipped on the smooth marble floor. Wide-eyed, whining and snorting, the beast foundered on its flank...

Blinking eyes, The Major slewed forward and cocked the Pinfire...

The first shot subdued the mirth, but only for a tick. Perhaps some thought the commotion was another planned surprise. The second shot, however, ended those carefree assumptions.

The next victim was the pitiable soldier who chaperoned the Don. The Major put one between his eyes and blundered on.

Picture the grim scene amidst the tart smell of gunpowder wafting through the humid air: the struggling horse; whimpers from the suffering Petyor; screaming multitudes determined to avoid obliteration...

But Bykal...Bykal stood rooted in place. He didn't betray agitation; rather, he stood fearless in the face of peril!

At last, the horse gained its feet, galloped into the wedding party and bowled over the groomsmen and priest. Thereafter, the frantic Don bolted into the orchestra. The tortured sounds of stringed instruments being stomped added a musical garnish to the chaotic atmosphere. 'Round the hall the horse travelled, as aggressive in its flight as the guests, except more exigent and lethal!

Shouting mestnaya rushed into the ballroom from every direction. The undisciplined soldiers discharged their weapons with wanton disregard; the barrage of projectiles produced a steady rain. A gentleman was pared in front of me; a woman took a ball to the shoulder; bullets hit the tile and showered pieces of agate.

And still the dogged old soldier pressed on...

He aimed at the governor; discharged a third shot...

The pellet missed its mark!

'Vladimir, put down your gun,' Bykal said in a firm voice.

The Major answered with a fourth round, which also whizzed wide.

'Vladimir, you will be killed if you don't put down the gun,' said the staid governor.

Annoyed by his poor marksmanship, the old soldier swung the Pinfire from His Excellency to Katherine and back to the former.

'I'm not the shot I used to be,' The Major griped. 'Alas, only one of you snakes will feel my might.'

And so it be Bykal who felt the pellet's bite...

Bang.

Cut down, his vest smoldering with a small flame, His Excellency's mystified eyes fastened on mine. He wheezed...opened and closed his mouth...

' _Ack_ , my dear!' Mistress Katherine screamed. I assumed she mourned her husband, but then I glimpsed the round woman bent over splayed Ivona Fyodorovicha...

'No,' Medvelov moaned.

Suddenly, the agitated horse leapt over Medvelov and I!

A volley of gunfire struck the Don as he landed...

Oh, the shrieks of the wounded animal!

'No,' repeated Medvelov in the same wretched tone.

The Major discarded the Pinfire and, as the beast hassled past, snagged its reins. Using the Don as cover, the old soldier removed the Tula and jammed the barrel against hisself's temple. Chewed to bits by peppering fire, the horse collapsed in a howling heap...

Whereupon, The Major committed suicide.

The deafening reverberation of gunshots persisted for another minute, if not two. When the shooting ceased, Medvelov rolled off me and gained his feet. Lo, I beheld a measure of destruction akin to a battlefield! The dead and maimed, trampled by high society and beast; the shattered bodies of the wedding party and priest! A chalky cloud hung in the air...

Oblivious to all, the scalped Major cuddled with the dying Don.

Stepping over bodies and around puddles of gore, Medvelov hurried to Ivona, who appeared moribund on the floor.

I thought she had fainted, but when I approached it became obvious Ivona was no more: one of The Major's errant shots struck the unfortunate girl in the neck!

Wide-eyed, Medvelov stood over his doomed lover; from out of his slack mouth came a curdling sound...

Meantime, the chamber filled with more soldiers what pushed through the surge of the fleeing...

'There's nothing you can do for her,' I said.

'Ivona!' wailed he.

'Ivan, the mestnaya will seal the room,' I said, yanking his arm. 'We must leave _now_ , man!'

The poet composed hisself and blinked eyes. 'Yes...yes, the mestnaya,' he said without nuance. 'Yes, we must go.'

We joined the agitated, elbowed our way forward, and squeezed out the front door. There, a cluster of soldiers stood with long guns.

'Halt!' an officer bellowed at the horde. 'Nobody is going anywhere!'

'There's a crazy man shooting up the ballroom!' Medvelov shouted. 'Get in there and do your job!'

'I've been ordered to hold all traffic,' the officer responded.

'Look around you,' Medvelov said. 'You aren't holding any of us, man!'

Other voices rose in agreement until -one at a time- the soldiers lowered their weapons.

Then it was a free-for-all down the stairs...into the snowy field...away from the madness.

# CHAPTER 27

### Parting Words

Ignoring coachmen who beckoned for information, Medvelov and I sprinted through the lot of parked carriages. Finding our ride took longer than expected; in the interim, I realized I had abandoned my fleece in the coatroom.

By the time we located Iliosovy's coupe, I presented as a chattering, trembling mess. Medvelov suggested I ride in the cab; when I deferred (sitting alone with my thoughts didn't appeal), the poet bristled: 'I need seclusion, comrade author.'

Tho the going was sluggish (a caravan of departing vehicles crowded the road), our exodus from The Mount passed without incident. Thereafter, we trundled east, into thickening snow; the combination of the bouncing coupe, dwindling energy and cold lulled me into a semi-conscious state.

And in this place, I relived the chaotic evening...

Over and over!

Heed: I couldn't shake recollection...

Souls, through no fault of their own...

Sponged into haunting shadows!

Tormenting...paralyzing...

Screeching ghosts!

Ack!

Guilt...aye, once again, _guilt_ cozied next to me on the pillowed bench; guilt hunkered under the horse blankets...

Whispering guilt...

Invocations spun the unpleasantness of consequence!

A triad of voices in my temple:

Iliosovy: _What have you done, my handsome lad?_

Nekabov: _I warned you about radicals, comrade!_

Zupricka: _'Tis fate what took your hand._

' _Tis fate..._

' _Tis fate_ became a mantra I recited throughout the slog.

' _Tis fate_ explained _all_.

Aye, I wouldn't let guilt flog!

Guilt serves no purpose!

Or so the craven voice inside me cawed...

At last, the carriage lurched to a stop in front of Medvelov's darkened manor...

Betwixt wispy clouds poured the nickeling night sun.

The poet dismounted, opened the door...

Shoulders slumped, the hisself hacked: 'Handsome warmth summons.'

Huddled in the library, cooking in front of a fire, we drank more than a fair share, most of it in silence.

But after hours of staring into the flames, our collective hush gave way to slurry, pensive conversation.

Swirling his drink, Medvelov announced: 'I'm leaving, comrade author. You'd be wise to do the same.'

Funny...

In the whirlwind of execution, I hadn't considered the future...

_Where will you go,_ my brain pressed _._

As if reading my mind, Medvelov said, 'Wherever it is, don't get comfortable. From here on out you're a changeling.'

A changeling.

The words sunk into my skull...

Continued Medvelov: 'Of course, money can become a thorny issue. I recommend finding a benefactor...like you did with Iliosovy.'

'He wasn't my benefactor,' I muttered.

'Don't get defensive, man. We sometimes do unpleasant...things...to maintain a comfortable life. But when the time arrives, you-'

'I must become a changeling,' I finished.

Medvelov nodded and then said, 'Before my father jumped from the roof, he told me two things: one, take the fight to the Crusaders; two, he'd be waiting for me. Well, you can understand where I'm headed...and what've I done to put myself in this spot. Believe you me, it wasn't easy. Vladimir and I spent a decade devising schemes. The goal nurtured succor...honed angst...gave he and I commonality. Me, rubbish from the Caucasus; he, the fanatical warrior, abandon by both spouse and country. At last, everything came together. Now it's over and... _hmm_...I don't know how to feel. Other than Ivona's demise, we achieved the intended results: Vladimir sowed his grudge and I infected a diminutive germ into the heart. And with regards to Ivona...perhaps it's for the best. She wouldn't have lasted long in the mountains...so... _ahem_...so, anyway, I can't tell you what to do. If you stay, keep low. But at some point, the mestnaya will knock. It is an inevitability given your relationship to those missing.'

Sudden like, I had a vision of the hoary opium den: backlight by a sunrise, the wizened smoker in the chair, and me...

Climbing the stairs...

_You can go there_ , my mind schemed.

_You can float away again_...

And live on daydreams!

Aye, this be the fantasy I stoked whilst growing tighter.

_He-he_...asylum in an opium den.

Whatever...

It made perfect sense considering the situation, comrade.

Therefore, when morning arrived, I left the fetid manse...

Climbed upon my Kabardian...

# CHAPTER 28

### Enter Alexi Poshkinov

Urgent pounding:

Bang. Bang. Bang...

Behold me: Stupefied; sore; face down on the floor. I rolled over...coughed...

Bang. Bang. Bang...

Lightheaded, tummy growling, I used the divan to pull myself upright.

Bang. Bang. Bang...

I tottered to the window and rubbed frost from the glass:

Soldiers...many soldiers...advanced in a skirmish line from my cottage towards the woods. A second van, packed with reinforcements, hassled through the snow.

Bang. Bang. Bang...

Several weeks had passed since the _Massacre at The Mount._ At first, I followed Medvelov's advice and remained ensconced in private. But a dearth of alcohol and a need for information compelled me from isolation. Sneaky like, I ventured to V——...

Bang. Bang. Bang...

...perused publications and listened to gossip, which was amusing and abundant.

The newspapers reported scant information: the "assassin" wasn't identified by name; investigators from St. Petersburg were sniffing for accomplices; Bykal's assassination had been the work of radicals; the mestnaya broke doors, arrested men and women...

Yet nobody came for me.

Bang. Bang. Bang...

Nekabov's disappearance had been noted, and the police deemed his absence "suspicious".

There was also the matter of the missing Iliosovy. When would the mestnaya come sniffing for him?

And unbeknown to me, Zupricka's apprentice contacted the authorities after the butcher missed a week of work.

I should've left...

_Bang. Bang. Bang_...

But my appetite for dislocation waylaid.

Aye, dislocation proved a better alternative than facing reality.

Bang. Bang. Bang...

Mayhap I be too cocky; mayhap I believed I could talk my way out of trouble...

Mayhap I desired to be caught.

A stern voice announced: 'Police! Open and submit to inspection!'

'Coming,' I hacked.

Bang. Bang. Bang...

Repeated he: 'Police! Open and submit to inspection!'

Before the next head rattling _bang_ , I swung open the door. A giant towered over me...a giant with a pumpkin shaped head and a torso as dense an old fir. I retreated a step as the beast stooped to gaze into the cottage. Then he turned attention to me and barked: 'Police!'

Though the monster wore the uniform of a captain in the civil service, I suspected he wasn't as fashioned. Those hands of his -two times the size of mine- were made to twist necks, not cuff miscreants.

My mind warned: _'Tis an oprichniki at the door!_

'Move, Victor,' a soft voice intoned. The "captain" grunted and gave way to a reedy, red-cheeked fella.

'I'm Alexi Poshkinov,' hisself greeted. ' _Glavnyy sledovatel'_. A minute of your time, if you don't mind.'

'Chief inspector,' I said without reverence.

He chuckled and then said, 'I'm a humble man and dislike throwing titles into the air. But yes, I'm the big dog from the Bolshoy Dom...the Big House from the city of Peter and Paul. Care to guess why I've tramped so far from home?'

I swallowed a boulder and shook my head.

'No?' Poshkinov needled.

Again, I shook my head.

'Well, comrade, I'm investigating the assassination of His Excellency Fyodor Bykal,' Poshkinov explained. 'Like I said, I need but a minute of your time to...eh...have a pleasant conversation. Cooperation is, of course, voluntary. But,' he added with a wink, 'I know you have nothing to hide, yes?'

Even tho I had a feeling nothing good would come of the _pleasant conversation_ , I swept and arm and said: 'I'm at your service.'

'Wonderful,' the inspector cheered as he turned to his underling. 'Victor, accompany me inside while we chat.'

Dressed in a brown overcoat what extended to the heel of his boots, Poshkinov moseyed past me and tossed his black ushanka on the kitchen table. I fished a peek at the soldiers outside before Victor shut the door...

'Your men should be careful when they enter the byre,' I said. 'My Kabardian spooks easy.'

'A minor inconvenience for the horse,' Poshkinov said. 'Better than the fate of the Don at Gregorski. _Tsk, tsk_...it had to be downed in the ballroom. Can you imagine?'

He was trying to lull me into a clever trap...no information about the horse had been reported in the newspapers...but I wouldn't bite...

'I wasn't aware of the animal,' said I.

Poshkinov eyeballed me and asked: 'You're aware of His Excellency's death, yes? Or are we...what's the saying, Victor?'

'Of the beaten path,' the yob rumbled.

'Your presumption of bucolic indifference is incorrect,' I informed. 'I've heard news of the terrible crime.'

'Then we can commence without preening,' Poshkinov said. 'Anyway, the Don wasn't the most dreadful casualty of the night. The vile assassin killed twenty. Twenty!'

I considered asking how many of the dead had been struck by the mestnayas' indiscriminate gunfire; instead, I mustered a solemn headshake...a look of consternation...

The inspector broke his stare and glimpsed a deck of cards on the table. ' _Hmm_...the French style,' he remarked with a nod. 'I also prefer the fifty-two deck over the satin...tho...did you know, card playing used to be considered a thief's crime? And the punishment? Lashing. _Public_ lashing, no less. Forty years ago, these kites would've landed you in hot water, comrade.'

Victor grunted.

'Might I have a seat?' asked Poshkinov. Without waiting for my response, he dropped into a chair and then dealt the cards into two neat, even piles. When he finished, Poshkinov said: 'Victor, why don't you make sure there's nobody playing possum.'

Hisself snorted and rubbed palms...

'Relax, man,' soothed Poshkinov. 'The comrade author and I are going to play a cordial hand.'

Tho he didn't appear mollified, the yob shouldered me aside and lumbered into the boudoir.

When we were alone, Poshkinov confided: 'My man is prone to agitation, but it's not personal. Victor treats all creatures the same, comrade: criminal and courtesan get the hairy eye. Plus, he and I have worked together for... _hmm_...it must be five years now. Heh, time...how it flies. But, um...my point is, he harbors a loyalty to me which is both gratifying and frightening. Now... _ahem_...enough about Victor. Please, join me at the table.'

I complied as if pulled by a string...

'Excellent,' the inspector said. 'So, what shall we play? Find the fool? Chipple? Churn the-?'

Interrupted I through a yawn: 'Sir, I awoke to commotion and...and my mind is gacky. I'm in no mood to play cards.'

'Oh, _tsk, tsk_ ,' Poshkinov tutted. 'Trust me, I know the consequences of little sleep. This investigation...goodness, the hours I've spent sifting this and the other...looking for monsters, so-called. My dilemma is figuring out who these monsters are. And to accomplish the task, I must ask: _What makes a man into a monster_? By the way, I read your book last fall. I regret to inform...eh...I didn't like it. Too...verbose...or...well, I'm no literary expert, but I can read between the lines, so to speak. The protagonist...I believe...eh...is protagonist the right word?'

'Yes,' sighed I.

' _Mm_...he is... _was_ , rather...a deviant sort. And as far as deviancy is concerned, I don't believe such a thing is an instinctive consequence instigated by the burden of societal norms or a split temperament. You...we...choose our path in this world. Most elect to remain within the boundaries of acceptable behavior. But some become jokers without reservation; they commit to recklessness...act impulsive...play the fool.' After clearing his throat, Poshkinov began flipping cards; he thumbed a dozen aside, frowned and then asked: 'Do you know the odds of finding a joker on the first toss?'

I did quick math in my head and answered, 'Not favorable.'

'I should say! Statistical certainty is a depressing mountain to scale. Many become discouraged by the _insurmountable_ summit of actuality. Not me! I relish the challenge of besting odds. It is but a matter of stubbornness, comrade author. See, if I remain staid, I'll find the rascal...the joker...the fool...whatever he, or she, is...wherever they're hiding...they _will_ be found.'

As if on cue, a slam resonated from my bedroom...

Then another.

Oblivious to the racket, Poshkinov threw cards until, at last, he found a joker. 'Ah, there's the scoundrel!' he exclaimed. 'Behold, persistence-'

A third crash -the sound of glass shattering on the floor- interrupted Poshkinov's statement.

Struggling to maintain a neutral tone, I asked, 'Sir, what's he doing?'

Poshkinov tapped a finger on the joker and posed: 'Guess how long it takes to wade through a deck of two hundred cards to find a fool?'

Instant like, my stomach cramped...

The inspector pulled out a pocket watch, studied the face and then said, 'About sixteen days, twelve hours...a few odd minutes. Never have I been so vexed. Do you know why?'

I heard floorboards creak; the lumbering pace of the beast...

Victor stopped behind me...

'Because I _was_ looking for ghosts,' trumpeted Poshkinov. 'Iliosovy is a ghost...er, I mean he...or someone claiming as much...perhaps you...'

'I didn't do any such thing!' protested I.

' _Ahem_...a man calling himself Iliosovy _was_ at The Mount...he even had the assassin's invitation. By the way, I searched Iliosovy's home two days ago. The man... _poof_...vanished into thin air. Now... _ahem_...the domestic reported he hasn't been home in a fortnight, but the absence didn't strike her as odd. Rather, she proffered a place _he is_ , not _might be_.'

Outside, soldiers hollered.

My eyes peeped the window...

Continued Poshkinov: 'Likewise, Nekabov _was_ at the wedding...except...nobody recalled seeing him lurking. As I understand, he isn't...or _wasn't_...a discreet gentleman. And then there's the matter of his disappearance. Not a word to his staff! _Not. A. Word._ Nekabov's errand boy...coachman...whatever...also missing...'

More shouting from the yard...

Victor sunk his paws into my shoulders.

'I pondered...eh...what do those men have in common?' Poshkinov asked. 'What is their common interest? What do they share, comrade author?'

Scoffed I: 'Fine, _me_ , but what of it?'

Poshkinov slammed his fist on the table and barked: 'You think I'm an imbecile, eh? Bah! You're the fool here! Let me review what _is fact_ : you know Iliosovy; you know Nekabov; and I suspect you know another missing man from V——, a butcher named Zupricka. One or all these men were in contact with the assassin...whom I will not name...and one of these men swapped invites with the assassin. Now, everybody involved has disappeared or died...everyone except you. Now listen, man, I'm not in the habit of playing games. If you refuse to reveal the location of your collaborators...if you will not confess your complicity...I'll be forced to employ radical methods.'

The beast tightened his grip.

But the threat failed to sway.

Yea, I sealed my mouth and crossed arms...

'As you wish,' the inspector muttered as he stood from his chair.

I had half an eyeblink to stiffen before Victor smacked me to the floor. Then came what seemed like simultaneous blows -to my groin, stomach, thighs and arms- from a thousand directions. The room twirled as the ogre tossed me into furniture. I faded out of consciousness and awoke slumped in a chair. My left eye was swollen shut; blood dribbled from my mouth...

Arms crossed, the inspector leaned against a wall and chewed the stem of a smoldering pipe; meanwhile, Victor paced the kitchen and exercised his arms.

'Had enough?' Poshkinov asked out of the side of his mouth.

'I haven't done anything,' I whispered.

Poshkinov snorted and then said, 'You are a fraud, comrade author. You are a fraud who believes he's smarter than the world entire! _Humph._ Let's see how haughty you are after feeling the touch of my deft hands.' He then approached, dug into his overcoat...

I expected another cuff...but Poshkinov delivered something else from his _deft hands_ :

He shook the colored claim ticket for the pelt I'd left at the mansion and then said, 'My, what a _shock_! Look what Victor found in your room.'

'What...what is that?' I asked with forced purity.

'You were at The Mount on the evening of the assassination,' Poshkinov said. 'You were there, you entered with the assassin's invitation and you took the name-'

The cottage door flew open. Poshkinov wheeled, removed the pipe, and stepped to the silhouetted figure standing in the entryway.

'In...in the...the copse...' the faceless voice panted.

'Speak up!' Poshkinov spat.

'Bodies, sir! At least four!'

The inspector spun to me and pounded his fist on the table.

Joy sullied his stony features.

'Indeed, I have found my fool!' Poshkinov declared through a smile.

I squirmed...

I sputtered...

I tried pushing an explanation through my hole...

I tried but...

But _why_?

I was guilty!

I was guilty and...and what's more...

I laughed in Poshkinov's face!

'You find this situation humorous?' asked hisself all frosty-like.

Delirium, psychosis, a demon...something grabbed a hold of me!

Hark! I howled like a fiend!

I howled as I spit teeth!

I howled because I hath become a changeling!

Poshkinov could never understand...

He crumpled his brow...

Pressed lips together...

The grim gray mouthline evoked another burst of giggles from me!

Nonplussed, Poshkinov snapped his fingers and rasped: 'Help our comrade criminal get comfortable, Victor. We have a long haul to the Big House...'

# CHAPTER 29

### Medvelov's Fate

Shackled in the back of an open wagon, surrounded by soldiers what snuck peeks between me and the corpses...

Our slog towards St. Petersburg...

Silent but for squeaky wheels.

The rutted highway snaked near Medvelov's estate, and I pined for a final view. Tho I knew it wasn't so, I pictured the poet in his study...

Guzzling aquavit...

Watching me pass.

But as we plodded abeam the grounds, I noticed something unique about the residence...

It wasn't there.

Evidence of the manse remained: sundry columns; a desolate wall; marble stairs ascending from mounding cinders.

I stood to get a better look but was hauled down by the officer sitting next to me. 'Stay seated, criminal!' woofed hisself, adding a jab into my chest with a fist.

Poshkinov twisted on the coachman's slat and inquired, 'What's the commotion?'

'Sir, the criminal took an offensive position,' the prim explained.

'Eh? Something got your goat, criminal?' Poshkinov asked.

Garbled I: 'The, uh...the yonder home? What happened?'

Casual like, Poshkinov reported: 'Oh, it burned weeks ago.' He then upended his pipe, tapped the bole and added: 'I'm told skeletons were discovered after the conflagration was extinguished. Several in the servants' quarter...and one...or maybe two...somewhere... _mmm_...on the staircase or...bah, I can't remember, nor do I care. You, criminal, have put an end to my loathsome business here.'

'Are you certain?' I asked in a whisper.

The inspector lifted a furry eyebrow and studied me as the van bounced over the road...

EPILOGUE

I upended the ewer...

Savored the last flop on me tongue.

Alas, the jug be drained of practicality like its slave, Comrade Moon.

The coupling of magic and madman be done...

Toad Man -the top third of hisself cloaked in shadow- sat sedentary, legs spread, leaning against a wall. I couldn't discern if he was awake or passed out. At last, he coughed and then asked: 'There is no more?'

'Dry,' I said, shaking the vessel.

'No, your rhetoric...you've reached the end?'

I raised my hands, looked around the cell and said, 'A pat summation.'

'It wasn't a statement,' Comrade Toad spat as he took his feet. 'What happened to Medvelov?'

'I'll let you reckon his fate.'

'He escaped?'

'Escaped...reduced to ashes...it doesn't matter. Ivan Medvelov ceases to exist.'

'He escapes and you stand tall? You got the wrong end of the stick, criminal. In fact, it sounds like Medvelov fancied you his pawn.'

'Em...mayhap,' I hawed.

'Not _mayhap_. Be fact, criminal. Yet you insist...what did you say? _'Tis fate_? Bah. As I stated earlier, _destiny_ is a convenient excuse when one cannot accept responsibility.'

'Comrade guard, I'm where I belong,' I said through a smile. 'And I'll tell you something else: Inspector Poshkinov will be chasing ghosts for a long time, _he-he_.'

'S—— in my mouth, you're drunk,' the toad griped. He stepped, almost fell, and steadied himself against the stone wall. 'I'm drunk too,' he muttered. 'Drunk or driven to lassitude by your muddled justifications.'

'Muddled in your mind. In mine, clear as the glass I peeped on Kiriov Street years ago. Broken I am, but broken I came. What else is there to explain?'

The guard collected the jug and remarked, 'Um-hmm...whatever you say. But at least the vodka didn't go to waste.'

He left me with those insipid words...

Exited...locked the door...whistled as he trod Peter and Paul's flinty maze.

Now here I be, alone but for the moon what bathes my cell in gray.

And it is to your divine face I report: 'Yes, Comrade Moon, I've heard conversation of the _polunochnyye vizity_.'

' _Go on_ ,' you purred.

'And if the gossip is reliable, these appointments are...eh...never virtuous, _he-he..._
