Taking people apart was a skill Igor Gorenski had honed to perfection. It was the only art he could leave behind, the only trace of his existence. To dissect a body, he would use his scalpel tucked away in the pocket of his suit jacket. To deconstruct a mind, he would rely on words and observations. His reactions were quicker, his eyesight was sharper, and his nose could discern scents from the other side of Vienna. Those were all gifts from the white fog of his homeland that drove others mad. Others. Not him.
Like swarms of black dragonflies, thoughts about his past occupied Gorenski's mind while he sat at his worktable with a glass of Champagne Krug Clos du Mesnil 1995, barely lifting his head from the papers. An intrusion was unwelcome but unavoidable. For a moment, he considered snapping the burly man's neck for stepping on the priceless carpet in his office with dirty shoes-later, of course.
For now, the tight line of his thin lips and pale complexion reflected nothing but the veneer of civilisation. He was calm as always, eerily so for someone who had witnessed a ragtag band with wooden bats in their hands break into his antique-filled Viena apartment.
His refined home on the first floor of an old Art-Nouveau building in the heart of Josephstadt hid as many secrets as its owner-a lean, aristocratically polite doctor with impeccably styled grey hair whose clever brown eyes concealed bloodlust beneath perfect manners. In his life, Gorenski had faced a fair share of deadly opponents, but these brutes were different. They were sent after him. For the first time in centuries, someone hunted him. Something in the air had changed, and he inhaled that shift, letting the scent of dying leaves and fresh wind invade his lungs.
Like well-trained hounds, the intruders came after his blood. Examining the muddy traces of their shoes in the corridor, Gorenski awaited their approach. Next to his leg, his cat, Ice, lingered, its silver-blue coat catching the last rays of the setting sun.
The lemon meringue pie was still in the oven, its zesty smell tickling Gorensky's sensitive nose. He had enough time to think. He always did. Patiently, gleaming everything he could from their grim faces, he wondered if curiosity was his fatal flaw as stupidity was theirs. One day, he would know for certain.
The polished businessman who led the gang was the type who thought he was unreachable, untouchable, and protected by status, money, and connections. Perhaps he was. Unlike Gorenski, he was a native Austrian with a flair for arrogance, like many born into privilege and historical prosperity. The henchmen, though, were soldiers of fortune and did not strike Gorenski as people brave enough to ask questions or have opinions. But breaking the doctor's bones - that was something they could do.
"I don't believe we've met." Gorenski's tone was even, business-like, devoid of fear when he spoke.
"We have not."
Strolling idly between Gorenski's office and corridor, the businessman's hand reached for a glass on the shelf above the stove. Shaped into a translucent tulip, the glass was a work of Rippl-Ronai, one of Hungary's most brilliant artists, designed for the Zsolnay Porcelain Manufacture, unique in its artistry, much like the one whose mind envisioned it.
"To what do I owe the honour of your visit?" Gorenski's steely voice was a warning - smooth and menacing.
The uninvited guest did not answer. Instead, he pushed the glass to the floor. Without batting an eyelid, the doctor sprang to his feet, darted past the henchmen and returned the glass to its place. Leaving the men aghast, Gorenski did not care whether any knowledge of his unnatural reflexes gave them an advantage. Even if it did, they were not clever enough to use it against him.
When he returned to the table, his deadpan expression did not give much away. Only someone familiar with his mannerisms would have noticed how his thin lips tightened. This time, Gorenski felt not the thrill of the hunt but cold anger-stifling and sobering at the same time. Those were always the same people-those who thought they could harm others because of the status and money they had never deserved. Gorenski knew them so well. And, unlike their other victims, he would not swallow insults and grovel. When others dreamed of retribution, he had the means to deliver it.
When the man approached, Gorenski did not move, although the smell of his expensive perfume, with strong notes of musk, made the doctor dizzy.
"I know who you are, Doctor Gorenski. I know you killed my sister. And I am smart enough to realize you can escape because nobody will ever suspect you. But you picked the wrong victim. I have money and connections."
"Evidently." He only did not have the Talent bestowed upon the few who survived the encounter with the white fog of Gorenski's homeland. "You may have money and connections. But you have no knowledge of who I am."
Like everyone else, he looked at Gorenski, at his slightly downturned mouth and did not see him. Like everyone else, he did not know if Gorenski was about to growl or to smile, his deep-set eyes, flat eyebrows and thin lips providing a perfect façade to fool everyone. Aristocratically handsome or sinister with a touch of Nordic chill that many found irresistible - everyone had their pick.
"I will make you suffer for what you've done, Doctor." He leaned forward, staring at Gorenski's grey hair - a courtesy of fate he had been spotting since childhood, long before regular people found salt and pepper in their strands.
"How would you do that?" Gorenski took a sip of his champagne. "Make me suffer?"
"Oh, you will get what you deserve. Perhaps that sick mind of yours assumed that butchering my sister and painting her face was a brilliant idea."
Of course, it was. The man's sister was an example of repugnant, undeserved arrogance steeped in generational privilege and flavoured by stupidity - a waste of human potential. But Gorenski did not bother arguing with the brother.
"We never get what we deserve. Only what we are willing to tolerate," Gorenski replied.
"We'll see," the man said with a smirk, sweet like dying flowers left to soak in water for too long. "I've been warned about you-I know about your quick reactions and twisted ways of seeing the world. Getting rid of you is a favour to society." He took a step back, and Gorenski saw a vein throbbing in his temple and the rage in his eyes-loathing so sour it was curdling him from the inside. It was an interesting sight but not an unusual one.
"It is unlikely that you will overwhelm my pain tolerance, Herr Spiegel." Gorenski guessed the man's name, noticing the familiar resemblance he shared with his sister. "Besides, even if you could, you would not have the mental capacity to know."
His voice trailed off when he straightened the cuffs of his silk shirt and stood up. Gorenski's heart drummed with anticipation. He poured himself more champagne, stroked hissing Ice, and whispered calming words in Polish to his cat.
"We'll send you to your Polish backwater, Doctor," the biggest of the thugs said.
"Does my accent sound Polish to you? Or is it my surname?" Raising an eyebrow, he permitted himself a civil smile. "My associations betray me. Perhaps it is the alien in me that infuriates you. Aggression is often an outcome of fear. Is it so in your case? Do you fear?"
"Fear you?" Spiegel's smugness was amusing. "No. You look so perfect with your champagne and your sweet-smelling apartment. Even a marinated heart on your table." He glanced at Gorenski's carefully preserved heart. "You are a psycho."
"Then what does it make you? A vigilante who has barged into my apartment with the intention to torture me to death and, yet, no proof of my crimes?" Gorensky did not ask who had sent the pompous Austrian after him. He guessed. "You don't know if I am guilty. You may be willing to kill an innocent man to avenge your sister. So very human. But hardly noble."
"I will get my evidence once they ruffle you up." He nodded to the thugs surrounding Gorenski.
"A sound plan, Herr Spiegel. After all, torture and death of fellow creatures is somewhat cathartic to us."
"You are sick."
Gorensky bit his lower lip, following a habit he did not care to abandon.
"How do you define madness, Herr Spiegel? A challenge for the modern world to overcome or an opportunity to embrace? You must be a little mad to make progress." He would have said more had the sugary scent of the merengue not distracted him. "The lemon meringue is ready. The oven is automatic. Please, help yourselves if you wish to. It is an excellent dessert for the occasion. You are quite sour, Herr Spiegel, and there is a lot of foamy grandeur about you: voluminous but with a soft consistency. A merengue. I never prepare 'wrong' deserts."
Spiegel laughed. "You think you'll survive this, don't you?"
With malevolence disguised as curiosity, he asked one of his goons to hit Gorenski, but Gorenski slipped away without much effort. The man's swing was too slow and too predictable, even disappointing.
"That was very foolish of you, Herr Spiegel. But perhaps I should not expect much from people who have no appreciation for art." He straightened his suit jacket and glanced at his bristling cat and the heart in the jar.
"Returning to your previous question," Gorenski began, ignoring the enemies circling him and trying to catch him in a pincer move. "Yes, I expect to survive. Life is unique and precious. It is our only opportunity to leave an impact. To live is an instinct that is extremely hard to resist-even for me."
"You are out of luck," Spiegel hissed.
"You don't know luck. And you don't know me."
Ice lingered nearby, barring his claws. Although pampered, he was skittish and wary of people, especially those who came to hurt his keeper. His paw was still healing, and Gorenski could see the constraint in his movements.
When two of Spiegel's four goons lunched forward, the doctor was ready, his pupils narrowed to resemble his cat's. Tripping them, he listened to the orderly beating of his heart in his temples - a sound that did not send him into a wild frenzy but enhanced his concentration. An opening in his opponents' guard allowed Gorenski to crouch and dart to the window next to his lacquered bookshelves - his apartment had to remain as neat as possible after the gruesome encounter. A left hook from the right from Spiegel himself was far too slow for his taste. And so was the pointless brandishing of wooden bats that looked like oversized toys used by boisterous children in the playground.
The scalpels concealed in Gorenski's sleeve were always precise, reliable, and helpful. But today, they had to stay hidden. Since close quarters did not leave much room for manoeuvring, Gorenski exploited the weaknesses of his opponents with languid grace, savouring every little opportunity for a precise strike. As much as he liked the accuracy of cutting arteries, fountains of blood would tarnish the floors, leaving too much filth - fluids from these pointless men had no place in the doctor's apartment. To avoid the inconvenience of touching those mechanical idiots, Gorenski resorted to breaking bones.
First came the blond giant whose calves were too weak to hold his buff body. Gorenski went for the crunchy sound of fractures that left his victim in a daze and then focused on other attackers. After broken limbs were rendered useless came the snapped necks - one, two, three, four. The last one even pleaded, his lips forming strings of incoherent words. Gorenski frowned: why would this worthless idiot believe he deserved mercy?
Spiegel backed away, throwing accusations of his sister's death at him, while Gorenski watched, nonchalant and curious. A mediocre subject he was - robotic, dull like most mass-produced cardboard cutouts that surrounded Gorenski. Yet, the man was confident of his own exceptionality. And unlike Gorenski, this mediocre man was seen and witnessed in his existence. Fate had a wicked sense of irony.
Having put down his companions, Gorenski took the last sip of his champagne, strode towards his last opponent, and hit Spiegel's head on the wall to stop the endless bilge flowing from his mouth. The bodies would go to the basement, where Gorenski would burn them. Hidden behind bicycle racks and tidy brick-lined corridors, his workshop was equipped with a stove perfect for the occasion. And Spiegel would wait.
Those who did not know the polite doctor with his suave accent assumed his love for confectionary marvels coincided with a fascination with pottery. None of them knew about the door behind the stove, where unused canvasses awaited their turn to be tempered with, turned into art, or discarded. The ones from today would be disposed of. But Gorenski would save Spiegel. From that one, he would make something expressionist, terrifying, and grotesquely appropriate for a worthless, pompous man like Spiegel, much like the latter's sister - something Schiele, one of his favourite painters, would have liked, perhaps.
When Gorenski closed the hidden door behind him and returned to his apartment, his appearance did not seem ruffled. Only the sleeves of his silk shirt were now rolled up, while his suit jacket remained in the workshop. Knocked out unconscious, Spiegel lay in a heap of useless bones on the floor. A whiff of salt was enough to bring the man back to his senses and watch how recognition and horror filled his eyes like water filled an empty glass.
In a moment, he was sitting opposite Gorenski, whose long, elegant hand now held a porcelain teacup. He pushed one towards Spiegel, along with a small plate of the fluffiest meringue, its tangy aroma wafting through his office. Juicy and creamy, it was one of the desserts Gorenski rarely made. The right occasion was hard to find, and Gorenski's inspiration often compelled him to try new experimental sweet treats.
"Please, help yourself," Gorenski offered.
"What?" Spiegel croaked.
"The merengue is excellent," Gorenski said, swinging ever so playfully between politeness and arrogance.
Too shocked to answer, Spiegel gaped and blinked at Gorenski. Perhaps it was that bilious skim of fear he could smell from Spiegel that forced him to ponder his situation. Even now, in the confines of his posh Vienna apartment, he felt he was being watched.
A month had passed since Gorenski last noticed a shadow. It dwindled in the dark, a quiet observer just starting to come into their own, test-driving the emerging self in the shadowy proximity of the doctor. Could the shadow be pinning their unhealthy fascinations upon Gorenski? Or did it all come down to self-effacement and insecurity in the thrall of the Talented? The Talented. Those touched by Morok.
As if echoing his thoughts, Spigel rasped, "What are you? What on Earth are you?"
"What am I?" Gorenski had asked that same question a million times, and his answers always changed like the torrents of a mighty river, bringing blood and memory forward and washing the past away. He was surrounded by past and present, but not a part of either, forcefully evicted from the human world. He was not just Talented, not like any other person touched by Morok. He was granted so many gifts and yet cursed to remain unseen, never leaving an impact.
"I am the Curator," he replied with calm certainty, knowing his answer would not make sense to Spiegel.
But it certainly did to the one who hunted him, who wanted him dead. His invisible enemy saw the Curator and knew what his position entailed - an understanding of human history that none could access without him. Spiegel was a pawn sent to hunt Gorenski but unaware of Gorenski's status as either the Talented or the Curator.
"The Curator of what?" Spigel murmured.
Gorenski bit his lower lip again. "Of the Archive."
"A librarian...?" Spiegel spat the words with confusion.
"Most would consider me a keeper," Gorenski said. "Or an observer. I am vague on the details." He paused. "Certain individuals can weave history-through sheer willpower, boundless stupidity, or incredible luck. Most refer to them as 'Waves'-the ones who leave their ripples within the Archive. All the Talented can see and recognize those ripples, but I have a different perspective. I can access their stories, glean information from their failures, and see the disasters and the blessings they give before others do. I can read all the burnt books and enjoy all the artwork that has ever been created and destroyed. All endures in the Archive."
"You are insane...," Spiegel muttered, eyes wide with horror. Gorenski only gave him a polite nod.
"You should have thought of the consequences before deciding to kill me. You've never seen a Talented before. You would not have noticed if you did, Herr Spiegel. But your stupidity and arrogance will have a price. I make sure everything always does."
Gorenski's mind drifted away, thinking of the strange ways the white fog, Morok, bestowed his gifts upon him and other Talented. He knew why, but he often wondered how.
When Gorenski became the Curator of the Memory Archive, he had all the mysteries of those who had shaped and influenced human history at his fingertips. He was obsessed, fascinated so profoundly by the endless tomes and colourful floating memories in the rows of the Archive's White Halls that he could not stay away. He could spend a decade there and not feel bored. How could he experience anything but thrill and awe?
A young man alienated and misunderstood, devoid of his closest family and robbed of life, he craved knowledge and recognition. Far too bright, his aunt Anna Elżbieta used to say. Yes, he was indeed far too bright, he knew. But he also knew that everyone else was far too dim.
The Archive was a place as much as a dream - a city of white stone in the middle of a frozen lake that shaped itself much to its' Curator's taste. And to the tastes of those disciples who were allowed to visit by the Curator. Each Curator left a trace of himself, an imprint of memory within it - some vanished with towers in their wake, others left structures grandiose as ancient zikkurats and intricate as rose webs from gothic windows of the European Cathedrals.
Meanwhile, in the outside world, people spread rumours of the legendary city of Kitezh submerged beneath clear waters, appearing only to those who could see. In Gorenski's former homeland, that was a popular myth-inspiring hope as much as terror. And, like all legends, it hid its kernel of truth deep within its core.
The city was indeed there - sublime, carved in transparent whiteness, with onion domes and tent-like towers widening at the bottom like dancer's flared skirts. The White City reflected the idealized shape of what Gorenski saw in his shabby reality. It was as if every fairy tale that ever left the minds of imaginative storytellers found its way to enhance that marvel. Yet, no occupants graced its streets, no boots stepped on the cobblestones, and no traders ever appeared. Only the students chosen by the Curator could pass. But Gorenski had not let anyone in for centuries. Not since the death of his last protégé.
He was an integral part of the Archive, following the information about the Waves, those extraordinary people whose actions and thoughts shaped history. Gorenski could see all their threads in the grand tapestry of history-their knowledge, their purpose, and their impact on the world. All left an impact, but Gorenski, the keeper, never did.
The Archive remained untouched and ever-changing inside the empty White City, with intertwined arches and doors that led nowhere, counterforces supporting Ottoman-style loggias, and churches without icons or sculptures. Gorenski enhanced and reshaped it. Yet he longed for the outside world, wishing its cruelty and beauty upon himself. Savouring every minute of terror and pleasure, he had an appetite for life that few could comprehend.
Despite all the pain, he was enamoured with life. His life could not be invisible. But it was. The price for his position was obscurity - only his crimes were witnessed, but always by people as pointless and devoid of potential as Spiegel.
Empty-eyed, Gorenski stared at Spigel, whose trembling hand held a silver spoon. He had that strange skill cultivated over the years - to appear perfect and precise, hitting all the notes of social grace on cue while being wholly withdrawn, drifting away in his own mind. When the front door creaked, he did not flinch.
His Secretary, Karimierz Broniec, had arrived, as always empowered by his ardent wish to kill Gorenski. But there was something else about his arrival that Gorenski could not put together yet - the same scent of fresh wind and dying flowers, the scent of change. So many people wished him dead already. Perhaps his new shadow, bringing the change, was nothing more than another mediocre enemy. Or perhaps he was stepping into an abyss deep as an abandoned mine, with no relief in sight.