The Stranger - Max Frei [52]
“That isn’t terrible, it’s wonderful! It’s terrible when things really start hopping here. Go get some rest, Sir Max. Take advantage of the opportunity.”
So I set off to get some sleep. When I got near the main doors to the street, I heard a roar coming from outside.
“Bull’s tits! You can save that for your own tail end in the latrine!” A powerful bass, sometimes breaking into a shrill falsetto, shook the old walls. “I’ve been in this cesspit for sixty years, and not one single butt—”
I threw the door open. A bearded goon of impressive stature draped in crimson silk, who looked like a cross between a sumo wrestler and an athlete, was hanging over the frightened driver of the official amobiler of the Ministry of Perfect Public Order.
“Silence!” I barked menacingly. “The Most Venerable Head of the Minor Secret Investigative Force has vowed to smite anyone who dares disturb him! And don’t you yell at the coachman; he is in the King’s Service!”
I pulled the aged hooligan off the driver and got into the amobiler. I had wanted to walk home, but now I would have to help the driver out: I couldn’t just leave him there to be tormented by that bully.
“Bull’s tits! So who is this new turd in my cesspit?” It seemed that the gift of speech had returned to the brute.
“You must have had a bit too much to drink, sir.” I was having fun. “Your latrine is at your house; this is the Ministry of Perfect Public Order of the capital of the Unified Kingdom. Do yourself a favor and think about that, because there are quite a few angry men around here who didn’t arrest anyone last night, and are raring to go. Let’s move it!” I said, addressing the driver, and we rode off to the sound of another volley of improvisations on the topic of latrines.
“Thank you, Sir Max,” said the old coachman, and bowed to me.
“Why did you let him yell at you like that? The guy looks frightening and all, but you work for the King and Sir Juffin Hully. You’re an important person, my friend.”
“Sir Boboota Box doesn’t usually take things like that into account. He thinks I shouldn’t have parked the amobiler so close to the doors; but his own driver parks practically inside the corridor every day!”
“So that was General Boboota Box? Whoa! He’s gonna get it!”
The foul-mouthed culprit reminded me of one of my old bosses. I felt an ominous satisfaction. That’s it, your time is up; now Sir Max will assign you each a latrine. Such spitefulness does me no honor, but what can I do? I’m a human, not an angel. This is who I am.
As soon as I got home I realized I was exhausted. The coziest bed in the Unified Kingdom was at my disposal. As for dreams, I guess you could say that they betrayed me.
Dreams have always been an extremely important part of my life, so a bad dream can throw me into a funk more easily than real misfortune. That morning there was a nightmare in store for me.
I dreamed I couldn’t go to sleep, which I guess shouldn’t have come as a surprise, considering that I was lying on top of the living room table. I lay there like a hearty lunch, gazing at the windows in the building opposite, that elegant architectural masterpiece of the olden days that I had admired during my first night in the apartment. In my waking hours, I had liked the building. Now it inspired a vague but powerful loathing in me. The gloom behind the triangular windows didn’t promise anything good. I knew that the inhabitants had died long ago, and only seemed to be alive. But by themselves they didn’t pose any danger.
For some time, nothing happened. I just couldn’t move, and I felt very uneasy about that. More than that, I disliked the strong premonition I had that something was about to happen. Something began to approach me from afar. It needed time—and it took it.
This arduous process seemed to drag on an without end. I began to think that it had always been that way, and always would be. But at a certain point I was able to wake myself up.
With a headache, wet and sticky