was certainly a perfect copy.
There was a deep brassy gong, and simultaneously a tall, thin man in a black mask appeared by the side of the picture. A black leotard covered his body from head to toe. He was followed by a limping, hunchbacked dwarf in a red smock. In his short, extended pawlike arms, he held a dully glinting sword of a most wicked appearance. He went to the right of the picture and stood still, while the masked individual stepped forward and spoke in a measured tone: “In accordance with the bylaws and directives of the Honorable Society of Patrons, and in the name of Art, which is holy and irreproducible, and the power granted me by you, I have examined the history and worth of this painting and now -”
“Request a halt,” sounded a curt voice behind me.
Everyone turned around. I also turned around and saw that three young, obviously very powerful, and immaculately dressed men were looking at me full in the face. One had a monocle in his right eye. We studied each other for a few seconds, and the man with the monocle twitched his cheek and let it drop. I got up at once. They moved toward me together, stepping softly and soundlessly. I tried the chair, but it was too massive. They jumped me. I met them as best I could and at first everything went well, but very quickly it became evident that they wore brass knuckles, and I barely managed to evade them. I pressed my back against the wall and looked at them while they, breathing heavily, looked at me. There were still two of them left. There was the usual coughing in the auditorium. Four more were coming down the gallery steps, which squeaked and groaned loudly enough to reverberate in the hall. Bad business, thought I, and launched myself to force a breach.
It was hard going, just like the time in Manila, but then there were two of us. It would have been better if they were armed, as I would have had a chance to expropriate a gun.
But all six of them met me with knuckles and truncheons.
Luckily for me it was very crowded. My left arm went out of commission, and then the four suddenly jumped back, while the fifth drenched me with a clammy liquid from a flat container.
Simultaneously, the lights were extinguished.
These tricks were well known to me: now they could see me, but I could not see them. In all probability that would have been the end of me, were it not that some idiot threw open the door and announced in a greasy basso, “I beg forgiveness, I am terribly late and so sorry…” I charged toward the light, over some bodies, mowed down the latecomer, flew across the entrance hall, threw open the front door, and pelted down the sandy path holding my left arm with my right hand. No one was pursuing me, but I traversed two blocks before it dawned on me to stop.
I flung myself down on a lawn and lay for a long time in the short grass, grabbing lungfuls of the warm moist air. In no time, the curious gathered around me. They stood in a semicircle and ogled me avidly, not saying a word. “Take off,” I said, getting up finally. Hurriedly, they scooted away. I stood awhile, figuring out where I was, and began a stumbling journey homeward. I had had enough for today. I still didn’t get it, but I had had quite enough. Whoever they were, these members of the Honorable Society of Art Patrons — secret art worshippers, extant aristocrat-conspirators or whoever else — they fought cruelly and without quarter, and the biggest fool in that hall of theirs was still apparently none other than I.
I passed by the square, where again the color panels pulsed rhythmically, and hundreds of hysterical voices screamed, “Shi-vers! Shi-vers!” Of this too I had had enough.
Pleasant dreams are, of course, more attractive than unpleasant ones, but after all, we do not live in a dream. In the establishment where Vousi had taken me, I had a bottle of ice-cold soda water, observed with curiosity a squad of police peacefully camped by the bar, and went out, turning into Second Waterway.
A lump the size of a tennis ball was rising behind my left ear. I weaved badly and walked slowly, keeping close to the fences. Later, I heard the tap of heels behind me and voices: “… Your place is in the museum, not in a cabaret.”
“Nothing of the sort, I am not drunk. Can’t you und-derstand, only one measly bottle of wine…”
“How disgusting! Soused and picking up a wench.”
“What’s the girl got to do with it? She is a m-model!”
“Fighting over a wench. Making us fight over her.”
“Why in hell d-do you believe them and don’t believe me?”
“Just because you’re drunk! You’re a bum, just like they all are, maybe worse…”
“That’s all right. I’ll remember that scoundrel with the bracelet quite well… Don’t hold me! I’ll walk by myself!”
“You’ll remember nothing, friend. Your glasses were knocked off in the first instant, and without them, you aren’t even a man, but a blind sausage… Stop kicking, or it will be the fountain for you…”
“I’m warning you, one more stunt like that, and we’ll throw you out. A drunken
“Stop preaching at him, give a man a chance to sleep it off.”
“Fellows! There he is, the l-louse!”
The street was empty, and the louse was clearly me. I could bend my left arm already, but it hurt like the devil, and I stepped back to let them pass. There were three of them. They were young, in identical caps, pushed over their eyes. One, thickset and low-slung, was obviously amused and held the other one, a tall, open-faced, loose-jointed fellow, with a powerful grip, restraining his violent and sporadic movements. The third, long and skinny, with a narrow and darkish face, was following at some distance with his hands behind his back. As he got alongside me, the loose-jointed one braked determinedly.
The short one attempted to nudge him off the spot, but in vain.
The long one passed by and then stopped, looking back impatiently over his shoulder.
“Thought you were gonna get away, pig!” he yelled drunkenly, attempting to seize me by the chest with his free hand.
I retreated to the fence and said, addressing myself to the short fellow, “I had no business with you.”
“Stop being a rowdy,” said the distant one sharply.
“I remember you very well indeed,” yelled the drunk.
“You’re not going to get away from me! I’ll get even with you!”
He advanced upon me in surges, dragging the short one, who hung on with bulldog grimness, behind him.
“It’s not him,” cajoled the low-slung one, who was still very merry. “That guy went off to the shivers and this one is sober.”
“You won’t fool me.”
“I’m warning you for the last time. We are going to expel you.”
“Got scared, the bum! Took off his bracelet.”
“You can’t even see him. You’re worthless without your glasses.”
“I can see everything pe-erfectly!… And even if he isn’t the one…”
“Stop it! Enough is enough!”
The long one finally came back and grasped the drunk from the other side.
“Will you move on!” he said to me with irritation, “Why the devil are you stopping here! Haven’t you ever seen a drunk?”
“Oh, no! You aren’t going to get away from me.”
I continued on my way. I had not far to go by now. The trio dragged along behind me noisily.
“I can see right through him, if you please. King of Nature! Drunk enough to retch, and to beat up whoever comes along. Got beat up himself, and that’s all he needs… Let go of me, I’ll hang a few good ones on his mug…”
“What have you come to, we have to walk you along like a hood.”
“So don’t walk me!… I loathe them… Shivers, wenches, whiskey… brainless jelly…”
“Sure, sure, take it easy, just don’t fall.”
“Enough of your reproofs… I am sick of your hypocrisy, your puritanism. We should blow them up, shoot them! Raze everything off the face of the earth!”
“Drunk as a coot, and I thought he was sobered up!”
“I am sober. I remember everything… the twenty-eighth, right?”
“Shut up, you fool.”
“Shh! Right you are! The enemy is on the alert…
