Svetislav Basara - The Cyclist Conspiracy

Those are things of which I could not conceive. Not even in the dreams in which Joseph patiently taught me the impossible.

“You see,” he said, “it’s not that difficult to understand. I will use an analogy. Just as America, from where you sailed, did not exist but was rather created by the longing of people for a place where they could extend their exodus to the west, so did our island exist, but it vanished to the senses of the world, because generations and generations of islanders despised space. Then again, it would not be correct to say that America and the island are two different worlds. It’s like when you turn a glove inside out. It remains the same glove except that what was up becomes what is down and instead of the left it turns into the right. At the same time, that is the only possible explanation for your mission. You belong both to the world of America and to the world of the island; you are the mediator in transmitting the secret. That is the real purpose. The description of the situation and of the island is of no importance whatsoever. It’s just a way for all the things we are talking about here to become a part of history. Otherwise, it would all dissipate into nothingness. It wouldn’t even be a fantasy.”

I could swear that, except for Joseph and a couple of other dignitaries, I never saw the same face twice in a row, even though the island did not have many inhabitants. My arrival surprised no one. It was known about for ages, down to the last detail. The smallest of children spoke of the Masters who had died many generations before, and the adults spoke of events that were supposed to happen in the distant future. In great detail they described the assassination of an Austrian archduke in the middle of a Balkan gorge, and with horror they spoke of a great war that would be fought with only one goal: to kill and destroy as much as possible.

From time to time, the patriarchs of old would appear and then just as unexpectedly disappear, but this did not disturb anyone. However, perhaps the most interesting, those people were not sinless, lifeless creatures. Robberies happened, adultery, and even murder, not to mention all the lies that were told. The attitude toward the offenders was interesting. They were not punished, not judged, nor were they despised. On the contrary, they were showered with attention, and they were even envied because, by doing evil, they had obtained the saving possibility of repentance, and thereby the possibility of advancing in their spirituality. These occasional outpourings of evil served to remind everyone of the highest good, God, and so that no one forgot that among created beings none are perfect or without sin.

Still, their graves are the most interesting of all. Placed just along the shore of the ocean, facing eastward, they consist of a series of vertical recesses in which the corpses stand erect, their eyelids half-opened, mummified by the cold in the expectation of that day when the earth and sky will dissolve and when the unimaginable flame of the living God will flood light into the darkness of the human heart. Visits to those graves, scattered among the hills, are the only external manifestation of religiosity I have been able to observe. I have often noticed men and women going to the recess intended for them, getting into them, and practicing their death for hours. Hundreds, thousands of years of solitude that come before the moment when everything will become one.

Before I finish this story and, sealed in a bottle of Venetian glass (a gift from King Charles), introduce it into the fluctuating world of history, I will say something about the language of the island’s inhabitants. At first, it reminded me of the quiet buzz of a beehive and it was completely incomprehensible to me, although it was beautiful. The secret of this language was revealed to me by Joseph, during one of my oneiric lessons. Namely, they speak the words of all languages of the world, the words that made up human language before the disturbance at Babylon, those that the Almighty shattered into a seeming multitude in order to stop evil from becoming perfectly formulated and organized. But for the good, as Joseph said, no words are necessary.

Because, just as resting is perfect movement, so silence is perfect articulation.

After the “Second Stain” affair, the last one I presented to the public, Sherlock Holmes retired to his home in Sussex, expressing the wish — which I have respected until now — that I no longer publish my notes about his investigations. Undoubtedly he despised the popularity that made him into a sort of public figure and thereby intricately interfering in his work, but I tend to believe that this is not the reason why my friend retired. The reason, above all, should be sought in the profanation of crime which, as time has passed, has fallen to the level of a purely technical deed, calculated and cold-blooded, almost professional, bereft of any romantic element whatsoever. However, something else is also afoot. I hope that the memory of Sherlock Holmes will not be tarnished by the admission that a significant role in his decision to withdraw was played by the case of “The Maniacal Cyclist,” to my knowledge the only case Sherlock Holmes never managed to solve.

It was in the spring of 1898. Inspector Lestrade, as was his custom, had dropped by our room in Baker Street in the evening. We lit the gaslight and chatted over coffee. Sherlock inquired of the inspector if he were working on any interesting cases.

“You see, Mr. Holmes,” said the inspector. “I do have one case, but I believe it’s more of a case for Mr. Watson than for myself. A masked bicyclist appeared in Trafalgar Square seven days ago, making one round and then pulling out a revolver — he shot a clock in the window of ‘James and Sons’ watchmakers, and then he sped away. It caused quite a stir.”

“Yes,” said Holmes, “I read about it in the paper.”

“But that was not the end of it,” inspector Lestrade continued. “That same cyclist appeared again two days later in a different place and shot at a city clock in plain sight of a police officer.”

“I read about that in the paper, too.”

“Yes, after that there were no more articles in the newspapers, but the bicyclist carried on with his dastardly deeds. The journalists have agreed with our suggestion not to write about it until the case has been thoroughly investigated. You know, because of the panic. Because, if he shoots at clocks, by God, the maniac might begin to shoot at people as well. He’s destroyed three clocks so far, and I don’t have enough men to place a guard in front of every clock in London, which must number…”

“Exactly 3874,” said Holmes, smiling at his friend.

After Lestrade had left, Holmes asked me to bring him a map of London. He compared the map with the list of places where the maniacal cyclist had appeared. Then he stood up abruptly, took his violin and, deep in thought, began to play as he always did when confronted with a difficult problem to solve. Nothing unusual in that, except for the fact that there was no problem.

“Ah, my dear Watson,” he said a bit later, “you have fallen for the same deception as our friend Lestrade. I know it already: you’re convinced that the maniacal cyclist is a mentally disturbed individual.”

“Of course. All the indications are there. The acts he’s committing are absolutely nonsensical. Neither does he have any use of them, nor do they cause any real harm to anyone. Doubtlessly, we have a mentally ill person here who is attempting to attract attention to himself.”

“Wrong, my dear Watson. The bicyclist does want to attract attention, but not to himself, rather to his movements. Take a look at the map of London where I have dotted in the places where he appeared and connected them.”