Arkady Strugatsky - The Dead Mountaineer's Inn

When this initial round of enthusiasm had subsided I found myself beside the road, wet, breathing hard, covered from head to foot with powdery snow. Amazing, how quickly the waves of excitement pass. You nag, upbraid yourself for hours and days on end, and then excitement comes-and then it's gone. And now my ears are blocked up because of the wind... I took my glove off, stuck a pinky in my ear, twisted and then suddenly heard a crackling roar, as if someone was landing a biplane nearby. I barely managed to wipe my goggles clear before it flew past me-it wasn't a biplane of course: it was a huge motorcycle, one of those new ones that demolish more walls and cost more lives than all the rapists, thieves and murderers combined. It sprayed me with lumps of snow; my goggles slushed up again, but I still managed to pick out the skinny, hunched figure, with its waving black hair and red scarf sticking out straight as a board behind it. No helmet, I thought automatically, that's a fifty crown fine and suspension of your driver's license for a month... But there was no question of making out the license plate-I couldn't even see the inn, or half of the valley for that matter. Clouds of snow filled the air. And what do I care anyway? I leaned into my ski poles and hurried after the motorcycle towards the inn.

By the time I got there, the motorcycle was cooling down in front of the porch. Next to it on the snow lay a pair of huge leather gloves with funnel-shaped sleeves. I thrust my skis in the snowbank, dusted myself off and took another look at the motorcycle. It was an evil looking machine. Probably the inn would have to change its name next year to "The Dead Motorcyclist's Inn." The owner would take his newly arrived guest's hand and say, pointing at the shattered wall, "Here. He hit it going a hundred and twenty miles an hour and kept going until he came out the other side of the building. The earth shook when he burst into the kitchen carrying four hundred and thirty-two bricks..." What's so bad about a little advertising, I thought, as I climbed the stairs. I'll go to my room now and there'll be a skeleton sitting at my desk with a lit pipe between its teeth, and in front of that skeleton, a bottle of house liquor costing three crowns a liter.

In the middle of the hall stood a remarkably tall and very hunched-over man, in a coat whose tails reached to his heels. He put his hands behind his back as he scolded the scrawny, floppy-looking creature of indeterminate sex currently lounging in the recliner. The creature had a small, pale face, which was half-hidden by a pair of huge black sunglasses, a mass of tangled black hair and a fluffy red scarf.

When I closed the door behind me, the tall man stopped talking and turned towards me. He was wearing a bow tie and had a noble-looking face, adorned by aristocratic flews and a no-less-aristocratic nose. Only one man had that nose, and this had to be that man. He looked at me for a second as if puzzled, then pursed his lips and walked towards me with a narrow white hand extended in front of him.

"Du Barnstoker." He practically sang it. "At your service."

"Not the Du Barnstoker," I asked, sincerely impressed. I shook his hand.

"The very same, sir, the very same," he said. "To whom do I have the honor?"

I introduced myself, feeling a sort of awkward shyness that is quite alien to someone in my line of work. For I could tell immediately that a man like this was certainly hiding his income or lying on his tax returns.

"How charming!" Du Barnstoker sang out suddenly, grabbing me by the lapel. "Where did you find it? Brun, my child, look how charming it is."

He was holding a light blue violet between his fingers. It even started to smell like violets. I forced myself to applaud even though I don't like these kinds of things. The creature in the chair yawned with all of its tiny mouth and threw a leg over the chair arm.

"Up your sleeve," it said in a deep hoarse voice. "Pretty weak, uncle."

"Up my sleeve?" Du Barnstoker repeated sadly. "No, Brun, that would have been amateurish. That would have been utterly weak, as you put it. Not to mention unworthy of a connoisseur such as Mr. Glebsky."

He placed the violet on his palm and looked at it, raising his eyebrows, and then it disappeared. I closed my mouth and shook my head. I was speechless.

"You ski masterfully, Mr. Glebsky," Du Barnstoker said, "I've been watching you through the window. And I must say, it was truly a pleasure."

"Oh no," I muttered, "It's just a hobby, something I used to do..."

"Uncle," the creature called suddenly from the depths of the armchair. "Better make me a cigarette."

Du Barnstoker seemed to remember something suddenly.

"Ah yes!" he said. "Allow me to introduce you, Mr. Glebsky: this is Brun, the sole progeny of my dear departed brother... Brun, my child!"

The kid grudgingly hoisted itself up out of the chair and approached. Its hair was luxurious, feminine, or rather maybe not feminine so much as youthful, let's say. Its legs, wrapped in stretchy fabric, were skinny and boyish, or perhaps the opposite: the legs of a shapely young girl. The jacket was three sizes bigger than it needed to be. In short, I would have felt better if Du Barnstoker designated the issue of his dear departed brother as either a niece or nephew. The kid twisted its soft pink mouth into an indifferent smile and extended a chapped, scratched hand.

"Did we scare you?" the creature inquired hoarsely. "There on the road, I mean..."

"We?" I asked.

"Well okay, not we exactly. Bucephalus. He's good at that... I totally dusted his goggles," it explained to its uncle.

"In this particular case," Du Barnstoker kindly explained, "Bucephalus is not the legendary horse of Alexander of Macedonia. In this particular case, Bucephalus is a motorcycle, an ugly and dangerous machine that has been slowly killing me over the last two years and will in the end, I'm convinced, drive me to my grave."

"Don't forget that cigarette," the kid piped in.

Du Barnstoker shook his head and held out his hands helplessly. When he clasped them again there was a lit cigarette between his fingers, which he offered to the kid. It inhaled, grunting capriciously.

"Filtered, as usual..."

"Naturally, you'll want a shower after your sprint," Du Barnstoker said to me. "It's almost time for lunch..."

"Of course," I said. "Please excuse me."

I was very relieved to get away from them. I didn't feel like I was in great form. They'd caught me off guard. All the same, it seemed to me that a famous magician on stage was one thing, and a famous magician in his private life was another. I made my exit and made my way up the three flights of stairs to the floor my room was on.

The corridor was as empty as it had been before. Somewhere billiard balls were still smacking dryly against one another. The damn shower was still locked. Somehow I managed to clean myself up in my room; I pulled out a cigarette and collapsed on the couch. I woke to the sound of someone shrieking and a sinister, throaty laugh coming from the hall. I jumped up. At that very second there was a knock at the door, and Kaisa's voice purred, "Dinner is served." I responded positively, yes, yes, I'm coming, swung my legs off the couch and stuffed them in my shoes. "Dinner is served!" I heard from a little ways off, and then again, "Dinner is served!" followed by the same sharp shriek and ghostly laughter. I even heard the rattle of rusty chains.

I combed my hair in front of the mirror, meanwhile trying out a few facial expressions, such as: polite distracted interest, the manly self-possession of a professional, a simple-souled openness to any acquaintance, and an aw-shucks grin. None of these seemed appropriate, so I stopped torturing myself, dropped a couple of cigarettes in my pocket for the kid and went out into the corridor. Emerging, I was struck dumb.