The Stranger - Max Frei [6]
“Max, what’s with the serious face?” Juffin asked in a knowing tone. He always could tell what I was feeling; I supposed that for him, my emotional state was like the headline on the front page of a tabloid: utter nonsense, but written in boldface type that makes glasses superfluous.
“I’m getting into the role,” I improvised. “Any barbarian from the Borderlands would be nervous before meeting someone who had gotten cuffs on the ear from His Royal Highness all his life.”
“Ingenuity, B; erudition D-plus: ‘Barbarians from the Borderlands,’ as you phrase it, are supercilious, proud, and ignorant. They scoff at our public servants and officials in the capital. Intuition, A-plus! How else could you have guessed that once, under the reign of Gurig, Sir Makluk really did earn a royal box on the ears when he trod on the hem of the royal robe?”
“To be honest, I was trying to joke, not playing a guessing game.”
“That’s what I meant when I mentioned intuition. Just like that, apropos of nothing, you let something slip, and it’s right on the nose!”
“Okay, suppose I am a prodigy. Also, according to your legend, I’m a barbarian who has serious intentions of settling down in Echo and embarking on a career. So I must be somewhat different from my ignorant but proud countrymen. And when a person wears a veneer of studied hauteur, shyness is usually lurking underneath. I know: I’m the same way. Do you take back your D-plus?”
“All right, you’ve convinced me. I’ll take back the ‘D,’ and you can keep the ‘plus.’”
We crossed our garden and entered the neighbor’s through a side gate. Then we were at the front door, with an inscription that read “Here lives Sir Makluk. Are you sure you’ve come to the right place?” I laughed halfheartedly, as I was not at all sure. On the other hand, Sir Juffin had enough conviction for both of us.
The door opened silently, and four servants in identical gray uniforms invited us in chorus to enter. A quartet that was nothing if not professional; I had to hand it to them.
And so began that for which I was not prepared; but then, Juffin claims that no one is ever prepared for a reception by Sir Makluk, except inveterate society lions—the most important and useless creatures in the world.
A horde of strapping young fellows advanced ominously upon us from the corner, with two palanquins atilt. At the same time, the servants in gray handed us each a pile of multihued rags of ambiguous purpose. There was only one thing for me to do: watch Juffin and try to mimic all his actions.
First I had to take off the looxi, without which I felt somewhat naked: the thin skaba that gave my body a high-definition contour did not at the moment seem appropriate dress for appearing in public. Then I began studying the garments I had been given and determined it wasn’t a pile of varied rags, but a one-piece construction—a large crescent made of thick fabric, with enormous patch pockets. The inner edge of the crescent was adorned with a kind of necklace made from bright scraps of sheer material. I stared at Sir Juffin. My only guide through the labyrinth of good manners donned his crescent with a careless gesture like it was a baby’s bib. Shuddering, I repeated his performance. The band of butlers remained expressionless. Juffin wasn’t putting on an act for me, apparently; we were doing just what was expected of us.
When we were finally appropriately decked out, the fellows with the palanquins went down on their knees before us. Sir Juffin mounted the contraption and reclined gracefully upon it. I gulped and clambered onto my own glorified stretcher in turn. We were carried along in this way for quite some time, gazing down deserted corridors as broad as streets as we progressed. The sheer spaciousness of Sir Makluk’s dwelling made an indelible impression on me, and judging by the outside of the house, you’d never have known—it appeared to be just an ordinary house of modest dimensions.
Finally we arrived at a large hall, half-empty, like all the rooms in the only house