The Dead Mountaineer's Inn (5 page)

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.

The atmosphere of self-indulgent spookery hanging over the table was broken by the physicist.

“So a captain arrives in an unfamiliar city,” he announced. “He checks into his hotel and says he wants to speak to the owner …”

Suddenly he stopped and looked around.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I had forgotten that I was in the presence of a lady.” Here he bowed in the direction of Mrs. Moses. “Not to mention a young … er … a youth.” He stared at the kid.

“I've heard this one,” the kid said with disdain. “ ‘It's good, but you can't split it.' Is it that one?”

“Exactly,” Simone said, and let loose a burst of laughter.

“What can you split?” Mrs. Moses said, smiling.

“You
can't
split it!” the kid corrected her angrily.

“Ah: you
can't
split it,” a surprised Mrs. Moses said. “But what aren't we splitting?”

The kid opened its mouth to respond, but Du Barnstoker made a subtle gesture, and a large red apple appeared there. The kid immediately took a juicy bite out of it.

“The bottom line is that amazing things don't just happen in our inn,” Du Barnstoker said. “One has only to recall, for example, the unidentified flying objects …”

The kid pushed its chair back with a crash, stood up and, still munching on the apple, made its way to the exit. Well I'll be damned—for suddenly I seemed to be watching the slender figure of a charming young woman. But as soon as my heart softened the young woman vanished, leaving behind her, in the most obscene way, a brash and impertinent teenager: the kind that spread their fleas over beaches and shoot drugs in public bathrooms. Was it a boy? Or, damn it, a girl? I had no idea who to ask, and meanwhile Du Barnstoker was prattling on:

“Gentlemen: Giordano Bruno was burned for a reason. Doubtless, we are not alone in the universe. The only question is how densely intelligence is distributed through space. According to various scholars' estimates—Mr. Simone will correct me if I'm mistaken—there may be up to a million inhabited solar systems in our
galaxy alone. If I was a mathematician, gentlemen, I would, on the basis of this fact alone, attempt to establish at least the probability that our Earth is the object of someone else's scientific attention …”

I thought it over: to ask Du Barnstoker himself would be somewhat awkward. Besides, maybe even he doesn't know. A kid is a kid … No doubt my gracious host couldn't care less. Kaisa's dumb. To ask Simone would be to bring his undead laughter back to life … But then what am I doing? Why do I care? Should I grab more roast? Kaisa is dumb, that's for certain, but she knows a lot about cooking …

“You must agree,” Du Barnstoker murmured, “The idea that alien eyes are attentively and diligently studying our little corner of the universe across the cosmic abyss—this idea alone is enough to capture the imagination …”

“By my calculations,” Simone said. “The probability that they would be able to distinguish the areas settled by humans from the uninhabited ones, and then pay attention only to the inhabited parts, is e to the negative first power.”

“Is that so?” Mrs. Moses said, letting out a reserved gasp as she granted Simone a delighted smile.

Simone broke into his hee-haw. His eyes even started to water and he squirmed in his chair.

“How much is that in real numbers?” Du Barnstoker asked, after weathering this acoustic attack.

“About two thirds,” Simone said, wiping his eyes.

“But that's a huge probability,” Du Barnstoker said warmly. “As I understand it, that means that we are almost certainly an object of observation!”

At this point the door to the dining room creaked and rattled behind me, as if leaned against with great force.

“Pull!” the owner shouted. “Pull, please!”

I turned around at the exact moment that the door opened.
An astonishing figure stood on the threshold: a massive older man with a face that looked exactly like a bulldog's, dressed in a sort of hilarious, salmon-colored waistcoat straight out of the middle ages, whose hem hung all the way to his knees. Under this doublet, I could see uniform pants with golden general's stripes. One of his hands was pressed against his back, and the other was holding a tall metal mug.

“Olga!” he growled, staring straight ahead with bleary eyes. “Soup!”

A brief hubbub erupted. Mrs. Moses threw herself towards the soup table with uncharacteristic haste, the owner pulled himself from the buffet table and began gesturing with his hands, as if to signal his readiness to provide any service, Simone hurriedly stuffed his mouth with potatoes and rolled his eyes in order to avoid breaking out in laughter, while Mr. Moses (it had to be him) ferried his mug and solemnly quivering cheeks to a chair beside Mrs. Moses, where he sat down, practically missing his seat.

“It's snowing out, gentlemen,” he announced. He was completely drunk. Mrs. Moses set his soup in front of him; he stared sternly at the dish and took a sip from his mug. “What's everyone been talking about?”

“We've been discussing the possibility of visitors from another planet here on earth,” Du Barnstoker explained, smiling agreeably.

“What do you mean?” asked Mr. Moses, glaring suspiciously over his mug at Du Barnstoker. “I did not expect this from you, Barn … Bardel … Dubel …”

“Oh, it's only a theory,” Du Barnstoker said casually. “Mr. Simone has calculated the odds for us.”

“Nonsense,” Mr. Moses said. “Rubbish. Mathematics—now there's a science … And who is this?” he asked, rolling his right eye at me. It seemed murky somehow, a bad eye.

“Allow me to introduce you,” the host said hurriedly. “Mr. Moses, Inspector Glebsky. Inspector Glebsky, Mr. Moses.”

“Inspector,” grumbled Moses. “Fake documents, forged passports … I'll have you know my passport is not a forgery, Glebsky. Is your memory any good?”

“I can't complain,” I said.

“Well, then, don't forget that.” He glared sternly at his bowl again and took a sip from his mug. “Good soup today,” he said. “Olga, take this away and bring me some sort of meat. But why have you stopped talking, gentlemen? Continue, continue, I will listen.”

“Yes, meat, that reminds me,” Simone piped up. “A glutton walked into a restaurant and ordered a filet …”

“A filet—what's wrong with that?” Mr. Moses said approvingly, as he tried to cut his roast with one hand. He did not remove the other hand from its mug.

“The waiter said he would bring one right away,” Simone continued. “And the glutton stared up at the girls on the stage while he waited …”

“Hilarious,” Mr. Moses said. “So far, utterly hilarious. This needs salt—Olga, pass the salt. Well?”

Simone hesitated.

“Excuse me,” he said uncertainly. “I'm having very serious apprehensions about the present company.”

“So? Apprehensions,” Mr. Moses announced with satisfaction. “What happened next?”

“That's it,” Simone said dolefully. He leaned back in his chair.

Moses stared at him.

“What do you mean ‘That's it'?” he asked indignantly. “He brought him the filet, didn't he?”

“Well … actually … no, he didn't,” Simone said.

“What impertinence,” Moses said. “He should have called
the
maître d
'.” He pushed his plate away in disgust. “That was an unpleasant story you told us, Simone.”

“I guess it is,” Simone said, smiling faintly.

Moses took a sip from his mug and turned to the owner.

“Snevar,” he said. “Have you found the miscreant who's been stealing our shoes? There's a job for you, Inspector. You can pursue it in your spare time—come to think of it, you're not doing anything at the moment. Some miscreant has been stealing shoes and looking in people's windows.”

I was about to reply that I would absolutely look into it; but just then the kid started Bucephalus's engine right underneath the window. The glass in the dining room shook, making conversation impossible. Everyone buried themselves in their plates as Du Barnstoker, pressing his splayed fingers against his heart, poured out muted apologies to his right and left. Then Bucephalus's roar became completely unbearable; clouds of light snow soared past the windows; the roar quickly moved away, fading into a barely audible hum.

“Just like Niagara Falls,” the crystalline voice of Mrs. Moses rang out.

“Or a rocket launch!” Simone said. “Awful machine.”

Kaisa approached Mr. Moses on tiptoe, and set a decanter of pineapple syrup in front of him. Moses gazed favorably at it before taking a sip from his mug.

“And what do you think about this thievery, Inspector?” he said.

“I think someone here has been playing jokes,” I answered.

“There's an odd idea,” Moses said disapprovingly.

“Not really,” I retorted. “First of all, none of these activities appear to have any goal other than confusion. Second, the dog isn't acting like there are strangers here.”

“Oh yes,” the owner said in a hollow voice. “Of course, no
one in this house is a stranger to him. But HE wasn't just ‘not a stranger' to my Lel. HE was his god, gentlemen!”

Moses stared at him.

“Who is this ‘HE'?” he asked sternly.

“HE. The dead mountaineer.”

“How fascinating!” Mrs. Moses chirped.

“Don't fool around with my head,” Moses told the host. “And if you know who's behind these events, then advise him—strongly advise him!—to stop. Understand me?” He turned his bloodshot eyes at us. “Otherwise I'll start pulling some practical jokes of my own!” he snapped.

Everyone was silent. It seemed to me that they were all trying to imagine what a practical joke from Mr. Moses would look like. I didn't know about the others, but personally I didn't think anything good would come out of it. Moses stared down each of us in turn, not forgetting to take a sip from his mug as he did so. It was completely impossible for me to tell who he was and what he was doing here. And why was he wearing that ridiculous coat? (Perhaps he had already started joking with us?) And what did he have in that mug? And how come it always seemed full, even though, to my eyes, he had already taken around a hundred sips from it—deep ones, too?