Aurorarama - Jean-Christophe Valtat [50]
Wynne sighed.
Gabriel tried to keep his victory modest, but it warmed his plexus with a pleasant glow. They had failed first to unlock his mind and now in tampering with his library. It reinforced some irrational belief in the value of his lifestyle, even if that was presently going to the dogs like a rotten piece of ring seal.
“Do not worry about the mess. I’ll clean it up myself. See you later,” he said simply, stepping back to free the passage to the front door, which had remained open.
Wynne fetched his greatcoat and hat without a word, while DeBrutus pandiculated on the sofa, trying to look unconcerned. Gabriel did not even feel hateful any more; he was merely in that state where a man would trade Heaven for a darkened room and pair of clean sheets.
His visitors eventually shuffled moodily toward the door. Wynne, just before going out, pointed his cane at Gabriel, almost touching his breast. Gabriel thought of the sword that was sheathed inside.
“There will be no third time, Mr. d’Allier.”
“I should hope not,” said Gabriel.
As soon as he had heard them leave the building, he hurried toward the book’s hiding place, inside the pianorad. It had been found, unlocked and rummaged through. The book had disappeared and, unless something was escaping him completely, had already been missing when the Gentlemen had searched there. Gabriel could not figure out why and was too tired even to try. Stella? But he had not told Stella about the book, having had other fish to fry, or as the French side of his mind put it, other cats to whip. He went toward the bed, his mind a foggy blank, and fell on his face, his boots still on his feet.
That was when he heard a knock on the door.
He tried to ignore it but it stabbed on, murdering his sleep. He finally stumbled to the door, barely awake, his brain sideways in his skull, promising himself to strangle the concierge if it was she. But it wasn’t. Instead Gabriel saw in front of him a tall, thin man dressed in a dirty black coat, with a pointy beard, very bad skin, and a parcel tucked under his arm.
“Hello,” the man said in a conspiratorial whisper that revealed a thick Russian accent. “I am Mikhail Mikhailovitch Mugrabin. I have come to bring back your book.”
“Book?” asked Gabriel in a thick voice.
Mugrabin looked all around suspiciously.
“The one you so kindly lent me,” he eventually murmured with a wink.
Gabriel, without giving it much thought, moved away from the door to let the man inside. The mysterious visitor strode into the room and pivoted on his heels, tearing the parcel to shreds and pulling out Gabriel’s own copy of A Blast on the Barren Land.
“Excellent book. A bit reformist for my tastes. But you have to start somewhere,” he said, with a grimace that would have been comical if his skin had not been so awfully wrinkled and red.
Gabriel could not believe what he saw. He was astonished—not just by the return of his book, but also by this character who looked as if someone had crudely glued half of Dostoyevsky to half of Rasputin. He was like a policeman’s dream of a Russian anarchist, or perhaps more like a policeman’s impersonation of one. They had not been long to send a replacement for Wynne, he surmised. But the provocation was a bit gross.
“I did not lend you this book, did I?” said Gabriel, who was not going to admit anything.
“Your girlfriend did,” said Mugrabin. He leaned forward, his ugly mouth close to Gabriel’s ear. “Charming girl, by the way. You’re a very lucky man. What are your opinions about free love? I hope they are as liberal as hers.”
Gabriel must have made a face. Mugrabin burst out in a forced laugh, as if trying to sound insane, or so it seemed to Gabriel.
“Hahahaha!!! I was joking!!! Of course!!!”
He pirouetted and launched himself onto the sofa with a sigh of ease.
“Thanks for the coffee!” he