Baselard, the Leader of the Insurgents

The room was dark, the dim light of a candle carried by one of the men barely illuminating his face. He moved carefully but slowly, and his shadow danced strangely on the walls, as if reflecting some fickle, mystical movement. There was a tension in his face, despite the calmness in his voice. He stopped at the window, his movements fluid, but his eyes were wary of his surroundings, as if expecting something.

"Were we being followed?" he asked in an old voice full of anxiety. "Did someone bring a tail with them?"

"Everything is fine," his companion, whose voice was younger, answered confidently. "There was no one. Everything is fine."

At the same moment, there was a clear click, and the table lamp instantly lit up, illuminating the dark space. The light was soft, but bright enough to illuminate the bed on which Mark Tempe was lying. He was in the same snow-white suit, but now he looked almost helpless: there was a compress on his head, and his pince-nez lay neatly on the nightstand nearby. It seemed that he was in oblivion, but from a sharp click that pierced the silence, he instantly woke up.

His eyes widened and he jumped out of bed, gasping for air as if he couldn't figure out where he was. His heart was pounding and his brain was refusing to work, as if his consciousness hadn't caught up with his body yet. It took him a moment to realize what was happening, but he quickly looked around, as if trying to make sense of it.

The room was quiet, but something about the silence made him nervous. He closed his eyes against the glare of the lamp and noticed two men standing in the corner. One of them, an old man with a lined face and dull eyes, quickly approached him. His hands shook nervously as he began to speak, words falling like rain.

"I'll explain everything, don't worry," the old man's voice trembled, and every word seemed to be trying to calm the panic, but only increased it. "It's not what you think, I… we… will tell you everything, just… just calm down."

Mark, still struggling to come to his senses, reached for the nightstand, unable to concentrate on anything but one thought: he needed to find his pince-nez. His hand nervously felt the surface of the nightstand, and as if specially left for his convenience, the pince-nez was right under his fingers. He carefully put it on, and the world became a little clearer again. The lenses restored his ability to see clearly, and he took a deep breath to calm himself.

Mark got out of bed, feeling his legs buckle slightly, and looked around, peering into the dim room until his gaze fell on the old man standing opposite him, with a gray moustache and a tense expression on his face. The old man looked at him with an appraising glance, as if trying to figure out what state his interlocutor was in. His eyes sparkled, and his voice, when he spoke, was even, but full of some kind of wariness.

"Suppose you managed to get the train out of the station," he said, as if that question were the key to everything that was happening. "What would you do then?"

Mark froze in place. The question, spoken so calmly, struck him like a blow. He felt everything inside his head freeze. At first, he couldn't figure out what he was supposed to say. His breathing became rapid, and the mind he had been trying to return to for so long could not cope with the question.

The old man continued to stand in front of Mark, his hands folded behind his back and looking at him intently.

"What next?" he repeated, as if he was trying to get Mark to admit not just an answer, but an honest confession of what he really wanted to achieve with his risky move. "Hijacking a train is half the battle. But what then?"

Mark forced out a breath, feeling his pride crumble beneath the question. He stared at the old man, trying to find some hint of sympathy in those piercing eyes, but instead found only cold analysis.

"What's your name?" Mark finally asked, his voice shaking but trying to maintain at least the appearance of control.

The old man raised a gray eyebrow, as if surprised that Mark had asked him this question. But after a short pause he answered:

"Baselard."

Mark blinked, clearly confused.

"Baselard?" he asked, vaguely recognizing the word. "But that's the name of a dagger... Why do they call you that?"

He couldn't help but smile slightly, nervously, adding:

"Besides, it suits you...," he said almost ingratiatingly. "Your eyes... they're so... piercing. As if they were piercing," with each word Mark's smile became more and more pitiful.

The old man narrowed his eyes for a moment, as if deciding how to react to the joke. Then the corners of his lips twitched slightly in a semblance of a smile.

"A party nickname," he finally deigned to explain. "You understand, it's better not to know the full names of the insurgents. It will be safer that none of our ill-wishers try to use this information against us."

He took a step closer, as if looking at Mark from a new angle.

"And I think you should change your name too," he remarked with a slight mockery. "Only, looking at you, I don't know... should I call you "Merchant" or maybe "Tradesman"? You look too, huh, lordly, not according to our standards."

Mark couldn't help but chuckle, though the joke left a slight feeling of awkwardness. He had been standing with his arms crossed over his chest the entire time, but soon moved them to rub his temples, as if trying to shake off a headache.

"So you think I'm... a state criminal?" he asked, his voice laced with bitter humor, as if he were hoping to extract at least a hint of relief from this absurd conversation.

The old man instantly became serious. His piercing gaze became even harder, and his smile disappeared.

"Well, certainly not an angel," he answered dryly.

The phrase struck Mark like a piercing blow. An image of Harey, his wife, whom he had always considered an angel - bright, inspiring, unearthly, instantly appeared before his mind's eye. He tensed, trying to suppress his emotions, but still said in a firm voice:

"Listen," he said in a tone that brooked no argument, "I have to free my wife."

The old man folded his hands behind his back, leaned back on his heels, and looked at Mark as if he were a guilty student.

"You can't organize an escape on your own," he began slowly, as if chewing each word. "This is not a walk in the park, and it's certainly not the work of one person. It requires teamwork. A well-coordinated, reliable team that understands what it's doing.

Mark tilted his head to the side, narrowed his eyes and answered with a hint of stubbornness:

"I only have myself. And my goal. Isn't that enough?"

Baselard chuckled, as if the question didn't impress him.

"Not enough. Single men rarely succeed, especially in such matters. Not only will you fail to free her, but you will also destroy yourself."

Mark, tilting his head and squinting his eyes, as if trying to determine who this strange old man resembled, said with a note of stubbornness in his voice:

"It's a matter of my honor," and he immediately straightened his back to demonstrate to his interlocutor that, well, honor is everything to him.

But Baselard didn't say a word in response. He stood motionless, like a statue carved from stone, and his gaze remained as piercing, but now it expressed either interest or disappointment. Mark realized that this phrase would not impress the old man. Taking a deep breath, he tried to change his tone:

"Look, I'm ready for anything. I'll fulfill any of your conditions. Just help me. I can't leave her there."

Baselard smiled faintly at the corners of his lips, as if this was exactly what he had been waiting for. His voice, when he spoke, was unexpectedly soft, almost friendly, but with a hint of calculation:

"What is your education?"

Mark blinked in surprise, caught off guard by the question. He scratched his chin, considering what to say. A number of options flashed through his mind, from listing his university degrees to telling him about his musical achievements and knowledge of foreign languages. He hoped that the wealth of information would impress the old man, but the abundance of detail made it difficult for him to respond right away.

Mark finally raised his head, a spark of pride lit in his eyes. His voice sounded firm, almost solemn:

"For your information, since last year I have been a professor of piano at Boston University, in the College of Fine Arts. This title, I can say, was not simply received."

He paused briefly, waiting for a reaction, but Baselard remained unperturbed. This, however, only spurred Mark on. Now he spoke with emphasis, trying to emphasize each word:

"I have been working towards this for many years. First, long years of study - not just playing, but a deep study of musical theories, art history, pedagogy. Then - endless hours at the instrument. Do you think it's easy? To prepare yourself for a concert, and then, under the spotlight, in front of hundreds of people, to keep the audience in suspense, each time as if proving your right to be on stage? And then - work as an assistant, making your way in the academic environment, where competition is fierce."

The old man remained silent, continuing to stare at Mark. Only one of his gray eyebrows slightly rose, which could have been either a sign of interest or hidden skepticism. This only provoked Mark:

"I am not just a musician. I am a teacher, a mentor. I know how to inspire young people, how to reveal their talent. Hearing the gratitude of students, seeing how they achieve success - this is what makes me not just a professor, but a person who leaves a mark on the lives of others."

He straightened up, as if he wanted to emphasize his dignity. However, the old man, having listened to Mark's passionate speech with the imperturbability of an experienced judge, remained indifferent. Only the corner of his mouth twitched slightly when Mark finished his tirade. He remained silent, as if evaluating each word, and then, without changing his calm tone, said:

"Your education, professor, is impressive. However..."

He paused, as if giving weight to each next word.

"This is not enough."

Mark frowned, as if he didn't immediately understand the meaning of what was said.

"Not enough," the old man continued, "to tear off the head of the vile viper of American capitalism," and with the last sentence his wrinkled hands clenched into fists, and his piercing eyes seemed to look straight into the soul of his interlocutor.

Mark sensed that the atmosphere of the conversation was becoming tense and decided to change his tone.

"But I'm not going to take the heads of vipers, American or Canadian or any other," he said softly, almost ingratiatingly. "I just want to free my wife."

The old man seemed to have been expecting these words. His face suddenly came alive and he laughed loudly, throwing his head back. The laughter was unexpected and infectious, but there was some elusive mockery in it. Mark noticed that the old man had only a few teeth in his mouth - all real, without any traces of prosthetics, which gave his laughter a strange, primeval sound.

"You are a brave man, professor," said the old man when his laughter finally died down.

Mark, unable to help himself, smiled faintly, but answered gloomily:

"No, I'm just stupid."

And then the old man slapped his knee sharply, like a student who had finally answered a difficult question correctly:

"There!" he exclaimed with a satisfied smile.

His tone was as if he had just figured out the essence of the man standing before him, and this discovery pleased him greatly. In his gaze, Mark read not malice, but rather a gentle reproach.

"It would be nice if you became smarter, Professor," he said softly, with a slight smile.

But then his gaze dropped downwards, and for a moment his face darkened, as if a shadow of memory had passed over him. He took a short breath, then looked up at Mark again.

"We lost many... during May 18th 1982," he said, clearly emphasizing the date, without specifying what event he was talking about or what was notable about it.

Mark, who had perhaps expected a sharp rebuke or accusation, suddenly felt a surge of strange joy, nervous and uncontrollable. He laughed loudly, almost hysterically.

"We lost the smart ones," he exhaled through laughter, "but the fools remained!"

The old man was not offended, his gaze remained just as calm, but a heavy tone appeared in his voice, from which Mark's laughter began to fade.

"There are fewer of both," he said gloomily, as if drawing a line under this sad conversation.

Mark, as if telling a story from the last century, said indifferently:

"Of course, I'm sorry that your rebellion ended in defeat, but..."

He didn't have time to finish his sentence. The man who had entered the room with the old man and had been silent until now suddenly spoke, interrupting him.

"Yes, we lost that rebellion," he said in an even but firm voice.

Mark turned his head sharply, his face expressing genuine surprise.

"Are you... hoping for something new?" he asked with an intonation that mixed genuine interest and light irony.

The old man, who had been standing nearby, came closer, his steps slow and purposeful. He gestured to the bed and motioned for Mark to sit down. He, not knowing why he was obeying, obediently sat down on the edge. The old man sat down next to him, slightly turned sideways to him.

"Yes, professor," he said ingratiatingly, looking Mark straight in the eyes, "with your help."

Mark, looking from Baselard to the other man, couldn't help but notice his details: his clean-shaven head contrasted sharply with his neat, jet-black goatee. The man was still standing against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, and he seemed to be staring at Mark.

"Let's begin," he said in a low, firm voice, as if drawing a line under the preface.

Baselard, who was sitting next to Mark on the bed, nodded briefly and opened the drawer of the nightstand. From there he pulled out a thin book with a tattered spine, which clearly indicated that it had been used many times. After turning it over in his hands, as if weighing it, he finally looked up at Mark.

"This is for you, professor," said the old man in a soft but insistent tone, "to study, to learn and... most importantly, to understand."

He extended the book to Mark, but, as if changing his mind, he held it in his hands. A slight sternness flashed in his gaze.

"But remember," he added, pausing, "he will be the one examining you."

With these words, Baselard nodded towards the bald man with the beard. He, catching the gesture, only smiled slightly at the corner of his mouth, but said nothing.