Morok

Chapter IV. Ryz z Jablkami

Since most people saw Gorenski as a refined character divorced from reality and not someone of flesh and blood, they never knew what transpired in his heart. Their ignorance suited him, allowing the doctor to erect walls around his person that nobody could breach. As long as his walls existed, he always had the upper hand.

What he felt at Kazimierz's expected betrayal was not the paralysis of the unknown but rather morbid, destructive anticipation. Over the years, Gorenski had trained himself to tolerate uncertainty and cultivate an open mind that could forgive mysteries and rearrange inconsistencies, forcing them to make sense. But people still surprised him.

Gorenski was always playing, always wondering whether a person clever enough to take him down existed. He almost yearned for someone to try. Perhaps his downfall was closer than he thought. Perhaps not. He had to wait and see.

With deliberate slowness, Gorenski left his glass of champagne on the table and headed to the basement. Like a demon, he lurked in the shadows, passing rusty racks of old bicycles and woven baskets. Gorenski knew the two blank men he saw in the darkness found nothing.

Having discovered the basement, they had not located the secret door to his workshop. Since Kazimierz never knew about it, he could not have told these strangers anything of value. The younger man, clean-shaven and small, stepped forward, gazing at Gorenski with well-disguised curiosity.

The older man stopped his subordinate. Agile like sewage rats and painfully ordinary, these were men Gorenski despised most-service people with no opinion of their own and a cruel master above them. They were intelligence agents cleaning up someone's mess.

When Kazimierz realized Gorenski had not left the bodies in the basement, a shadow of despair fell upon his face-exquisite and sincere. Gorenski almost found it endearing. Meeting the daggers in Kazimierz's green eyes, he smiled in his habitual minimalist way, with creases around his eyes, an impression of politeness, and little else.

The spies were the first to break the silence.

"Igor Petrovich? Doctor Gorenski?" They addressed him in Russian, the words striking Gorenski like cannon shots. It had been years since anyone used his patronymic.

"My apartment is on the first floor, gentlemen," he replied. "It is more suitable for a conversation than a damp basement." He dipped his head. "Would you follow me, please?"

Silently, they traced his footsteps, their gaits strained and their faces sombre.

"Please, come in. I apologize for not taking your coats." Gorenski offered his guests an artificial smile and invited them to his office. "May I offer you tea and desserts?"

They stared at him in confusion.

"Perhaps tea," the older man said after a pause.

"Of course. And what dessert would you like? Autumn is the season of apples. Perhaps a Polish apple pudding. My aunt used to love it."

When a Chinese clay teapot appeared on the table, followed by the sweet delights from Gorenski's pantry, the spies stared at him with glassy eyes. Gorenski had not asked for their names because he did not care, yet he was a perfect host.

"I am Colonel Nesterov. And my companion is Lieutenant Larin." The names did not say anything to Gorenski, but he acknowledged them with a nod.

"We've heard about your eccentricities, Igor Petrovich," the Colonel said. "You're quite famous in certain circles."

"I must be flattered."

"Why so?"

"History favours eccentricity. Waves are a testament to that. Personal impact is not always determined by logic. Sometimes, it is obvious-a noble birth makes one privileged enough to matter. But other times, the impact is imperceivable. Gavrilo Princip was not remarkable in any way, yet many claim he started the First World War."