The Dead Mountaineer's Inn Read online

  The door to the shower was at the top of the stairs. It appeared to be locked. I stood there indecisively for a few minutes, carefully twisting the plastic doorknob back and forth. Heavy, unhurried steps were coming towards me down the hallway. You could always use the one downstairs, I thought. Or, come to think of it, you could do something else. You could try a few runs on those skis. I stared absentmindedly at the wooden staircase, which appeared to lead all the way up to the roof. Or you could go up on the roof and take a look at the view. They say that the sunsets and sunrises here are indescribably beautiful. And then again, what the hell was with the shower door being locked? Or is someone sitting in there? It’s quiet … I tried the handle again. All right. Never mind the shower. There’s no need to hurry. I turned around and went back.

  I could tell immediately that something was different in my room. After a second I understood: there was a smell of pipe smoke, the same one I’d smelled in the inn’s museum. I glanced quickly at the ashtray. There was no burning pipe—just a tiny mound of ash with particles of tobacco in it. He’s just here, I remembered. He doesn’t drink, he doesn’t eat—he just leaves footprints.

  And then someone nearby yawned loudly. The sound of clicking claws came lazily from the bedroom, as Lel the St. Bernard gave me a look and then stretched with a grin.

  “So you’re the one who’s been smoking?” I said.

  Lel blinked and wagged his head. Like he was shaking a fly off.

  2.

  Judging by the footprints in the snow, someone had already tried to ski here. They’d made it fifty meters, falling at every step, and then turned around, sunk to their knees by this point, and lugged their skis and poles back, dropping them, picking them back up and dropping them again. Their frost-covered curses had not yet settled over the blue gouges and scars in the snow. But the rest of the snow-covered valley was clean and untouched, like a new starched sheet.

  I took a few hops to test the ski bindings, and then sped off with a whoop in the direction of the sun. I increased my pace gradually, squinting from the glare and from pleasure, throwing off with every breath I exhaled the boredom of smoke-filled offices, musty papers, teary perps and grumpy bosses, the stale jokes and tedious political arguments, my wife’s petty bustling, the demands of the younger generation … The dull, slush-filled streets, the hallways reeking of sealing wax, the empty safes gaping like wrecked tanks, the dining room with its faded blue wallpaper and bedroom with its faded pink wallpaper and the yellowish ink-stained wallpaper of the nursery … With every breath I left myself further behind … left the tightly wound moralist who followed every law to the last letter, the man whose shirt buttons shone, the attentive husband and exemplary father, hospitable to his friends and friendly with his relatives … I was overjoyed to feel all this leaving me, I hoped that it would never return, that from this point forward everything would be light, elastic, crystal-clear, that it would proceed at this same furious, happy, youthful pace, and how good that I’d come here … Well done Zgut, clever Zgut, thank you Zgut, although the rumors are that you bust your safecrackers in the chops during interrogations … And I’m still that tough, quick, strong—I can do it like that, straight as a razor, a hundred thousand kilometers along a perfectly straight line, or I could do it like this, a sharp right, a sharp left, a ton of snow spraying out from under my skis … And then I haven’t been on a pair in three years, could it be three years since we bought that damned new house, and what kind of devil made us do that, a place to grow old in, you work all your life to grow old … Well damn it, I don’t want to think about that, damn old age, damn the house, and damn you Peter, Peter Glebsky, you pencil-pushing clerk, and bless you …

  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.

  The door of the room across from mine was open. A young man was hanging in the doorway, right at the lintel, with his feet jammed against one side of the molding and his back against the other. He actually seemed quite relaxed considering how weird his position was. He looked down at me, flashing long yellow teeth, and gave a military salute.

  “Hello,” I said, after a second. “Can I help you?”

  He jumped down light as a cat and stood in front of me at attention, still holding his salute.

  “I salute you, Inspector,” he said. “Allow me to introduce myself: Simon Simone, Chief Lieutenant, Cybernetics Division.”

  “At ease,” I said, and we shook hands.

  “Actually, I’m a physicist,” he explained. “But ‘Cybernetics Division’ sounds almost as good as ‘Infantry.’ Kind of funny, actually.” Suddenly he burst out with that same terrible sob-laugh, in which one could hear the dampness of dungeons, indelible bloodstains and skeletons in their rusty chains.

  “What were you doing up there?” I asked, shaking off my surprise.

  “Training,” he said. “I’m a mountain climber …”

  “Dead, or alive?” I said, regretting the joke as soon as he unleashed another avalanche of his gruesome laughter on me.

  “Not bad—not bad at all for a first try,” he said, wiping his eyes. “No, I’m still alive. I came here to scale the cliffs, but I haven’t been able to reach them yet. They’re surrounded by snow. So instead I climb the doors, the walls …” Suddenly he stopped talking and grabbed my hand. “To be honest,” he said, “I came here to recover. I’m worn out. Have you heard of The Midas Project? It’s top secret. I’ve been working on it for four years, without a single vacation. The doctors prescribed a course of sensual indulgence.” He laughed again, but we’d reached the dining room by this point and he rushed off towards the table where the snacks had been laid out. “Follow my lead, Inspector,” he shouted as he ran. “You’ve got to hurry if you don’t want the dead man’s friends and relatives to eat all the caviar.”

  The dining room was big, with five windows. In the middle of it stood a huge oval table with space for twenty people; the elegant buffet board, blackened with age, sparkled with silver goblets and a large number of mirrors and multicolored bottles; the tablecloth was starched; the plates were fine porcelain, the flatware was silver with elegant niello inlay. Still, things had been set up in the most democratic way possible. The snack table was covered with … snacks. First come, first served. At another, smaller table, Kaisa was setting out two delftware tubs filled with vegetable soup and bouillon. Serve yourself, either one. For those who wanted a drink there was a battalion of bottles, including brandy, Irish gin, beer and a house liqueur (made out of Edelweiss petals, Zgut had claimed).

  Du Barnstoker and the progeny of his deceased brother had already sat down at the table. Du Barnstoker, who was delicately stirring a bowl of bouillon with a silver spoon, glared reproachfully at the kid as it planted its elbows on the table and commenced to devour its vegetable soup.

  A dazzling, uncommonly beautiful woman who I didn’t recognize was holding court at the head of the table. She was somewhere between twenty and forty years old, with soft, dusky-blue shoulders, a swan-like neck, huge, half-closed eyes with long eyelashes, voluminous ash-blond hair and a tiara that looked like it cost a fortune. The woman was so out of place at this simply set inn table that I knew she had to be Mrs. Moses. I had never seen a woman like her, except in glossy magazines and maybe at the movies.

  The owner, who had a tray in his hand, skirted the table on his way towards me. On this tray was a crystal glass glowing with an eerie blue liqueur.

  “Trial by fire!” he announced when he reached me. “I’d grab something spicy.”

  I did what he said. I made myself a plate of olives and caviar. I looked at the owner and added a pickle. Then I looked at the liqueur and squeezed half a lemon over the caviar. Everyone was watching me. I took a glass, exhaled (there went another couple musty offices and corridors) and poured the liqueur into my mouth. I shuddered. Everyone was looking at me, so I shuddered only on the inside, and bit off half the pickle. The owner grunted. Simone also grunted. Mrs. Moses said, in a crystalline voice, “Now there’s a real man.” I smiled and tucked the second half of the pickle into my mouth, bitterly regretting the fact that there were no melon-sized pickles available. “Cool!” the kid said distinctly.

  “Mrs. Moses!” the owner said. “Allow me to introduce Inspector Glebsky.”

  The ash-blond tower at the head of the table swayed
slightly, the extraordinary eyelashes rose and lowered.

  “Mr. Glebsky!” the owner said. “Mrs. Moses.”

  I bowed. I would have gladly doubled over, my stomach was hurting so much, but Mrs. Moses smiled, and I soon started to feel better. Turning away shyly, I finished off my appetizers and started on the soup. The owner sat me across from the Barnstokers, putting Mrs. Moses to my right—too far away, unfortunately—and to my left—unfortunately too close—Simone the dull fool, who looked ready at any moment to let loose with his ghoulish laughter.

  The owner directed the table’s conversation. We talked about mysterious and unknown things—to be precise, about the strange events that had been happening at the inn over the last couple of days. Since I was new to this, they filled me in on the details. Du Barnstoker confirmed that, as a matter of fact, two days ago he had lost a pair of shoes, which were discovered that evening in the inn’s museum. A chuckling Simone explained that someone had been reading his books, most of which were on scientific topics, and making notes in the margins. The majority of them were utterly ignorant. The owner, overcome with pleasure, mentioned what had happened today with the lit pipe and the newspaper, adding that he was certain someone wandered the building at night. He had heard them with his own ears, and one time even saw a white figure making its way across the hallway from the front door to the stairs. Mrs. Moses willingly confirmed these reports, adding that yesterday night someone had been staring at her through the window. Du Barnstoker likewise seconded the fact that someone roamed the building at night, but added that he thought it was only good old Kaisa—at least, that’s what he thought. The owner remarked that this was completely impossible, while Simon Simone bragged that he slept like the dead and didn’t hear a thing at night. Nevertheless, he had noticed twice already that his ski boots were constantly wet, as if someone were running around in them in the snow at night. To amuse myself, I chimed in with the story of the ashtray and the St. Bernard, at which point the kid hoarsely announced to everyone that it, the kid that is, had nothing in general against all this weirdness, it was used to such hocus-pocusy stuff, but couldn’t stand it when strangers decided to lay down in its, that is the kid’s, bed. Upon saying this it pointed its sunglasses fiercely in my direction, making me glad that I had only just arrived today.