Макс Фрай - The Stranger

On the street in front of my house, an orchestra made up of a dozen musicians had taken up its position. The musicians were trying desperately to coax some mournful melody out of their instruments. The magnificent Lonli-Lokli stood in front of them, wailing at the top of his lungs a sad song about a little house in the steppe at the top of his lungs.

This can’t be happening, because—because it just can’t be happening, I thought, dumbstruck. Hardly waiting until the end of the serenade, I rushed over to my colleague to find out what was happening.

“What is this, Shurf? Why aren’t you on duty? Good golly, what’s this all about?”

Sir Lonli-Lokli coughed, unfazed.

“Is something wrong Max? Did I pick the wrong song?”

“The song is wonderful, but . . . let’s go into the living room, Shurf. They’ll bring us some kamra from the Sated Skeleton , and you’ll explain everything to me. All right?” I was ready to cry from bewilderment and vexation.

Dismissing the musicians with an expansive gesture, my “official friend” followed me into the house. Beside myself with relief, I collapsed onto an armchair and sent a call to the Sated Skeleton. Not the worst pub in Echo, it was, moreover, the closest to home.

“I’m not on duty, since they offered me a Day of Freedom from Care and Chores,” Lonli-Lokli began calmly. “And so I decided to use this opportunity to carry out my duty to you.”

“What duty?”

“The duty of friendship!” Now it was his turn to be surprised. “Have I done something wrong? But I consulted the handbook . . .”

“What is this handbook, and where did you get it?”

“You see, Sir Max, after you and I became friends, I started thinking that the customs of the places you spent your youth might differ from ours. I didn’t want to offend you accidentally, out of ignorance. So I turned to Sir Melifaro, since his father is the preeminent specialist on the subject of the customs of peoples that inhabit the World.”

“Aha! Sir Melifaro!” I exclaimed, beginning to understand.

“Yes, insofar as the books yielded no information about this aspect of the lives of your countrymen. The only reliable source for this information is Sir Manga Melifaro. Considering that we are both acquainted with his son—”

“Yes, we are acquainted. And Melifaro told you that you must regale me with romantic folk ballads?”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or to be angry. Someone knocked on the door. The delivery boy from the Sated Skeleton had arrived just on time.

“Sir Melifaro told me about this particular custom of the Barren Lands, and about a few others, as well. He said that at the full moon, you and I had to exchange blankets, and on the Last Day of the Year—”

“Yes? And what, in his opinion, must we do then?”

“Visit each other and clean the bathing pools with our own hands. As well as other hygienic spots, including the toilets. Was he mistaken about that, Max?”

I tried to master my emotions. I realized that I needed to spare Lonli-Lokli’s feelings. It would be unpleasant for him to find out that he had become the victim of a practical joke.

“Of course not, Shurf. That’s all basically true. Only, you don’t have to do any of this anymore. I’m an ordinary, civilized person who ended up living in a strange place for a time. Much stranger to me than you can even imagine. But I’ve never held fast to the barbaric customs of my homeland. So, for one thing, friendship means the same thing there that it means here—straightforward, good relations between two people who are sympathetic to each other and wish each other the best. Exchanging blankets or mutual toilet-cleaning isn’t necessary. Agreed?”

“But of course, Max. I hope I haven’t offended you in any way. I simply wished to show my respect for the customs of your forebears and to please you.”

“You have pleased me with your considerate attentions and companionship, in any case. I assure you.”

After feeding and reassuring my guest, I ushered him out the door and was left alone with my own fully justified indignation. The first thing I did was to send a call to Melifaro.

You’re forgetting that I can fly into a terrible rage, pal! I growled fiercely (insofar as it’s possible to growl fiercely using Silent Speech).

What’s wrong? he asked innocently.

What’s wrong! Lonli-Lokli was just here with a whole orchestra!

Are you upset? Melifaro asked in a sympathetic tone. My father said that was the custom where you come from. You didn’t like it? Does our Lonli-Lokli have a bad voice? I’d always heard his voice was most pleasant.

Well, that beats all!

I still didn’t know whether to laugh or to get angry. So I decided to take refuge in dreamland.

And it was the right thing to do. As it turned out, it was my last chance to get some sleep. That evening I went off to work—and ended up being detained for several days, embroiled in one of the most desperate of classic criminal cases.

The nightmare began suddenly, and coincided precisely with my arrival at the House by the Bridge. A block away from the Ministry, I heard a familiar bellowing:

“Buffalo tits! If those bony-butts can’t find their own crap in an outhouse full of it, they can eat it until the hole is empty! Give the case to those Secret Investigative Crapsuckers? Those Generals of Steppe Outhouses who can’t extricate themselves from their own crap without a horde of bare-butt barbarians?”

I was amused. The old geezer was waxing so eloquent that he didn’t hear the warning bells on my boots.

You just wait, my fine fellow! I’ll fix you, I thought with irrepressible glee, as I neared the Secret Entrance to the Ministry of the Perfect Public Order.

Right, “Secret” . . . as if! The door was wide open, and at the threshold stood General Boboota Box, no longer red, but purple with malevolent rage.

“Now those bare-butt denizens of barren outhouses will be wiping the foam from my crap!”

At this point, Boboota noticed me, and he shut up so fast it seemed that the World had stopped.

I looked wonderful, in my own humble opinion, my Mantle of Death unfurled and my face bright with fury. I summoned all my meager acting abilities so that my malice appeared convincing. The nervous tic—which, according to my directorial method, was supposed to strike Boboota with fear that my venomous spit was headed his way—was particularly effective. I don’t know how believable I really was, but it worked on Boboota. Fear hath a hundred eyes.

There are many grounds for reproach of the Dashing Swordsman Boboota Box, though cowardice is usually not one of them. But there is an immutable law of human nature: all people are mortally afraid of the unknown. My newly acquired gift, which had caused so much speculation in the city, belonged to the realm of the unknown. So you could understand the poor guy.

General Boboota gulped frantically. Captain Shixola, his hapless audience, looked at me almost with hope. I advanced toward them steadily. I wanted to push the joke to its bitter conclusion, to spit at him just to see what would happen. Theoretically, my spit didn’t threaten the life of the Chief of Police, since I was neither angry nor afraid. But I stopped myself just in time. I decided that it might put too great a strain on the poor fellow, and I would be left to clean up the mess afterward. So I traded malice for mildness, and smiled good-naturedly.

“Good evening, Sir Box! Good evening, Captain!” My politeness dealt the final blow to Boboota, though it seemed to disappoint his subordinate. I left them to their perplexity and sailed off to Sir Juffin Hully’s office, which was considered a safe haven for me, his right-hand man.