Morok

Chapter VI. Gugelhupf

The news on his phone was maddeningly boring – the same reports about murdered scientists, accompanied by conspiracy theories that struck uncomfortably close to the truth. But one new name stood out: Tomislav Kesić , a detective working for Interpol who was tasked with investigating the seemingly unconnected deaths of prominent scholars and celebrities. The man wanted to 'look outside the box', the article said.

The corner of Gorenski's lips curled at the thought – 'outside the box'. That was one way of putting it. If Kesić knew anything about life, he certainly knew what being an outsider was. Like all immigrants, he should have learnt everything about survival: you had to be twice better to be considered half as good as a local.

Austrians, born into privilege, always remained polite and curious when hearing Gorenski's nondescriptive accent. In their conversations with him, they never showed obvious signs of disdain, but they always asked where he was from. People like him were not 'distinctly' foreign, and their appearance was never too different from that of the locals. Yet they were not quite like them in those small yet significant ways, which made their otherness easier to target without repercussions from the public.

Staring at the detective's haggard face in the picture, Gorenski knew one thing. People like Kesić grew up fighting, with the world caving in on them and prosperity out of reach. Most of Gorenski's Viennese neighbours could not fathom that reality. And Gorenski never considered putting the wealthy and the privileged through suffering for the sake of a drudge—no, only for the sake of justice some of them deserved. After all, he, too, had come from riches to rugs only to claw his way up again. A distant relative of legendary Rurik and a prince in his own right, Gorenski knew he would always remain a foreigner—for everyone, not just the Western world.

Gorenski stood up, preparing to leave, when someone called his name from the other table.

"Doctor Gorenski?"

It was a handsome young man Gorenski had met several times at the opera – wavy brown hair, dimpled cheeks and dark green eyes. He might have been a mechanical performer, but he was hard-working enough to mitigate his shortcomings. Besides, if Gorenski's memory served him right (and it always did), the musician had mentioned his love for composition at one of the posh opera parties.

"Helmut Liedke?" Gorenski dipped his head in acknowledgement, noticing the remains of marbled Gugelhupf dusted with sugar icing in the man's hand. So, the violinist had a sweet tooth and preferred soft cakes. That was a detail worth putting away for later examination.

"Oh, you remember my name." The man blushed, doing his best to conceal his delight. "I thought you wouldn't."

"I always remember names." Gorenski's courteous smile was enough to melt Liedke's sagging defences. "Especially those of artists." The unmistakable trail of ripples Gorenski saw behind the man was even more difficult to forget—the musician was a Wave.

"I...," he stuttered, nervously scratching his temple. "I wondered if you would be willing to join me for a coffee, but I saw you with that pretty lady and did not want to bother."

Gorenski stared at Liedke with amusement. That might have been the most awkward attempt to attract his attention in the recent century, but he found it endearing. The poor thing was so adorably confused that he even tucked the pieces of soft Gugelhupf into his pocket, leaving a trail of crumbs on the floor.

"An artist is never a bother," Gorenski replied. "Besides, my aunt would be delighted to meet you." He paused, leaving Liedke flustered. "Most of us treasure the few moments of artistic inspiration we receive in our chaotic lives. We envy those like yourself who live through art."