About a certain return

Part 14

Now I understood. Augustin wanted to demonstrate, what was already well known, that it's not the value that matters, but "a friendly help". "Well done, old man! You praised me as I feel insignificant!" I lived my glorious moment. On the way back, after I left, I kept on wondering whether he wanted to conceal my success but he appreciated my talent, or he despised me.

– You know, I talked to Marton, I asked him why he sacked you, 'cause you good... Do you know what he told me? That it's you who left, that he likes you and you are welcomed back whenever you want.

Marton was the editor in chief at "The Spectator Outpost", which was called "The Oddpost".

– Maestro... what on earth is... after all, "The Cult of the Dead Beauty"? A vanguard artistically movement, a spiritual uprising, just a meaningless speaking magazine or something deeper?

– I don't know.

– Oh come on! How come you don't know? It's you who sent it to me.

– No, it's not me! I didn't send you those papers. On my honour! I only know that if you receive it, you'll be contacted. When and how...? It's not me who sets the details.

– But... are you a member of this... society...?

– Useless. I'm not going to talk about it.

What a nature this Augustin! He must be into it, for sure. On who's side, I was going to find out later.

So it was only the middle of an important day of my existence. I was supposed to deliver a few parcels containing "forbidden books" to some special persons that I visited now and then. I took the company's bicycle. It was nice in the centre of the city, but dangerous on the outskirts because of the darkness, the potholes and the gangs of robbers. Mr Crow lived bloody far, on the Salt Road, sharing a two floors villa with Mr Black... Two old men, doddery and mind twisted, but with plush appearance and very fussy, they have been professors at the university... Walking towards the old men's dwellings I had a strong feeling of "ever seen"...

Mr Black lived at the first floor, while Mr Crow at ground floor. I entered even. At the top floor, where it was enough space for another family to live, once there had been water leaks and I tried to cover the cracks in the roof but I wasn't able to. The specialists came. Mr Crow started nagging me again with the "memoreme", the virus living in my brains which is carving the wound, how it functions, that covers the aperture through which my Spirit could emancipate... until his wet and purple lips, buzzed:

– In my youth I've been... one of the leaders of the revolutionary student movement Empty skulls... I practiced the Cult of the Dead Beauty... You might have heard something...

If I've heard? What sort of bugle sounded in my ears! What siren...! I don't even remember what he told me previously...

– Could you, please, repeat it to me?

– I have been...

And he stopped. The old chap looked at me suspiciously, blinked shiftily a few times: I have a headache! Oh, what a headache I have!

And then he says:

– And who did you say you were?

What a face I must have made, that the old man, pulled back and said: Just, don't hit me on the head!

But, I've really lived this before... It broke somewhere...

– "The Cult of the Dead Beauty"? Mr Crow, I have at home two, called so, magazines. It's believed they have been edited by Augustin... Do you know him?