The Stranger - Max Frei [107]
After enjoying the concert, I sent a call to the Glutton and ordered kamra for two and a lot of cookies. The order arrived in a matter of minutes. When the courier opened the door, Melamori flitted to the far corner of the hall, fearful of remaining in my field of vision. She seemed to be listening to the clatter of dishes with bated breath.
When the messenger had left, I asked loudly through my wide-open door:
“If I have a tray with two jugs of kamra and two mugs delivered to my room, do you think it’s because I suffer from a split personality? I need help—there are no two ways about it.”
“Is that for me, Max?” came the plaintive squeak.
“It’s for my late great-grandmother, but as she’s in no condition to join us—well, I’m not angry, and the kamra’s getting cold.”
Melamori appeared at the door. Two expressions struggled for mastery on her face: a guilty one, and a satisfied one.
“Did Juffin tattle on me? He might have saved himself the trouble, since I’m so ashamed as it is,” she muttered.
“There’s no need to feel ashamed, Melamori. I’m just made a bit differently, that’s all. Don’t worry your head over it. My wise Mamma said that if I ate a lot of horse dung every morning, I would grow up strong and handsome, and no one would be able to shadow me. As you can see, she was right.”
My heart ordered me to be magnanimous, but it would be wrong not to admit that I hoped for a little reward. After all, her admiration (albeit treacherous) was a rather pleasant sensation; far better, it seemed to me, than polite indifference. Polite indifference, which I had experienced more than once, was something I didn’t even want to contemplate.
As a result of my carefully planned operation, I seemed at last to have charmed the First Lady of the Secret Investigative Force. Sipping her kamra, she exuded ingenuous cheer. Our fingers touched accidentally a few times over the cookie platter, and she didn’t cringe from my touch by any means. Suddenly emboldened, I suggested that we stroll through Echo in the evening. The lady admitted honestly that she was afraid, but she promised to be brave—not today or tomorrow, but very soon. No later than a few days from now. We just had to fix the date for accomplishing this feat. It was a serious victory. I hadn’t counted on it.
I went home ecstatic. For two hours or so I tossed and turned, unwilling to forfeit my happy excitement to the oblivion of sleep. Finally I dozed off, lulled by the purring of Armstrong and Ella curled up at my feet. I wasn’t able to sleep for long, though.
At midday I was awoken by a terrible noise. My head still fuzzy with sleep, I decided that a public execution (not customary in Echo) was underway beneath my window, or that there was an itinerant circus in progress (which does happen here from time to time). Insofar as it was impossible to regain slumber in the midst of that hubbub, I went to see what was going on. When I opened the door, I suddenly felt that I had either lost my mind, or that I wasn’t really awake yet.
On the street in front of my house, an orchestra made up of a dozen musicians had taken up its position. The musicians were trying desperately to coax some mournful melody out of their instruments. The magnificent Lonli-Lokli stood in front of them, wailing at the top of his lungs a sad song about a little house in the steppe at the top of his lungs.
This can’t be happening, because—because it just can’t be happening, I thought, dumbstruck. Hardly waiting until the end of the serenade, I rushed over to my colleague to find out what was happening.
“What is this, Shurf? Why aren’t you on duty? Good golly, what’s this all about?”
Sir Lonli-Lokli coughed, unfazed.
“Is something wrong Max? Did I pick the wrong song?”
“The song is wonderful, but . . . let’s go into the living room, Shurf. They’ll bring us some kamra from the Sated Skeleton, and you’ll explain everything to me. All right?” I was ready to cry from bewilderment and vexation.
Dismissing the musicians