Best Friend of Madame Mamzelkina

When in the morning Zozo Buslaeva got a call from a man with an ultra-intellectual voice presenting himself as Glumovich, director of the high school Well of Wisdom, and inviting Methodius to an interview, the amazed Zozo even sneezed into the receiver. She decided that they were pulling her leg.

“Are you serious about this? My Methodius in a fancy high school? But he’s barely making any headway in an ordinary school!” She said.

“You shouldn’t look at it this way. Methodius is a very capable boy. The ‘barely making any headway,’ as you expressed it, is connected with them not having found the right approach yet. Your boy has talent, gift,” said the director. In his voice was suddenly heard extreme and genuine conviction.

“But how do you know?” Zozo asked, slightly yielding to charm. She suddenly posted to herself the question: whether the director is married or not. And even if he is married, then how solidly married.

“Your boy managed all non-standard tasks excellently. Especially where creative potential is necessary. His test is ideal,” explained Glumovich.

“He copied someone’s!” Zozo thought with distrust. She knew her son well, and the methods, by which he usually improved his knowledge, were known to her.

“So, I’ll be waiting for you tomorrow! Please come with your son after three. I’ll wait for you in my office,” finished Glumovich and, after giving her the address, politely said goodbye.

“Methodius!” Zozo nervously shouted. “Did you write a test?”

“Aha,” said Methodius.

“And how?”

“Sorta circled and ticked everything,” evasively answered Methodius.

Zozo calmed down slightly. What Glumovich said became closer to the truth.

“And how’s the result?”

“How am I supposed to know? Made all the ticks, finished — and went to scrape on a violin! They didn’t tell us...” Methodius brushed it off.

Met did not begin to specify that he marked the answers without delving too much into the meaning. In general, he loved tests where one must circle the correct answers, knowing that he was frequently guessing. But he also did not guess, simply did many subconsciously. When he read a correct one, it was as if a bell began to ring in his head. “Lucky!” They said in school.

After looking on the map, Methodius was not greatly surprised, having discovered that the building of the high school Well of Wisdom actually adjoined the house on Bolshaya Dmitrovka, in which he spent a large part of the past night. It was possible to get from one place to another in five minutes. There was no doubt. This was that same agent Ares and Julitta were talking about.

“What’s this workshop called, the one interested in our deadbeat?” Eddy asked in a business-like manner.

He was hanging around at home and sharpening weird brass knuckles. According to his idea, brass knuckles had to satisfy three requirements: to be convenient; not to catch the lining coming out of the pocket, and at the same time to resemble a weapon as little as possible.

“What’s it called? Well of something or other...” Zozo absent-mindedly said.

“Well of Wisdom? It’s the best high school in Moscow. The cost there simply overshadows. It’s so expensive that one can buy a helicopter with the difference,” stated Eddy.

“You think we shouldn’t go?” Zozo asked.

“Why not? Go down for the sake of a yarn. Listen to what they have to offer. Nevertheless we don’t have money, and they don’t take money for a look-see, if, of course, it’s not a club with pole dancing,” said Eddy.

Zozo went together with Methodius down to the given address, had a talk with the director, and returned home in utter surprise.

“You should have seen this school! You can’t pass through the territory even in a tank! The guards! Everything inside — well, pure European decadence! They feed them better in the school cafeteria than in a restaurant! And the teachers! No one even knows how to speak Russian! Almost all foreigners!” She said with enthusiasm.

“And how much for all this disgrace?” Eddy asked sourly, getting ready to pronounce the crown phrase: “I’ll not sponsor you!”

“None at all. A fund will pay for Methodius. There’s a program, in which a fund pays for the education of the most talented children in the best schools. Met will live there in the school, they have something like a boarding school there, and come home only on vacations. And sometimes won’t even come home, when there are additional studies.”

Her brother thought for a bit.

“I don’t like this! Something’s not quite right here! If they would take a little from you, I would still understand, — but this way, absolutely nothing... Free cheese is only found in two places: a mousetrap and our Ladyfingers! Bonus program. Buying a wineglass of vodka gets you a hundred grams of the most expensive cheese free,” he stated.

“What, actually free?” Zozo doubted.

“Naturally. We don’t have any kind of cheats there,” indignantly said Eddy. “True, the cost of the cheese is included in the vodka. And even in general many people cannot stop after one wineglass. Till they get dead-drunk, any cognac for the road can be added to their bill.”

“So what about the high school? Not go?” Zozo asked with uneasiness.

Though she did not get along with her brother, she respected his experience.

“Why not? Go! Of course, if this director is not a maniac. If he’s a maniac, there’s also no fear. I’ll make the observation to him by landing a blow on his body,” said Eddy and tenderly stroked the brass knuckles like the hand of a beloved woman.

***

The next day a shuttle bus arrived in the morning for Methodius. Standing in splendour on its side was the emblem of the school — a snub-nosed profile in the spirit of either the legendary Prutkov or Paul I, with the inscription: Veni, Vidi, Vici (I came, I saw, I conquered) around it exactly like a laurel wreath. After loading Methodius into its imposing womb, the shuttle bus drove him away to a new life. Buslaev was dispirited. He again dreamed of the sarcophagus at night. If earlier the sarcophagus was whole, then in the last dream it cracked.

Obeying a vague call, Methodius jumped out of the bus on Bolshaya Dmitrovka, and he hardly slowed down at the traffic light. House № 13 was still covered with safety netting and scaffolding. Nothing had changed. Methodius bent back the netting, deftly climbed through under the scaffolding, and knocked on the familiar door. The door had not yet opened when he suddenly noticed the black magic rune drawn on the asphalt. A normal person would mistake it as a drawing done by charcoal or a can of spray paint and would take it into his head to crawl under the scaffolding. However, Methodius, having already acquired some experience, noticed that the outlines of the rune blurred just barely noticeably when he stepped through the threshold.

And immediately, almost without transition, Methodius disappeared into an entirely different world. Inside the house had changed from the night before. He saw a large hall serving as reception. The reception was furnished in decadent luxury. A fountain was babbling. Green curious ivy ran up along the legs of antique statues. On the wall in a frame behind glass hung the authentic ear, dried in the necessary manner and secured, of Van Gogh.

At the secretarial desk, with her feet crossed on the desktop, Julitta was sitting and pensively aiming a duel pistol at her own reflection in the mirror. Behind her pinned onto the wall with a rusty knife was a declaration done on a printer:

Job done — leave boldly!

A little to the side it was possible to examine yet another piece of paper of an informative nature:

Citizen agents! Please store eide in darx! Ten percent annually on all kinds of magic energies!

Having noticed Methodius, Julitta waved the pistol in a salute to him:

“Hello, Met! How do you like our nest? When they transferred us here, it was a room of horrors. Imagine: sooty walls, a coffin for papers, a bewitched crypt-safe, terribly stuffed, and a desk stained with blood. Earlier some pothead from the division beyond worked here. Only a month, but fouled everything awfully. Well, I hammered away at Ares, and now look! Hand-made furniture. No motleys in the upholstering, no glued sawdust. A picture on the memento mori (remember death — Lat.) theme with an abstract subject. A small fountain with a marble young lady, spurting red wine from a broken jug. Nice, pleasant, with well thought-out trustworthy banality. Our client also only appreciates such. On the one hand, it’s likely all the same to him, on the other hand — all his veins tremble and he’s inclined to a heart attack against the background of fatal surprise.”

“Yes, classy here!” Methodius politely agreed.

Julitta nodded and patted herself on the head:

“My credit! We’re strict about this: nothing excessive, or else they’ll bring any trash into the office. Last week someone tossed a chopped-off head there under the little magazine table. On top of that, the beast even covered it with a newspaper. One word — riffraff. You don’t bawl someone out, don’t deny, and don’t leave rubbish behind.”

“Listen, last night everything here was entirely different! Some ruins!” Methodius remarked, belatedly recalling the damaged walls and parquet that one could fall through.

Julitta yawned:

“The fifth dimension. You saw the rune of displacement there? So small? Anyone, even if he forces open the door, would fall simply into a house under repairs. And nowhere else. Strangers, outsiders don’t walk in here. More questions? Come on, brother Methy! I’ll answer, I’m nice for the time being.”

“There is. Is the pistol loaded?” Methodius asked with curiosity.

“What? What pistol? Ah, this! As if I remember! Now let’s conduct an investigative experiment!” Julitta carefully took aim at the forehead of her reflection in the mirror and squeezed the cock. A shot thundered. The mirror shattered into smithereens. The bullet rebounded against the wall. “Straight into the forehead! Well really, am I not a smart one, not a beauty?” Julitta said with satisfaction.

“Julitta! Don’t kick up a row! Now the agents and succubae are rushing in with the quarterly account!” Ares angrily shouted from his office. The door into his office was closed, but that did not prevent him from hearing very well everything going on in reception.

Julitta dropped the pistol.

“Oh no! I’ve forgotten about these idiots! They tumbled out of my head. May I at least get Methy to take part? After all, he’s our new colleague. Is that so or not?” Julitta groaned.

It smelled of sulphuric smoke behind the doors. Ares thought for a bit.

“Very well. The little one must get accustomed to our work. Let him sit at the second desk and also accept reports. In our time the skill to unmasking agents is more important than artefactology or chopping with swords,” he finally decided.

Methodius unwillingly sat down at the adjacent desk, from which an impatient Julitta in a flash threw all papers down to the floor.

“And who are these succubae and agents? How will I distinguish them?” He asked.

“Easily,” said Julitta. “It’s nothing to distinguishing them. The succubae will arrive first … These are such sickly sweet sharp lads you’ll not confuse them with anyone. They answer amorous dreams and any visions, in which there are magical swaps and psychic energy. Furthermore, they do a very good job of getting hold of eide for the darx. Understood?”

“Ne-a! I only understood that they’re some kind of loonies!” Met insolently said.

Julitta propped up her fat cheeks with her hands.

“I’ll explain simply and in plain language. In the style of an encyclopaedia for the underdeveloped. Let’s assume a fellow from a distant city fell in love with a well-known female singer. It goes without saying he has no chance whatsoever, and there is no money for a ticket, and generally she’s from the group Tuk-Tuk. In a sense, so very clever. Well, the fellow eats his heart out, loses strength, and withers away. To him the singer is dearer than life. And suddenly this singer comes to him in the drowsiness of half-sleep, begins to embrace him, caresses him, and says: ‘I love you! I’ve long dreamed of such a capital fellow. Only, before I kiss you, make me a trivial gift: give me your eidos! Simply say yes and that’s it!’ The fellow gives it away, clearly not even knowing what it is. Here a simple word is enough. A second to give away eidos, but here to return... Well, the succubus grabs the eidos and vanishes into thin air. The poor fellow has neither the singer, nor eidos, nor eternity — nothing. Got it?”

“So, succubae are those who assume the appearance of the ones we love,” Methodius summed it up.

“Uh-huh. Or those we desire!” Julitta said sweetly, as if holding candy in her mouth.

“And agents?”

Julitta puckered up her face contemptuously and flicked her darx with a finger.

“Well, agents — they’re all riffraff. A type of jackal or hyena, but in human form. Not quite spirits, but also not people. Thus, small fry, half-and-half, middleman for executions. To bring overblown accounts of drunken quarrels, unfaithfulness, broken heads, bitten off noses, and other petty mutilation. Brisk, insolent, frankly even I am no match! You see, Met, be firmer with them. No familiarity, no personal relations. And guard your eidos — these guys are shrewd. For them, leaving you, me, and Ares vulnerable is their only pleasure.”

“But why do they bring the reports to us? Why eagerly?” Methodius asked.

“What do you mean why eagerly?” Julitta became furious. “We’re the guards of Gloom. Forgotten? GUARDS OF GLOOM! And agents and succubae are at our service. Just they try not reporting to us — they’ll skin them alive in the Chancellery and their stay in the moronoid world will not be extended. Then where will they snatch eide for themselves? In Gloom? There they pave the streets with such smart fellows instead of hammering a pile into the ground. So don’t dash about in a tizzy, brother Methy, and don’t tuck a fur coat into shorts! Understood?”

“Understood,” nodded brother Methy, after deciding for himself that he would gain an understanding during the course of events.

Julitta softened.

“Well, he understood, okay. Then you’ll help me. We’re here, in reception, Ares in the office. He doesn’t particularly love coming out to these riffraff, and they’re even rather afraid of him. Recently in a fit of temper he hacked a couple of jokers to pieces here — they butted in,” said Julitta.

***

The squeaky clock, hanging in the hall of house № 13 from the times of the Versailles Furnished Rooms, sharply struck noon. Immediately, not tarrying, succubae began to arrive.

Their line crept out the door and snaked along the stairs of the former back entrance. Forced in the line to socialize with those like them, the succubae behaved sullenly and chastely and bloomed only at Julitta’s desk. Along the hall spread the smell of either Indian incense or French cologne bottled in China.

“Accepted! Next! Don’t hang around, citizen! Job done — leave boldly! You don’t know how to read perhaps?” Julitta bellowed, gathering reports.

The succubae cast looks with coquettish interest at Methodius as at someone new. One even asked permission to kiss his hand, after which he tried to become a girl from a neighbouring class. Without limiting himself to this, the succubus with wet kisses climbed onto Met’s knee, muttering nonsense. However, Met had not yet forgotten that only a minute ago the same succubus had had the appearance of a middle-aged emaciated uncle in glasses and with an Adam’s apple overgrown with hair.

“Ah, be gone! I’ll banish you to Gloom!” Methodius shouted angrily, and the trembling succubus faded in a flash, after dropping the parchment with the report from his moist hands. Julitta encouragingly showed Buslaev the thumb.

Towards the end of the second hour, the succubae had made their reports and, having extended visas for their stay in the world of mortals, left directly from the rear window, going out to the blank wall of the house. Julitta, covered in sweat, did not have time to take a breath or shake off all the reports into the very strong box, which was expected to be sent to the Chancellery, when the time for agents had arrived. Here it was necessary to be on the alert, since the agents, inflating their own merits, were inclined to distortions and falsifications.

As a whole agents resembled people; however, their faces were soft, exactly like modelling clay. All the time they were crumpling and bending. The noses were sniffing non-stop.

“Now here-a, dearie, records of suicides, and here-a, so, of arrogant men... And those who did not believe in miracles, I scratched on a separate piece of paper... After a comma, so, in an interval. You will deign to extend the stay!” The agent next in line muttered, dumping onto the desk a pile of parchments full of fingerprints.

Julitta took them with disgust and, after punching them with a new clanging hole-puncher, she filed them into a red cardboard folder covered with bubbles. They handed the accounts over to her and the witch examined them for a long time and suspiciously, hissing at the agents for insolent postscripts.

“Phew, cheeky mug! Since when does 1+0 = 10? Even wrote it in small! Are you trying to pull wool over someone’s eyes? You understand that you fabricated the document?” Julitta roared.

“But why, dearie? One and zero was never ten! Not twelve... We don’t know all this knowledge. Didn’t graduate from ’niversities. We write such that everything looks the best!” The agents mumbled.

When Julitta backed them completely into a corner, the agents shamelessly blinked, cried, and swore by whatever. Especially willingly by each other’s health.

“How could they not swear! Indeed they can’t stand each other, these bastards!” Julitta explained to Methodius and whole-heartedly bashed particularly shifty agents with the hole-puncher. The agents endured this stoically and only anxiously felt the fresh dents on their modelling-clay heads.

Sniffing pitifully, they made ignorant denunciations of each other to Methodius, frequently shooting out antiquated figures of speech like: “I the worthless humbly ask Your Lordship,” “this nasty snake made off with an eidos from me and when I tearfully said to him you come to your senses what are you filthy scum doing he beat me mercilessly,” “please don’t be offended at the poor orphan please strip the snake skin off him a comfort to me the orphan also banish him to Gloom for eternal exile!”

Methodius’ eyes began to water from the many pages reeking of onions and tobacco, and he all the more nervously slammed the press down on the inkpad, prolonging registration for the agents. “Nothing remarkable for me in the day! Is it always so with them here?” He thought gloomily.

When toward the end of the second hour Methodius was thinking of almost nothing but only slamming the press, someone’s adroit hand suddenly palmed a parchment off on him. Methodius, without thinking, also stamped it.

“So-o!” A voice said with satisfaction. “And now place your signature here! On each page.”

“Why?”

“It’s supposed to be so, according to procedure-s! The law is unyielding, but we turn it to our advantage-s!”

Methodius’ consciousness began to ring a warning bell. This was that very bell of intuition, which always warned him of danger. Methodius raised his head, after recalling what happened last time when he did not listen to the bell. A soft dejected face loomed before him and the narrow eyes of tainted colour began to blink. However, in spite of toady intonations and fawning eyes, the agent in no way pleased Methodius.

“Well sign! The line is waiting! Work doesn’t wait!” The agent politely hurried him.

After glancing at the first page, Methodius with surprise discovered his name written down there. He tried to read deeper into it, but was dazzled by the many points and subparagraphs.

“What’s this paper for?” Methodius asked, not having understood anything.

“My assignment to Gloom! I want to visit my grandpa! Haven’t seen him for twenty years! He was crying his eyes out!” The agent explained sentimentally and immediately started to blow his nose into a large red shawl.

“But why is my name here?”

“Supposed to be so. The signature of the great Methodius Buslaev will throw open any door! I entreat: for grandpa! The old man was worried to death, but I don’t have money for the ticket! You will make him happy for life! I’ll tell the kids about you!” The agent pleadingly said.

Methodius shrugged his shoulders and, after muffling his intuition, stretched his hand out for the feather.

“Hey, stop! Stop, I’m telling someone!” Suddenly Julitta shouted.

The feather froze by itself above the paper.

“Give it over here! Let me have a look, I say! Just what I thought! You know what you’re doing? This is an agreement for the sale of eidos! You don’t give away your only soul to him, fool!” Julitta said.

“But grandpa?” Methodius asked.

“What grandpa, for crying out loud? Where do agents get grandpas from, donkey! They’re made of muck and plasticine! Whom do you believe? Him? And agents never have eidos of their own, here they bear malice!”

She ran up to Methodius, snatched the parchment away and lashed the sour face of the agent several times with it. The agent grunted with disappointment and teleported with dignity. His dejected face expressed the deepest grief.

“Do you know who this was? Tukhlomon! Maestro of sleaze! Our best agent, but a terrible bastard. I suddenly thought — would you give your soul away to him for... well, let’s have a look for what! For a jar of swollen sprats! Here’s a slicker, it’s not enough that he loves to take cheaply, he even mocks so!” Julitta explained indignantly, looking over the recaptured parchment.

“I understood nothing in that paper. Everything was so confusing...” Methodius said perplexedly.

“And how would you want it? Your terrestrial jurists made up the contract. They’re bored for centuries in Gloom, here they bend over backwards. For a bottle of ambrosia, they would give their own mommy away for lease for three centuries. And in general, I’m sure, you’ll still meet Tukhlomon! If he has his eyes on someone’s eidos, he never backs off. A tricky snake!” Julitta said and, being angry for some reason, knocked on the pile of papers on Methodius’ desk. “And what’s this? Just look at how many denunciations he gathered! It’s them, the parasites, sniffing out a newbie and shoving them in! Next time immediately hit them, kick them! I’ll show them denunciations!”

“What, should never have taken them? Let’s throw them out!” Methodius proposed.

“Are you crazy: throw them out? Did you stamp them? You did! Therefore, the matter is to take them in. Sort it out with the Chancellery later. Everything with us is strict!” Julitta stated.

The clamouring line of agents was pressing. It smelled then of tobacco and petty passions.

Suddenly a genie youth, resin-like, resilient, chiselled from shiny ebony, rubbed with odorous eastern oils, materialized in the middle of reception and grinned, unceremoniously looking Julitta over. From the genie’s shoulder hung a canvas bag with the emblem of express mail of the guards of Gloom. After discovering that Julitta, occupied with the training of agents, did not notice him, the youth stole up and tenderly blew into her ear. Julitta’s shape, gravitating towards a sphere, produced an indelible impression on the passionate genie.

“I don’t have time! Don’t you see I’m working? Come in the evening, Ali!” Julitta brushed him off.

“Bah! I not Ali, I Omar!” The genie was offended, devouring Julitta with a passionate look.

“Omar? But what has become of Ali? So you’re new perhaps?”

“Why new? What new? I not new! Now I be old from disappointment!” The genie youth was offended and again blew into her ear.

“I said I don’t have time, Omar! In the evening! And grab something for a bite. Only, I entreat, without magic. I get heartburn from bewitched foodstuff,” softened Julitta.

The genie youth brightened up and intended to disappear.

“Hey!” Julitta said. “What about work? Let’s see what you brought! Must eternally remind you!”

The genie slapped his forehead.

“Bah! Completely forgot! Urgent message for Ares!” He thrust a long roll to Julitta and disappeared, after turning into a column of smoke. In the end, he again had time to grin, packing into one smile all his plans for the evening.

“Ali, Omar, Javdet... You can’t tell them apart, fools!” Julitta dreamily said.

Having used a nail to break the seal of sealing wax, the witch slid her glance along the sheet. Her ashen locks trembled. Having grasped that something important had happened, the agents began to bustle and sniffed nervously. One even attempted to glance into the parchment, but Julitta with an adroit whack of the folder made his nose flat as a board.

“Reception is closed! Everybody quick! Come tomorrow, wet feet!” She roared at the agents and hastened into the office to Ares.

***

The agents obediently faded away after Julitta’s shout. Methodius remained in reception alone. Red wine was spurting in the fountain and parchments with reports were piled up on the table. All the time Julitta did not come out. Only once in a while the resounding voice of Ares reached him from the office.

“Interesting, will Ares teach me something or is this already training? I almost gave away my eidos by mistake there! So it would fall into someone’s darx,” thought Methodius. He became alarmed. He wanted to fade away, and only the thought of Eddy Khavron and the eternal worshippers of his mother brought him to his senses. There was nowhere to go back to. He was in Moscow anyhow.

The outside door creaked. An old lady, growling something to herself under her breath, entered reception. From her shoulder dangled a very strong, seasoned knapsack, into which it was possible to hide a whole division. In her hand, she held a scythe in a slipcover.

Finding herself in reception, the old lady looked around. Then she approached Methodius in a business-like manner and touched his forehead.

“How do you like that, warm again! You’re not my client, no? What’s the name?” She asked affectionately.

“Mine?”

“Well, not mine! My sclerosis is always with me.”

“Methodius Buslaev.”

The old lady was not too astonished.

“Oh, Methodius! What a small world! Hear, hear! They reached you after all. And how the little heart trembles! And the eidos is with wings like a white dove, chirp-chirp! Ah, my little sweet, you sat too long, I dare say, in a cell of ribs! Come to grandma!”

Methodius moved away.

“I need it myself. Grandma will break off for the time being,” he said.

The old woman threatened him with a finger.

“Look, how smart! I suppose as you’re twelve years old, so they caught hold of you,” she remarked complacently.

“Who caught hold of me?”

“Those there, the guards of Gloom! See!” The old woman said and poked a finger at the door of Ares’ office. “Come, perhaps we’ll get acquainted! I’m Aida Plakhovna Mamzelkina. Do you have a business card?”

“Nope,” said Methodius.

The old woman slapped her pockets. In one pocket a bottle tinkled, a slot machine chip rolled out from another.

“You work badly, friend Methodius! Imagine, I don’t either. I’ve handed everything out. I’m a fool, dust of a grave... Brought one here this morning — we just exchanged business cards. He to me — I to him. So left without one. A funky guy, only not so lucky with friends. Comrades from another collective placed a bomb in his Mercedes. He was interested in everything on the way: what the punishment will be in Gloom, who is prominent, and what grub they give.”

Methodius looked sideways in anxiety at the scythe.

“You... you’re Death?” He asked.

“Sort of! Nowadays, so that people won’t be frightened quickly, I am called differently. ‘Senior Manager of the Necro-department’!” Aida Plakhovna announced with pleasure.

“Ah-h!” Methodius drawled. From his point of view, the difference was small.

Death straightened the slipcover on the scythe.

“How do you like that, he hardly jumped. Remember, you don’t look at the blade. You’ll have time still to have a good look in your own time... My poor scythe, without imagination. Understand? Need to chew over the thought?”

Methodius shook his head.

“I confess, friend, indeed I came regarding you! Found out some situation here, wanted Ares to describe it. And you’re right here; you’re such a bundle of mischief... Fate and destiny! There is a person, and then suddenly — gone!” Mamzelkina said in a business-like manner. Her vacant look became suddenly attentive and cutting.

Methodius perceived that the old lady was far from inoffensive. The alarm bell in his consciousness briefly tinkled and calmed down fearfully.

“What happened?” He asked, trying to be soft and downy. It definitely did not make any sense to quarrel with Mistress Mamzelkina.

“So, one little conversation. About you — but not for you... He-he!”

“How’s this: about me but not for me?”

“Wait a bit — you’ll find out.”

Aida Plakhovna straightened the wig that had moved down her head and approached Ares’ office. The door opened. Methodius finally saw the chief. He was strolling around the room, occasionally stopping in front of the window and drumming on the glass with his fingers. The deep scar appeared even more distinct. It was noticeable that Ares was concerned. A burnt, shrivelled parchment was lying on the table. Methodius was ready to swear that the parchment had flared up from a mere look, without the application of any magic or non-magic means.

A quiet Julitta was standing next to Ares. When the door creaked, both turned around with displeasure. Not a bit embarrassed by this reception, the old lady leaned against the scythe and immediately, with a speed surprising for her years, rushed to Ares.

“Ares, my dove! I heard your exile was over! How bored I was, how bored! You didn’t forget me, eh? All the time I intended to fly in to the lighthouse to visit you, my grey-winged drake!” She squealed.

Ares hugged her, and they kissed three times.

“How do you do, how do you do, Aida! Long time no see!” He greeted the old lady.

“And who is this?” Julitta jealously asked. She liked the old lady even less than Methodius did.

Aida Plakhovna puckered up.

“Who am I? Calm down, fidget! Go rinse yourself in formalin! Those born to crawl should not show themselves!” She sharply put Julitta down.

“Aida, there’s no need! Don’t offend her! This is Julitta!” Ares reproachfully said.

“What? The same girl who...” Mamzelkina started.

“Yes. The same one,” Ares rudely interrupted her, clearly giving to understand that this theme was forbidden. Mamzelkina nodded in understanding and switched to her own problems.

“Ah, Areushka! I toil by the sweat of my brow, I hum like a bee, and never any appreciation! My curly hair fell out! My breasts dried up! They wore out my life, the snakes! Never gave me a copper penny for the work, never threw me a dry crust... Even reproach me for my share! No indeed, you kill, kill-l!” She was tearing slightly.

Her tears rolled down like mercury balls onto the floor. Ares and Julitta exchanged glances. They had long sensed that the sly old lady needed something. She clearly dragged herself along with an ulterior motive.

“Honey wine?” Ares proposed without bestirring himself.

Aida Plakhovna ceased sobbing. The mercury tears evaporated.

“I’m at work,” she said dryly, nevertheless somewhat pensively.

“Good honey wine!” Ares tempted her.

Mamzelkina began to doubt. The swamp of her own desires pulling her tightly like a stray horse.

“What, it’s good? You know why I didn’t visit you, Areushka, at the lighthouse — I thought, where would you get honey wine? And my inside doesn’t accept any other swill. My inside is shaken up by work!” She said.

“I have to admit, I still have a keg or two from old times. I consume honey wine with sufficient great care,” said Ares.

“Listen,” Methodius could not contain himself. “Aren’t you guards? Omnipotent magicians, yes? If you want anything — can’t you just conjure it?”

The proposal provoked an unexpected reaction. Julitta giggled. Aida Mamzelkina spat.

“Immediately see, young fellow, that you’re yesterday’s moronoid! Only moronoids are hung up on magic, although they know nothing about it! Ah, magic! Ah, sorcery! Ah, magic wands! Phew! It’s possible to conjure anything. It’s possible even to convert all the water in the Atlantic Ocean into honey wine. But this won’t be the same. For one who’s an expert in real booze,” she refined.

“And indeed Aida knows! No doubt about this!” Ares nodded.

“What else! In a world full of magic forgeries and substitutes, only the real and true is worth something. Real things, true love, real brew! The rest — let it roll to all... us!” Mamzelkina stated pathetically.

She did not digress anymore. Especially as on the table appeared an imposing covered clay jug of about eight litres. “A good honey wine disdains other containers,” immediately the “senior manager” commented and was silent for a long time.

Barely having sucked out a third of the jug, Aida Plakhovna recalled the purpose of her visit.

“Ah... yes! Yaraat... your... and not only yours … acquaintance... has escaped from imprisonment!” She reported, after anxiously looking around at Methodius.

The Baron of Gloom stuck out his neck.

“I know about the flight of Yaraat. Not so long ago a messenger brought a letter from the Chancellery,” he remarked.

“Which you burnt for some reason,” thought Methodius.

“Who is this Yaraat?” He asked, understanding from some sign that all this concerned him directly.

He asked this of Julitta, but both Julitta and Mamzelkina turned to Ares, being inferior to him in the right to answer. Methodius perceived that something connected Yaraat and Ares. Something old.

“Yaraat is a werewolf. A killer. A traitor... Your... and not only yours... fierce enemy. Pick any one of the three definitions or all three at once. You won’t be mistaken. Now Yaraat will search for you in order to finish you off,” briefly explained Ares.

“To finish me off? I didn’t even have any quarrel with him in the magic world,” Methodius was worried.

Ares shrugged his shoulders:

“Do you think it’s so important? In our world, quarrels don’t happen so frequently. The majority of the guards have enemies long before birth. This isn’t even hostility in the usual sense... Someone simply needs what you have and he could in no way be without. Well, like one rope, on which two people are hanging above a precipice. Two ways out: you either nobly yield and let go, or attempt to throw the other guy down. Each chooses the solution, which is closer to his heart and corresponds better to his essence. Is the basic idea clear?”

“And the two cannot be rescued together?” Methodius asked.

“No. Imagine that it’s a thin rope. Possibly, it wore out. It’ll only support one. Someone must compulsorily fall or both will perish,” dryly said Ares.

He turned away, but Methodius already saw death in his eyes. It first appeared when Ares named Yaraat a traitor.

“Did they really not guard Yaraat?” Julitta asked.

“Very... hic... well,” hiccupped Mamzelkina. “But someone unnoticeably delivered to him the fortieth significant artefact of Gloom — the bite of a sabre-tooth tiger. It doesn’t cut but gnaws out pieces of flesh. He attacked his guards, cut off their darx, seized their eide, and hid himself.”

“And what about the guards he attacked? Are they alive?” Methodius was naively interested.

The “senior manager of the necro-department” laughed out loud.

“Oh, yes! More alive than all living. Like pharaohs’ mummies...”

“So, it means, they’re...”

“The question lacks sense. It was Yaraat. I repeat, Yaraat. He and life — they’re incompatible,” distinctly said Ares.

“And what did I do to this Yaraat that he’s after me?” Methodius asked.

Ares smiled gravely, and Methodius again saw his square teeth, slightly yellowish like the keys of an ancient piano.

“Nothing in particular... You took away his power. Almost everything that he accumulated in his darx during the long centuries,” said Ares. A strange satisfaction sounded in his voice.

“I took away his power? When?” Methodius asked with doubt.

“And he doesn’t even know! At the moment of your birth. You drained the poor devil in one gulp. Puff! Before he knew where he was, Mety squashed down on him! Stubby and chubby! Ha-ha!” Mamzelkina said in rhyme.

The honey wine disappeared in her by the litre against all laws of physics.

“Yaraat is a thief of artefacts. He was hiding at the same time from both the guards of Light and guards of Gloom. He pretty well did a bad turn to one or the other, and all would remember him if they could find him. He was hiding, it goes without saying, among moronoids. At the moment of the solar eclipse Yaraat accidentally showed up in Moscow and hit upon your birth like hitting a tank... After several instants, you scooped from him all his energy, even without knowing this. And not only from him, it must be said. But Yaraat suffered more than the rest. Indeed he was the sole guard, who found himself in the zone of eclipse,” said Ares.

“How gifted I am, it turns out! I can’t do anything,” said Methodius, dismayed.

The “senior manager of the necro-department” was guffawing so that she choked on the honey wine and had to be slapped on the back.

“Did you hear? Our little one can’t do anything!” Coughing, she said.

“Can or not — it’s unimportant!” Ares explained. Now he was looking at Methodius with special attention. His half-asleep torpor had disappeared. “During the moments of the eclipse you became the navel of Earth, the centre of the small universe... All the energies of the world converged in you. You would know that it happened the moment you yelled! Then I was standing on the upper landing of my lighthouse, very far from Moscow. White lightning suddenly split the sky. The island shuddered from the terrible thunder. It was altogether only the first cry of a child having stepped into the world, but if the eclipse had not ended, the world would have cracked...”

“Just look what a wicked insidious one this Methodius is! He almost cracked the world... Perhaps, he... with a scythe?” Giggling, Mamzelkina proposed. She was clearly joking, but the alarm bell in Methodius’ consciousness nevertheless began to ring for some reason.

“We’re talking about Yaraat,” Ares cut her short. “After the birth of Methodius he became poor in the magic plane. He even didn’t have enough strength to manage those artefacts he had abducted earlier. He immediately tried to get even with you and have everything returned, but this was a mistake. He was too weak. Besides, confidentially, you were guarded rather well. Yaraat was seized by the guards of Gloom, imprisoned, and escaped only now... I think his further plans are clear to me, as to whom he’ll try to get even with first of all.”

“Will they catch him?” Methodius asked anxiously.

Ares shook his head:

“I doubt it. He has the eide of the killed guards from their darx and the not bad artefact — the bite of the sabre-tooth tiger. And he knows how to hide. The last time they searched for him for about two hundred years and only found him because you took away all his power, which he has now at least partially restored with the eide of the guards. My gut feel suggests that in this case no news is good news.”

“And how should I act now? Hide? Lie on the bottom and not gurgle?” Methodius asked.

Ares looked hard at him.

“There’s no way out. I’m sure Yaraat has hidden somewhere a stash of not bad artefacts, many of which are capable of pointing at the concealed. He’ll find you anywhere. And you know, perhaps, I even want him to find you,” he said quietly.

“Why?”

“Because then I’ll find him. It’s been my only desire for many years already,” said Ares.

Methodius wanted to ask why, but felt that it was not worthwhile to do this. In any case, not now. Instead, he quickly glanced at Ares’ aura and immediately looked away in a hurry, after perceiving that he was weakening. He felt that he was glancing into a sucking abyss. Other people, whom Methodius met, in fury propagated red waves, the strength of which he — not having any idea of it — savoured and absorbed. The angry Ares indeed became exactly a black hole, into which the strength of those beside him fell.

“I search for Yaraat. Yaraat searches for you. In countable days, you have to go along the path that takes years for others. You must be prepared for a possible battle, unless you want to waste your life and more. Once you already knew how to overcome Yaraat. Only now, an eclipse will not help here... Highly improbable that it’ll happen precisely at the moment when you cross blades. We’ll start training tomorrow. Eh, if we know that nothing will threaten you next week at least. Then, possibly, I would find the means to protect you!” Ares summed it up.

Aida Plakhovna glanced askance at Ares and, turning the clay jug upside-down, caught the last drop on her tongue.

“Well, that’s it! Sisters, to Moscow! To their death!” She hiccupped, dropping the scythe.

Methodius rushed to pick it up.

“Don’t touch my work tool, civilian! It’s necessary for the motherland! Well, Methodius, well Buslaev! He fears nothing! I... hic... respect you! If I have to uncover the scythe for you, I promise, it’ll be... hic... quick... Like a vaccination! Word o... of the manager! Well-a, we’ll meet again soon!” Mamzelkina babbled.

She, swaying, took a step to the doors. Her slightly open old knapsack looked like a dark abyss. Methodius became terrified. In a blink, he understood that he could easily disappear there, in her knapsack, in spite of all his magical powers.

Ares overtook Death and put a hand on her shoulder:

“Hey, Aida, what’s this hint? If you know something, own up!”

Aida Plakhovna stopped and winked:

“I love you all! Dear, possible to say, people. Do you want to know a secret? Methodius is not on today’s list! So that the little one doesn’t have to tremble till midnight. Well and there’s a new day...”

“So, everything is normal till midnight? And tomorrow, the day after tomorrow?” Ares quickly asked.

The manager of the necro-department began to shake her head and was filled with administrative zeal.

“I cannot, darling! It’s... hic... a secret! We’re strict about this. Downright shock and tremor! I must not!”

Ares squinted with distrust:

“Aida! Don’t torture me! Who’s asking you? I am!”

“They’ll tell you it’s a secret! I’ll fall in battle for you, but I cannot! The law... hic... of cosmic harmony! The balance of universal justice! Never!” Mamzelkina said and for effect hit her resonant chest with a fist.

“And a half keg of honey wine won’t gain an understanding of cosmic harmony? Won’t grease the balance of universal justice?” Ares asked with mockery.

The old lady reproachfully threatened him with a finger:

“Ah, Areushka, you cynic! To sneer at such things! That’s also why you ended up in the lighthouse!”

“So how about the half keg? Simply say, is Methodius in your lists or not for next week?” Ares pressed.

“Never! Even if you kill me — I cannot”! The old woman stated and, having reached the highest degree of righteous indignation, added without switching over: “A keg! And that’s the limit! And it’s only for you! If someone gets wind of it — they won’t pat me on the back.”

“Ah, Aida, Aida! Spare yourself! Well, so it is!” Ares smiled and uttered the incantation of displacement. In the middle of his office appeared a three-bucket keg of honey wine. Mamzelkina looked critically at the keg, one would think at an object of concealed magic, and clicked her fingers. Her knapsack swelled up like the mouth of a volcano and easily swallowed the keg.

Having dealt with the keg, Aida Plakhovna reached for a parchment smudged with brown dry blood. Her finger slid along the lines.

“Here they are, dears, my clients! Buratinkin... Burenkin... Burkin... Burchenko... Buskin... Buslenko... Buslaev... Oh, a familiar last name! I already met such a one somewhere! Well, let’s look at the initials: M.I. — Methodius Igorevich! So here!”

Methodius froze. His body suddenly became like cotton wool. “That’s it, the end!” He thought.

“Well, let’s have a look!” Suddenly Ares demanded.

Aida Plakhovna started to laugh and quickly hid the parchment.

‘Strangers aren’t supposed to! No such right!”

“Aidka! Don’t joke with me!” Ares bellowed.

“Yes, I’m joking, I’m joking! Should I not have a little moral happiness? He’s not here! It appears your young boy will be alive next week. Further lists have not been established, so I promise nothing!” Mamzelkina stated.

“Very nice on your part. Thanks,” Methodius growled.

“Thanks don’t smoulder!” The old lady said with authority and, justifying herself, added: “It’s only fools who think that I cut down just anyone. I’m very... hic... strict. I wipe them out neatly according to the list, without dust and noise, and then deliver notices to Light and Gloom. In order that each, you know, reached where and whom it should. If I find out something — by myself, I’ll whistle, and only then I’ll mow down all the same. Such is work! Clear?” Aida said almost in a sober voice and left, after hitting the lintel with the scythe.

The reception of house № 13 on Bolshaya Dmitrovka was deserted.

“She likes you. Indeed, I understand that! See, she even let out a secret to you!” Julitta stated with knowledge of the matter.

“Leave me alone!” Methodius snapped.

Suddenly Ares burst out laughing. For the first time Methodius saw an almost human expression on his stern face almost carved from wood.

“Here’s an old woman! She took us like children!” Ares said through the laughter.

“How did she take us?”

“Yes, she did! She came in order to wheedle out a keg. She got wind that Yaraat ran and Methodius is with us, and came for the honey wine. She knew that she’d conclude a transaction with us! Shrewd old hag, she considered everything! I love her for that!”

Methodius with a flick brought down a broken-off piece of sealing wax from Ares’ desk. He had already completely pulled himself together.

“Will there be work today? Magic, artefactology? Chopping with swords? Any kind of nonsense?” He asked.

Ares gave him a penetrating look:

“Tomorrow. Today the agents and Mamzelkina are enough for you. So go to the Well of Wisdom, take a look there, ask that they take you to your room. You should have a good sleep.”

“I’ll not be able to live here? Lots of space here,” said Methodius.

Ares shook his head:

“I don’t think that it’s the best idea. At some point, you’ll understand why. Better to keep further from the residences of Gloom, even if you have connected your life with Gloom. And now go! Although... wait! Perhaps I may have the need to get in touch with you. Julitta, give him the book!”

“Which one?”

“You know which one. The Book of Chameleons.”

Julitta ran off somewhere and returned with a worn booklet, on the cover of which was: G. Kaneluk. Do-it-yourself Repair of Household Appliances. Met leafed through it. Inside were diagrams and tables.

“I’ll compulsorily read a little. I adore getting new knowledge,” hiding disappointment, Methodius politely said.

“No need to read this book,” said Ares quietly. “And indeed the name on the cover especially means nothing. Each day it’ll be different, so don’t be too surprised. Only remember: you need the thirty-first page, the thirteenth line from the top. Open it from time to time. In case there is something urgent, the book itself will let you know. If you’re going somewhere for a long time, always take this book with you.”

“Why?” Methodius asked.

“Don’t you see,” said Ares, “I’ll be far from always next to you. And now and then I’ll have to get in touch with you urgently. Cell phones aren’t that classy. Zoomers of magicians — not a bad means, but too easy for our enemies to hear them. So, you have to turn to the aid of this book. It’s unique at least in that no one, besides you, me, and Julitta, knows the secret in it. But now open to the thirty-first page and read the thirteenth line.”

Methodius found the thirty-first page and counted off thirteen lines from the top.

“After the completion of the operation of extraction the door should open automatically in two minutes...” Methodius read aloud.

“Fie, Signor Tomato! Who indeed reads with this sight? This way it’s possible to read heaven knows what! Deeply!” Ares winced.

“I don’t know how!” Methodius said.

“Try!” Ares said dryly.

“Look more attentively... Don’t blink! Wait until tears come. So! And now blink!” Prompting, Julitta whispered.

Methodius blinked. Suddenly the letters trembled, they spread and...

“There are no new communications,” he read.

“Precisely!” Ares said. “None for the time being because there’s nothing for me to communicate with you! Nothing so far. But there will be — this I promise you.”

Chapter 6

Date: 2015-12-24; view: 626