Methodius Buslaev. Ticket to Bald Mountain

Essiorh looked attentively at her. “Accustomed?” he asked as if casually.

“Accustomed.”

“Wolf and swan?”

“We have full mutual understanding,” said Irka.

Here she was being slightly dishonest. She had a mutual understanding only with the swan. With the wolf, it was more about armed neutrality. Now and then, especially during a full moon, the wolf persistently tried to seize power, and only the will of man restrained it.

“And how’s your terrible monster with the sideburns?” Essiorh asked with a smile.

“Antigonus? Hmmm… In short, he’s now robbing a little shop,” Irka said sheepishly.

“WHAT?” Essiorh was amazed.

“I think the shopkeeper will survive this! In reality, he infiltrated the storage room and is now eating jam somewhere behind the boxes,” Irka explained, smiling.

Not so long ago, the house-kikimor revealed a weakness. The weakness was excusable, but at the same time insurmountable. He experienced an enormous craving for fruit preserves and jam. He was still able to restrain himself for about five or six days, but later could not stand it and disappeared for several hours in some store room, where he ate two, three, or four jars at once. Then he sang songs, slept for half a day, and only then, guiltily sniffling his porous nose similar to a small lemon, reported to Irka. It was completely useless to call him on this drunken day. Antigonus would not appear even in the event that Irka were to be executed.

“Funny,” said Essiorh. “These are all earthly passions! You can’t get away from them. The moronoid world knows how to attract and hold. It entangles with attachments, like a spider’s web. You try to think about eternity and suddenly catch yourself with thoughts constantly straying to a new muffler or that at least the rear tires need to be changed.”

“Nightmare,” Irka sympathized. She understood little about motorcycles, but Essiorh’s tone convinced her that this was something important.

Her attention encouraged the keeper. “You bet! If only you knew how rare it is to come across an unlucky tire and especially unlucky gasoline!” he complained.

Both became silent. Essiorh thought about wheels and tires, and Irka – it seemed she was not thinking about anything – simply looked at the sun, which hung directly above the roofs.

“Have I told you yet? I rented a room here the day before yesterday!” the keeper suddenly said. “Strange that I talk to you about this first and not Daph. Must be because I received a strict order not to meet with Daphne until further notice.”

“Why?”

“Ares has been seized and exiled again, Methodius has a new guardian, and in general, the house on Bolshaya Dmitrovka is now surrounded by this mass of darkness that it’s not worth trying to get closer. Any outside contact will be noticed. I hope Daph will turn out to have enough Light inside,” Essiorh said anxiously.

Irka was flattered by his confidence. This meant that for the omniscient keeper, keenly observing any changes in a person, Irka and Light were inseparable.

“What guardian does Met have?”

Essiorh guided a thumb along his neck, showing that he would die and not get up. It could not be worse.

“Clear… So you said that you rented a room…” Irka said. She suddenly recalled that Methodius loved another, and resentment forced her to change the subject. Let him deal with his guardians. What does it matter to her now?

“The room isn’t bad. In the Centre. Next to Clean Ponds. True, the window opens into the courtyard and nothing is visible, but if one concentrates a little and imagines that directly behind this wall is an excellent landscape, the soul becomes easy… Again not a bad place to park the motorcycle,” Essiorh said not without pride.

“But where do you get the money to pay for the room?” Irka asked. She already managed to grasp that creatures of Light did not have the right to possess money, unless it falls from the sky itself, which happened extremely rarely.

Essiorh sighed. “You see,” he said with some doubt in his voice. “This is a special case. The owner of the room is such a person that to give him money would be a misfortune. Especially for himself. He would immediately turn it into liquid of a certain kind.”

“A wino, perhaps?” Irka specified.

“No need to speak badly about people. Light can’t allow itself to criticize anyone. He’s simply a weak person,” the keeper said reproachfully.

“How did you wiggle out of it? Don’t be modest! I know that you came up with something! Admit it!”

“W-ell…” Essiorh drawled with an easy smile. “I readjusted his organism a little and taught him to obtain pleasure from tears! He cries and has the same experience as when he drank a glass or two. Now he cries all day, even at night, but sooner or later the tears will wash the dependence on alcohol out of his system, and he’ll be healed!”

“And while he cries, you live in his room?”

Essiorh nodded. “Something like that. If you want, drop in to visit me. There’s something I need to show you… If something happens to me, someone else from Light should know…” the keeper said, examining his powerful hand with traces of machine oil under the nails.

“Can something happen to you?” Irka tensed up.

“Yes and no. To speak about this now is premature,” Essiorh replied mysteriously. “And in general, we can put off the conversation about business for a while. For a start, I’ll introduce you to my housemate.”

“Will I like him?” Irka asked.

“I don’t doubt it. His name is Fatiaitsev. Versatile personality. Former circus clown. Former juggler. Former administrator. Former balloon seller. Part poet. By the way, not former, as this is the only status which doesn’t fear time. And simply a good person.”

“Then let’s go. A good person is the most understandable of all professions,” Irka agreed.

Essiorh started his motorcycle. This time it did not rumble so intensely, because he had managed to acquire a muffler and even a license plate. Irka felt a slight disappointment. Earlier, Essiorh’s motorcycle was not so respectable.

True, a minute later it was clear that Essiorh still rode like a kamikaze, and Irka calmed down. Soon the motorcycle flew into a courtyard and stopped by a low three-storey building of ancient construction. The building, once probably yellow, was now multi-coloured and was distinguished only by a couple of air conditioners on the first floor, which on this decrepit mastodon looked like new fashionable glasses on a cave dweller’s face.

Essiorh went up to the third floor and stopped at the door upholstered with black artificial leather and with a wire stretched tightly across on the outside. Such doors were very trendy about forty years ago. It was believed that the sheathing would not let sounds and malicious drafts into the apartment. However, for Essiorh, accustomed to thinking of more round numbers, forty years were like the Tuesday before last.

After looking pensively at the door, the keeper started slapping his pockets. “Well, I forgot the key again!” he said. “Okay! For the very last time! You saw nothing! This isn’t an ordinary break-in, but a necessity!”

He lightly touched the keyhole with a finger. Irka heard the click of the lock. After stepping over the threshold, they found themselves in a long dark hallway. A spot of light was visible at its other end.

“Oh, Fatiaitsev is home! Furthermore, he’s in the kitchen! This is a very valuable addition!” Essiorh said with enthusiasm and, grabbing Irka’s hand, pulled her after himself.

Essiorh’s housemate was indeed home. He was sitting at the table, holding a ball-point pen in his right hand and a fork in his left. He was eating with the left and doing a crossword puzzle with the right. Moreover, the hands were moving easily and independently, without any strain. It showed a lot of experience.

Irka stared at him with curiosity and admiration. Actually, Fatiaitsev presented a picturesque figure – small, chubby, with a splendid unruly head of hair. His fat cheeks made one think of a St. Bernard.

Feeling that he was being watched, Fatiaitsev looked up. “Oh, what a wonderful child! Did a stork bring it?” he exclaimed.

“Who, me?” Irka asked, offended. She was, as is known, at that age when the word “child” made her want to throw hand grenades. However, Essiorh’s housemate looked so amusing that it was impossible to be angry at him for long.

“Wonderful child, didn’t I invite you to the circus last year?” Fatiaitsev continued. “Remember! I even asked for your phone number, and you gave it to me, but, alas, it turned out to be bogus. I phoned, and the Society of Fans of Mediterranean Turtles answered.”

“Was I in a wheelchair?” Irka asked naively.

“In a stroller?”[7 - The Russian word for stroller is the same word for wheelchair.] Fatiaitsev was surprised. “Do you think you were so small last year? Don’t be coy!”

Recollecting suddenly, Irka bit her lip. She realized that she should not have mentioned the wheelchair. With the careless word, she almost brought the valkyrie curse down on the former clown. “No, it wasn’t me,” she muttered.

“It was you!” Fatiaitsev persisted. “I remember exactly! You had on a white dress of dandelion fluff!”