The Dead Mountaineer's Inn: (One More Last Rite for the Detective Genre)

6.

To my great surprise, the party turned out to be a success. Everyone stuck around after hurrying through their meals—everyone, that is, except for Hinkus, who muttered some excuses and stomped back up to the roof to continue bathing his lungs in the mountain air. I felt a little sorry for him as I watched him go. I even thought for a second about heading back to his room and taking that damned watch out of his trunk. A joke’s a joke, but he could get into serious trouble. He’s got enough problems already, I thought. I was tired of these worries, tired of these jokes, tired of my own stupidity… I’m going to get drunk, I decided, and instantly felt better. I exchanged my shot glass for a tumbler, and looked quickly around the table. What did any of this have to do with me? I was on vacation. And anyway, I’m not a policeman. Who cares how I’d signed in… If you want to know, I’m actually a salesman. I sell secondhand sinks. Toilets too… It occurred to me that for a counselor, even a youth counselor, Hinkus had a pretty poor vocabulary. I shook this thought out of my head and cackled diligently over some clumsy witticism of Simone’s that I hadn’t heard. I swallowed a half glass of brandy in a single gulp and poured myself another one. My head started to buzz.

Meanwhile, the fun was starting. Kaisa hadn’t had a chance to clear the dirty dishes yet; meanwhile, after communicating their intentions to one another via a series of hospitable gestures, Mr. Moses and Du Barnstoker moved to the green cloth-covered card table that had appeared suddenly in a corner of the dining room. The owner put on some loud music. Olaf and Simone approached Mrs. Moses simultaneously, and, since she was unable to choose between her two cavaliers, the three of them proceeded to dance together. The kid showed me its tongue again. Well, all right, then! I got up from the table and stumbled my way towards this hooligan, this bandit. It was now or never, I thought. Anyway, this kind of investigation was more interesting than stolen watches and other junk. But I’m a salesman. Of well- and even miraculously preserved sinks…

“May I have this dance, Mademoiselle?” I asked, plunking myself down on the seat next to the kid.

“Madame, I don’t dance,” the kid answered lazily. “Now shut up and give me a cigarette.”

I gave him a cigarette, glugged some more brandy and proceeded to explain to this creature that his behavior—his be-ha-vi-or—was unconscionable, and had to stop. That I’d whip him if he didn’t watch it. Or write him up, I added after thinking it over for a few seconds, for the public exhibition of improper attire. Also writing slogans, I said. That’s no good. On doors. Shocking and rebellious behavior—rebellious! I’m an honest salesman, and I won’t let anyone… A brilliant thought occurred to me… I’ll complain to the police about you, I said, bursting into a giddy laugh. And may I suggest this… no, not a toilet, that would be unseemly, especially at the dinner table… but how about a beautiful sink? Miraculously preserved, in spite of everything. It’s a Pavel Bure. What do you think? Treat yourself!

The kid answered me, ingeniously, first in a boy’s husky bass, then in a gentle girlish alto. My head began to spin; it was starting to feel like I was having a conversation with two people. On the one hand, there was this spoiled teenager who’d gone to seed, who continually stole my brandy, and to whom I had responsibilities as a member of the police force, an experienced salesperson, and a person of higher rank. On the other, there was that charming and piquant girl, who was nothing like my old lady (thank god), and towards whom I was apparently starting to feel more than just paternal feelings. Shoving aside the teenager, who kept trying to butt in on our conversation, I told the girl my definition of marriage as the voluntary union of two hearts that have taken on certain moral obligations. And no bicycles or motorcycles, I added sternly. Let’s agree to that up front. My old lady can’t stand such things… We agreed and drank, me and the teenager first, then me and the girl, my bride. Why in god’s name shouldn’t a girl, who was of age mind you, have a little good brandy? Having repeated this question three times (not without some slight belligerence), I leaned back in my chair and looked around the room.

Everything was going swimmingly. No laws were being broken, no moral statutes violated. No one was posting slogans, writing notes, or stealing watches. The music was thundering along. Du Barnstoker, Moses and the owner were playing Thirteen, with no limit on the pot size. Mrs. Moses was dancing daringly with Simone to some very modern music, Kaisa was clearing our plates. She was surrounded, by dishes, forks, Olafs. All of the dishes on the table were in motion—I barely managed to grab a passing bottle and spill it on my pants.

“Brun, buddy,” I said earnestly, “Don’t give it another thought. It’s all just a big joke. Gold watches, dust covers…” Here I was struck by a new thought. “Let me ask you something,” I said, “What would you say to friendly shooting lesson?”

“I’m not your buddy,” the girl said sadly. “I’m your bride.”

“All the better,” I shouted enthusiastically. “I have a ladies’ Browning…”

We talked for a while about guns, wedding rings, and, for some reason, telekinesis. I began to feel more reluctant.

“No!” I said, decisively. “I disagree. First, take your glasses off. I want to know what I’m getting here.”

This was a mistake. The offended girl disappeared off somewhere, leaving me with the teenager, who started being rude. But just at that moment Mrs. Moses came up and asked me to dance, which I did gladly. A minute later, I’d decided that I’d been an idiot: that my fate lay with Mrs. Moses, and with her alone. With my Olga. Her immaculately soft hands weren’t in the least bit chapped or cut, and she willingly allowed me to kiss them; she also had beautiful, distinctly visible eyes, which weren’t hidden by goggles; a pleasant smell clung to her; plus she wasn’t the sister of a rough and impudent youth who wouldn’t let you get a word in edgewise. True, Simone seemed to be constantly circling her (the great physicist, the dull fool) but one could learn how to get used to that, since the two of them weren’t related. We were grown-ups, after all; we indulged in sensual pleasures on our doctors’ advice, and, when we stepped on one another’s feet, we admitted it in an honorable and manly way: “Pardon me, old man, my mistake…”

At a certain point I found myself completely sober and standing behind the window-curtain with Mrs. Moses. I was holding her around the waist, as she rested her head on my shoulder, saying, “Oh darling, what a lovely view!…”

The unexpected informality of her address embarrassed me, and I stared dumbly out the window, thinking all the while about how I might delicately remove my hand from her waist before we were caught. The view really was quite nice. The moon must have already been quite high; the whole valley looked blue under its light, and the nearby mountains appeared to be hanging in the still air. Then I noticed the gray shadow of unhappy Hinkus doubled up on the roof, and muttered, “Poor Hinkus…”

Mrs. Moses pulled away gently and stared up at me.

“Poor?” she asked. “Why poor?”

“He’s sick,” I explained. “He has tuberculosis, and he’s very scared.”

“Of course,” she nodded. “You’ve noticed it too? He seems to always be scared. A suspicious and quite unpleasant individual—hardly one of ours…”

I shook my head heavily and sighed.

“There you go again,” I said. “But there’s nothing to be suspicious of—he’s just a sad and lonely man. Very pathetic. You should have seen how he turned green and started sweating… And then there are all the jokes everyone’s playing on him…”

Suddenly she laughed her charming crystalline laugh.

“Count Greystock was the same way—constantly turning green. It was quite amusing!”

I didn’t know what to say; removing my hand with relief, finally, from her waist, I offered her a cigarette. She declined and began talking about counts, barons, viscounts and princes. Watching her speak, I tried to remember why on earth I’d gone behind the curtain.

Then the curtain parted with a rustle and there was the kid. Without looking at me, it shuffled its feet awkwardly and in a choked voice said, “Permette vous…”

“Bitte, dear boy,” Mrs. Moses said, flashing me another dazzling smile as she glided over the parquet in the kid’s arms.

I exhaled and wiped my forehead with a handkerchief. The table had been cleared by now. The trio of card players continued to deal in the corner. Simone was thrashing away at the billiard balls. Olaf and Kaisa had evaporated. The music was rumbling at half volume, Mrs. Moses and Brun were demonstrating their remarkable skill. I walked carefully past them and into the billiard room.

Simone greeted me with a wave of his cue; without wasting a precious second he offered me a five-ball handicap. I took off my jacket, rolled up my sleeves, and we began. I lost a large number of games, for which I was punished with a large number of jokes. My mood began to improve significantly. I laughed at his jokes, which I didn’t quite understand, since they concerned things like quarks and Schrödinger cats and professors with exotic names; I drank my club soda, paying no attention to the mockery and entreaties of my partner; I moaned dramatically and clutched at my heart when I blundered, acted out my immoderate delight when I scored; I thought up new rules and defended them heatedly—I let myself go so thoroughly that at one point I took off my tie and unbuttoned my collar. I was in fine feather, in my opinion. Simone was too. He made shots at incredible, theoretically impossible angles; he ran around the walls and even, it seemed, along the ceiling; in the pauses between jokes he sang songs about mathematical theories at the top of his voice; he addressed me informally over and over again, and then corrected himself with a “My apologies, old man. It’s this damned democratic education…!”

Through the billiard room’s open door I briefly glimpsed Olaf dancing with the kid, then the owner carrying a tray of drinks to the card players, then a flushed Kaisa. The music blasted, the card players screamed with excitement, laying down spades, collecting hearts, trumping diamonds. Every once in a while a hoarse voice could be heard: “Listen, Drabble… Bandrel… Du…!” and the mad knock of a mug against the table, and the owner’s voice, “Gentlemen, gentlemen! What is money but so much ash…?” and the ringing crystal laughter of Mrs. Moses, “Moses, what are you doing, the spades have been gobbled up already…” Then the clocks struck something-thirty, the chairs were being moved in the dining room, and I saw Moses slap Du Barnstoker on the back with his mug-free hand, and growl, “As you wish, gentlemen, but it’s time for the Moseses to get some sleep. A good game, Barny… Barnbell… you, you’re a crafty adversary. Gentlemen, goodnight! Come, my love…” I remember Simone saying he was out of gas, as he put it. I went into the dining hall for a new bottle of brandy, having decided that it was time for me to replenish my stores of fun and lightheartedness.

The music was still playing but the hall was already empty, except for Du Barnstoker, who was sitting at the card table with his back to me, pensively performing card tricks with a pair of decks. With smooth movements of his slim white fingers, he plucked cards out of the air, made them vanish from his outstretched palms, blew a fan of shimmering cards from one hand into the other, scattered the entire deck into the air in front of him and then sent it to oblivion. He hadn’t noticed me, and I wasn’t going to distract him. I took a bottle from the bar and tiptoed back into the billiard room.

When the bottle was a little less than halfway gone, I took a shot so strong that it caused two balls to jump off the table at the same time, and tore the billiard cloth. Simone was moved to admiration, but I decided I’d had enough.

“That’s it,” I said, setting down my cue. “I need some fresh air.”

I crossed the now-empty dining room, made my way down the hall and went out onto the porch. For some reason I felt sad that the party had come to an end without anything interesting happening; that I had wasted my chance with Mrs. Moses and, if memory served, rattled off some nonsense to the child of Du Barnstoker’s late brother; that the moon was bright, tiny and icy-looking; and that around me for many miles there was nothing but snow and rocks. I had a talk with the St. Bernard, who was making his nightly rounds; he agreed that the night was too quiet and empty, and that solitude, despite its numerous benefits, was really a lousy thing. Still, he refused outright to break the valley’s silence and join me in a howl, or even just a good bark. In response to my request he just shook his head, walked away with a dissatisfied look and lay down by the porch.

I walked back and forth on the clear path in front of the inn, gazing up at the façade, which was bathed in blue moonlight. The kitchen window was glowing yellow, Mrs. Moses’s bedroom window was rose-colored, there was another light coming from Du Barnstoker’s room, and behind the curtains in the dining room; all the other windows were dark, including Olaf’s, which was wide open, as it had been that morning. On the roof, Hinkus the martyr protruded, bundled to his ears in a fur coat, looking as lonely as Lel and I but even less happy under his burden of illness and fear.

“Hinkus!” I called quietly, but he didn’t move. Maybe he was sleeping, or maybe he didn’t hear me through the heavy earmuffs and turned-up collar.

I was freezing, but I felt cheered up by the fact that it was now time to avail myself of a fine old hotel tradition, and drink some hot port.

“Come on, Lel,” I said, and we went back into the hall. There we met the owner, and I let him in on my plan. We were in total sympathy with one another.

“Now is the perfect time for sitting in front of the fireplace,” he said. “Go on ahead, Peter, please—I’ll get things ready.”

I accepted his invitation and, after grabbing a place by the fire, began warming my freezing hands. I listened as the owner walked down the hall, muttered something to Kaisa and then kept walking, flipping switches as he went. His footsteps grew quieter, and the music in the dining room shut off. He plodded heavily down the stairs and then walked back up the hall again, lecturing Lel softly. “No, Lel, don’t pester me,” he said sternly. “You’ve disgraced yourself again—in the house this time. Mr. Olaf complained to me. What a shame. Where have you ever seen a respectable dog do something like that?”

So, the Viking had suffered a second embarrassment, I thought with no small amount of relish. My gloating increased as I recalled how avidly Olaf had danced in the dining room with the kid. When Lel approached me with his head bowed in shame, and nudged his cold nose into my fist, I patted him on the neck and whispered, “Good boy—just what he deserves!”

At that exact moment the floor shuddered gently beneath my feet, the windows rattled piteously, and I heard a distant and powerful rumble. Lel lifted his head and pricked his ears up. I glanced automatically at my watch: two minutes after ten. I waited, my whole body tense. The rumble did not repeat itself. Somewhere above me a door slammed heavily, rattling the kitchen pots. Kaisa said, “Oh my god!” loudly. I stood up, but by then I could hear the sound of footsteps, and the owner came in carrying two cups of hot liquor.

“Did you hear that?” he asked.

“Yes. What was it?”

“An avalanche in the mountains. Not too far away either… Excuse me for a second, Peter.”

He put the glasses down on the mantelpiece and left the room. I picked up my glass and sat back down in my chair. I felt completely calm. Landslides didn’t scare me, and the port, which had been infused with lemon and cinnamon, was beyond praise. Excellent, I thought, settling in.

“Excellent!” I said out loud. “Right, Lel?”

Lel didn’t object, even though he hadn’t tried any of the hot port.

The owner came back. He picked up his glass, sat down beside me and stared at the embers for some time.

“It doesn’t look good, Peter,” he said finally, with heavy solemnity. “We’re cut off from the outside.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“How long does your vacation last, Peter?” he continued in the same dull voice.

“Until around the twentieth. Why do you ask?”

“The twentieth,” he said slowly. “More than two weeks… In that case, it looks like you should be able to get back on time.”

I put my glass on my knee and repaid his mystifications with a sarcastic look.

“Out with it, Alek,” I said. “Don’t pull any punches. What’s happened? Has HE finally returned?”

The owner flashed a placating grin.

“No. Not yet, thank god. I have to tell you—just between us—that HE was quite a moody and grumpy type of person, and if HE did ever return… However, let’s not speak poorly about the dead. Let’s talk about the living. I’m glad you have two weeks left, because it may take them that long to dig us out.”

Now I understood.

“The road’s blocked?”

“Yes. Just now I tried to get in touch with Mur. The telephone isn’t working. That can mean only one thing, the same thing that it’s meant several times in the past ten years: an avalanche has blocked Bottleneck. You passed that way yourself. It’s the only way into my valley.”

He took a sip from his glass.

“I realized what had happened immediately,” he continued. “The rumble came from the north. Now all we can do is wait. Wait for them to remember us and organize a work crew…”

“We’ve got more than enough water,” I said thoughtfully. “But what’s to prevent us from descending into cannibalism?”

“There’ll be no need for that,” the manager said complacently. “Only if you want to spice up the menu. Except I’m warning you up front: I won’t give you Kaisa. You can gnaw on Du Barnstoker. He won seventy crowns off me tonight, the old cheat.”

“How about fuel?” I asked.

“There’s always my perpetual motion machines.”

“Hmm…” I said. “Are they made of wood?”

The owner gave me a reproachful look. Then he said:

“Why haven’t you asked about the booze, Peter?”

“What about the booze?”

“When it comes to booze, we’re doing very well,” the owner said proudly. “A hundred and twenty bottles—and that’s only the house liqueur.”

We stared at the embers for a while, sipping quietly at our drinks. I was as happy as I’d ever been. I thought about what might come of this, and the more I thought about it, the more I liked it.

Suddenly the owner spoke.

“The only thing that bothers me, Peter, if we can be serious for a moment, is that I think I’ve lost a good client.”

“What makes you think that?” I asked. “So far as I can see you have eight tasty flies in your web, and now they have no chance of escaping for another two weeks. Now that’s what I call good publicity! When it’s all over, they’ll talk about how they were buried alive and almost had to eat one another…”

“That’s true,” the manager said with satisfaction. “The thought had occurred to me already. But there would be even more flies if Hinkus’s friends managed to make it here…”

“Hinkus’s friends?” I said, surprised. “He told you that he had friends who were coming?”

“Not told me, exactly… He called the telegraph office in Mur and dictated a telegram.”

“And…?”

The manager raised a finger and recited solemnly.

“‘IN MUR, AT THE DEAD MOUNTAINEER’S INN. WAITING. HURRY.’ Something like that.”

“I would never have guessed,” I muttered. “Hinkus has friends who are willing to share his solitude. But then again, why not? Pourquoi pas, as they say…”