Макс Фрай - The Stranger

I really understood almost nothing of these explanations, though a thing or two did actually sink in.

“But that ghost, the one that lived in Xolomi, that’s what he called Lonli-Lokli! He said to me, ‘You brought the Tipfinger here, fellow!’ Could our Shurf also really be—”

Sir Maba burst out laughing.

“Ah, Maxlilgl Annox! Don’t give it another thought. That was his favorite curse. He called nearly all adepts of other Orders ‘Tipfingers.’ And your Lonli-Lokli, back in the day, as far as I know, was . . . where did he seek the Power, Juffin?”

“In the Order of the Holey Cup.”

“That’s right, the Mad Fisherman. He made some heavy-duty mischief in his day.”

“Sir Lonli-Lokli? Heavy-duty mischief?” I was flabbergasted.

“Why are you so surprised, Max? People change. Take a look at yourself. Where is the pathetic little chap who trembled at the approaching footsteps of his boss?” Sir Maba said with a grin.

“This is true.”

“By the way, I saw how you put the old man out of his misery. The waterfall was priceless! That was the best show I’ve seen since the beginning of this dreary Code Epoch.”

“You saw that?” I was becoming accustomed to this nature of surprise.

“Of course! It’s my hobby—keeping track of the fates of my former colleagues. That’s why I couldn’t pass up such a performance. But don’t you entertain any illusions about the future, young man. I never intervene. I only observe. That’s why Juffin Hully exists—to intervene. For the time being we have some differences of opinion on life.”

“Which has never prevented you from accepting fees for your, let us say, ‘consultations,’” Juffin interposed drily.

“Of course not. I love money. It’s so pretty. Actually, as for your personal Tipfinger, Max—you’ll have to kill it sooner or later. It’s not good to litter the Universe with any old thing. Besides, a Tipfinger in the Door between Worlds is an unprecedented outrage. There you have my consultation; and just try to accuse me of taking money from the King’s coffers without deserving it!”

“Oh, that’s a good one. Suddenly he’s the guardian of the State Treasury!”

“How does one kill a Tipfinger?” I asked.

“When you kill it, you’ll know it. Don’t worry, Max. Theoretically, the matter can wait for a few hundred years. But sooner or later, you just won’t have any other choice. Life is very wise. By that time, you’ll certainly know what to do.”

“Well, if you say so, then I will,” I said. “You have confused me once and for all.”

“That’s how every good story must end, Max. When a person stops understanding something, he’s on the right track,” Juffin assured me. “We won’t take any more of your valuable time, Maba. All the more since we’ve already eaten everything up. Don’t forget: you promised to dream me up tonight.”

“I won’t forget. Farewell.”

I was expecting some kind of escapade or outburst, but nothing of the sort happened. Sir Maba Kalox left the living room by the same door he had entered, and we went out into the front hall.

“Have I been promoted?” I asked. “Have I been accepted into the ranks? Somehow there don’t seem to be any more surprises in store.”

“Are you sure, Max?” Juffin said, smiling, as he threw open the door into the garden.

“Of course, I—” I stepped over the threshold and froze. Instead of the garden we found ourselves in our own office.

“Well, what do you think of that?” Sir Juffin Hully winked at me. “Never let down your guard when you’re dealing with Maba Kalox.”

I sat down in my chair and started to practice those very breathing exercises that the unflappable Sir Lonli-Lokli had taught me. I had only the faintest hope that they would help.

IN MY HOMELAND, WE CELEBRATE THE NEW YEAR. HERE IN ECHO, AT the end of winter, they see the old year out. At home we say, “Happy New Year!” Here they say, “Another Year Has Passed.”

About a dozen days before the year ends, the citizens of Echo begin to recall that life is short, and they try to do everything they didn’t get around to in the past 288 days: fulfill the promises they have to others or themselves, to pay off their debts, receive what they are owed, and even willingly plunge into all kinds of unpleasantness so as not to sully the bright vista of life that awaits them (so they think) just on the other side of the “terrible year” now coming to an end. Practicality taken to an absurd extreme. In a word, the Last Day of the Year is no celebration, but a ridiculous excuse to begin—and just as suddenly to cease—mind-boggling activity.

This frenzy passed me by completely. Sir Juffin Hully was drawing up the annual report. After rushing around tearing his hair out for two days, he transferred this task onto the iron shoulders of Lonli-Lokli. The only thing I had to do was pay the debt I had run up at the Sated Skeleton, which took exactly fifteen minutes. In other establishments I always paid right away in cash, not so much out of contempt for local superstition, but rather in the hope that “touching metal” really would cool off love. In my case, however, it was ineffectual.

Troubles, it seemed, were not on the horizon for me. The bad habit of making promises didn’t apply to me, either. The only thing left to do was to pick up the rest of my annual salary from Dondi Melixis, the Treasurer of the Ministry of Perfect Public Order, who, it must be said, parted with the treasury funds with such a display of relief that it seemed they were burning a hole in his hands.

After wrapping up my affairs, I was forced to contemplate the haggard faces of my colleagues. They glanced enviously at my healthy pink glow, that of a lay-about who got more than enough sleep. Sir Melifaro was the most assiduous of all during these trying days. His exuberance disappeared, and he even seemed to get thinner.

“It’s not just a matter of work and other troubles. I have too many relatives, too many friends, I’m too goodhearted to refuse them anything, and there are too few Days of Freedom from Care for me to be able fulfill my promises! Only orphaned ascetics like you, friend, are happy and free,” Melifaro said bitterly.

It was after midnight, about four days before the End of the Year. I had arrived, as usual, for night duty. Melifaro, working practically since dawn, had just finished putting in order the next of a pile of self-inscribing tablets, wherein records of 300-year-old interrogations, and letters from one Lady Assi, peacefully coexisted. (Melifaro swore on the health of his own mama and all departed Magicians that he had no clue who she was.) He dragged himself to my office to drink some kamra in more comfortable surroundings. About eighteen distant relatives from all corners of the Unified Kingdom, who had long ago been invited to visit, had descended on Melifaro’s house. I knew I had to save the poor guy.

“Send them a call and tell them . . . Well, for example, that someone is planning to assassinate Grand Magician Moni Mak, and no one but you can prevent this dastardly deed. Make something up. Then go to my place and get some sleep. True, I have merely four bathing pools as well as two cats, but when it comes to the lesser of two evils—”

Melifaro wouldn’t let me finish.

“O Lord of the Endless Plain! My savior! From this day onward I am forever in your debt. Max, you’re a genius. Now I know the value of true male bonding.”

The pale shadow of Melifaro began again to resemble that natural disaster to which I was accustomed. He even bounced slightly in his chair—a far cry from his normally unmitigated exuberance, but it was better than nothing.