A Courtesy Visit

1

Familiar's private club was in an abandoned brewery. It was an architectural ensemble stylized as a medieval fortress. A four-story brick building, reminiscent of a dungeon, was encircled by the two industrial wings of the premises connected by an arch with a metal gate. Above the left wing was a cylindrical tube designed to look like a tower.

Cord remembered how long Familiar had dreamed of getting this useless brewery and how many bureaucratic circles of hell he had to go through to achieve his goal. It took two years for the external restoration of the plant, another year for getting all the utilities and infrastructure in order, decorating the premises with furniture to match the style, and finally finishing all the paperwork.

On his thirtieth birthday, Familiar announced the opening of the club.

One couldn't say that it was very popular. With this place, the term "popularity" was inapplicable in principle: one could only become a member of the club on the personal initiative of Familiar. Cord did not know what the situation was now, four years after the opening, but then he was one of the only twenty-seven people allowed to enter this elite place.

On Friday evening, Cord phoned Familiar on his work number and arranged his arrival at the club for a meeting. The interlocutor's voice did not strike him as strange or worried, which surprised Cord a little. After all, if Familiar really killed the bum, shouldn't he be worried that the investigator suddenly decided to talk to him?

***

Familiar got ready. He shaved off weekly stubble, tidied up hair, clothes, and just before the meeting, took a sedative.

All that remained was to wait.

After yesterday's call from Cord, he was greatly alarmed: what if he knows about what happened? But Familiar forced himself to calm down: in that case, the investigator would hardly have wanted to meet privately—he would have sent police officers for him.

So what did he want?

Familiar's reflections were interrupted by a call from the guard post. The guest had arrived.

***

Cord walked through the small square courtyard, then along semi-dark corridors: most of the time, the club was closed, which meant no point in spending money on lighting. But on those rare evenings, when Familiar arranged events, he covered for the maintenance of the club for weeks ahead. Such was the contingent that came to relax there.

Cord knocked three times on a massive bog oak door and then opened it.

***

Cord was wearing a black winter coat, beige woolen trousers, leather mid-season boots—and a motley hat with a pompom that ruined his strict image. Familiar was about to grin, but remembered in time why Cord had come. However, he still smiled politely and shook the investigator's hand.

"So what did you want to talk to me about, and why was it impossible to do it over the phone?" Familiar immediately got down to business.

"Can you find a cigarette?"

Now Familiar could no longer contain a grin. He pulled a cigarette case out of his shirt pocket and handed it to Cord. He chose one, pulled back the edge of the cap, and put it behind his ear.

"I thought you were going to smoke here."

"No, I'll leave it for dessert," smiled Cord. "Today is a solid business trip. I want to make a good impression."

"One cigarette?" surprised, Familiar raised an eyebrow.

"The main thing is to show off. However, I came to talk to you about another matter. I think you can guess which."

Familiar's smile faded.

"I'm not a fool, Cord."

"I know. That is why you would not kill a poor vagrant in the same place as a prostitute."

The smile faded completely.

"Because I didn't kill them."

"No need to be deceitful. You murdered the Blue Eyes girl, and we both know it. But," Cord casually looked directly into Familiar's eyes, "I also know that the massacre in the hospital and the strangulation of Madam was carried out by someone else. Honestly," Cord turned his gaze to the hands, which Familiar had folded into a steeple on the table, "I'm not sure that the bum is on your conscience. Perhaps this was the handiwork of another vagrant. Therefore, I want to hear the answer to just one question: where were you on the evening of the first of November?"

Whoo-exhale. That was how he had been taught to stay calm.

"Will you turn on the recorder?"

"No, I'm not at work right now. I want to clarify something for myself. Ideally, cross you off the suspect list. So what?"

"I was at home," Familiar lied.

"Can anyone confirm that?"

Familiar shook his head.

"Phone?"

"What phone?"

"If you got a call and you answered between nine and eleven in the evening, that could be considered an alibi."

"Nobody called me," Familiar said slowly. It seemed to him that Cord saw right through him.

"Okay, that's not hard to verify," lied Cord, "but if someone did call you and you did not pick up the phone, then the question will arise, why? And the most obvious answer would be: you couldn't answer because you were in a different place."

If Familiar knew how much paperwork was needed to request and obtain the details of a subscriber's calls from the telephone company, the trick would not work. Still, Cord hoped that the son of the head of the police department was not so involved in his father's work as to know such trifling details.

"Okay, you got me," Familiar said in one exhale. "I was walking in the city center and passed by the park."

"And you went to the liquor store 'Decanter'?"

"I… don't know what it was called. But yes, I did. I bought a brandy. If you are interested," Familiar bent down, opened the bottom drawer of the table, and pulled out a bottle, "this one."

Cord looked at the bottle but did not take it. He had no intention of catching Familiar in a lie. It was definitely fun, though.

"You, of course, didn't keep the receipt?"

"No."

Familiar noticed how his own hand was shaking when he pulled out the bottle.

"What did you forget in the center? You live in a completely different area."

"I… I have nightmares. I wanted to get some air and make myself tired. So I could pass out as soon as I got home."

"Okay, good. So why did you need brandy? Did you run out at home?"

"I wanted to have a drink on the way."

"And then you brought the unfinished bottle here and not home?" said Cord, surprised.

Familiar fell silent. Cord decided to change the subject.

"Did you go to the park?"

"No."

"What route did you take?"

"Along the park. Then I turned down the main street to my neighborhood."

"I see. What nightmares?"

"Nightmares?"

"You just said that you have nightmares, and you went out for a walk to sleep peacefully that night. What are these nightmares about, and why walk past the park for them, and not, say, around the building?"

Familiar did not know what to say to him.

"I didn't walk past the park because of nightmares…" muttered the completely discouraged Familiar. "I went for a walk because of them, but it just happened to be by the park—"

"Oh, I see. But what are they all about?"

Familiar looked up at Cord.

"About you. That you put me in jail for murders that I did not commit. That I'll lose everything. That's what."

This lie was not that far from the truth. Familiar was really afraid of this. True, not in dreams.

"Good. This is all that I wanted to clarify with you. By the way," Cord smiled, "do you want to know why I didn't put you in jail, although I could have?"

"Because I didn't kill anyone?" continued to insist Familiar.

"No, I just remembered how I went fishing with my father as a child. He always tied two hooks to my line. Do you know why? When the float starts to move, it means a bite. You can hook the fish if you pull right away, or you can wait a little while and wait for another fish to bite the second hook. This, of course, is a risk. If the fish is smart, it will eat the bait from both hooks and then swim away. But if you're lucky, you will catch two unwary fish at once. And the only decision that needs to be made is to risk one guaranteed catch or patiently wait for the jackpot."

***

As soon as Cord left, with shaking hands, Familiar grabbed the bottle and emptied it almost instantly.

He knows. He knows…

What should I do?

2

Cord hated metaphors. They are for assholes who cannot speak directly. Still, it was precisely a metaphor that suddenly occurred to him that made him go to see Familiar today.

Familiar is neurotic. As a child, it was difficult for him to simply communicate with his peers, and even more difficult for him was the fact that he did not have any friends. At fourteen, having tried alcohol, he found it helped him get along with people. In principle, alcohol liberates people, but for Familiar, it became practically the only chance he had to communicate normally.

He began to arrange for booze parties where he made friends, met girls, and in short, took part in the ordinary life of youth. For him, parties were the only way that he could feel fulfilled.

Familiar was drawn in, and as he got older, he had to pay with more and more severe hangovers for every great evening, but he could not stop. The parties became riotous, drugs were added to alcohol.

The final chord sounded at twenty-six: an overdose. Then, after a year of rehabilitation, he attempted to start a new life with his club and without addictions. As far as Cord knew, Familiar even managed to almost give up alcohol. In any case, he did not drink every day.

Cord also knew that the neurosis had gone nowhere, so during interrogation, in his final speech, he decided to play with Familiar to instill in him the idea that he could not escape justice. Hearing about the nightmares today, Cord could not help thinking: Were they related? Perhaps I had, in fact, undermined Familiar's psyche?

So, let's check. Two hooks, two fish… It is said that metaphors are the language of the subconscious, which means they are ideal for introducing the thought you need into the mind of another person. Disturbing thoughts and not obvious ones but one which is interpreted. What are these two fish? If the empty and primitive manipulation of the inevitability of punishment worked, then what happens when the Familiar comprehends what is really feared?

It is not good to manipulate a mentally ill person, but what else should I do? After all, I need Familiar to carry out either a rational act or an act of stupidity.

Now Cord was convinced that Familiar had not only killed the prostitute in the park but also the bum. However, there was a problem: he can't just blame a person. Arguments were required based on which Chief would issue permission for an interrogation.

In the case of Piala's murder, there were plenty of such arguments—the testimony of colleagues and friends of Familiar, for example—but this time Cord could not convince Chief with the phrase: "It seems to me that your son wished to return to the scene of the crime. He did so and accidentally ran into a smelly and obsessive vagrant, and then accidentally knocked him down, and he died."

Yes, Familiar had already said enough to him to warrant an interrogation, one which could easily end with an official charge of murder. But even if Cord had really recorded the entire conversation on tape, it would be discredited with one simple question: "What were you doing, Cord, interrogating my son without permission?"

That is how things work. You can't just say "it seems to me" and accuse people of crimes, even if you are confident in your own gut instinct.

Therefore, Cord decided to go all-out: let Familiar know he was about to pinch him and his father. He hoped Familiar would be smart enough to escape the city and not appear in it for two or three years. Well, or at worst, he would try to get rid of the investigator and thereby untie his hands. Cord did not really want such a development to occur, but he was ready for it.

However, what is there to guess about now? I will wait and see what happens.

3

At noon, Cord and Dia met in a café down the street from the building that housed the temporary rehearsal hall of the theater.

"Why temporary?" Cord asked, chewing a langet.

"You will find out," Dia winked, stirring her coffee with a spoon.

After lunch, the couple headed towards a long three-story residential building of a new design painted in a neat, pleasant yellow shade but absolutely not catching the eye. They approached an equally ordinary metal door with such a rather rare thing as an intercom. Cord had first seen such a device at the entrance door to Dia's house and, for a few moments, had stared blankly at the two vertical rows of metal buttons with numbers on them. Here, however, there was only one button—call. Dia pressed it. Half a minute later, a signal sounded, and the door opened.

Look at where progress has led…

They found themselves in a typical stairwell, perhaps cleaner and more well-maintained than usual. To the left and to the right of them, there were two doors each, which led into rooms that could have become apartments if they had not been converted for the theater's needs.

"This is an ordinary apartment building," Dia explained, "but while the new theater is being built, the troupe settled down here. The entire stairwell, along with all the apartments, were bought out completely."

"And the tenants were not opposed?"

"They bought something else at the construction stage. Or rather, even the planning stage. The halls where rehearsals take place are soundproofed, so we don't disturb our neighbors."

Suddenly, the far-right door opened, and a guy in jeans and a torn gray T-shirt came out. He was tortuously carrying a cardboard box that almost reached his chin.

"Oh, Dia, hello!" he exclaimed. "Can you open the first door, please?"

"What, forced labor again?" Dia smiled, opening the door for the guy and stepping aside.

"Aha! Wait, I'll take the props in and come back."

The boy went to "apartment" number one and a minute later returned.

"And you must be Cord, right?" The boy held out his hand for a handshake but realized that he was wearing construction gloves and hastily took them off. Then he chuckled. "The same guy from the bakery."

"And you? That kid with the bicycle and the broken arm," remembered Cord and, with a smile, shook the outstretched hand.

"Do you already know each other?" Dia was surprised.

"We crossed paths a couple of times," nodded Cord.

"They say that accidents are not accidental," the boy mysteriously winked and burst out laughing.

"Ghost with his own repertoire," Dia giggled. "He is something like our mascot and part-time laborer."

"It's a shame that I am 'something like' a mascot, but a 'real' laborer," the guy pouted. "I am here of my own free will, by the way, and I help!" suddenly Ghost smiled mischievously and bowed gallantly, pressing his right hand to the left side of his chest. "It was nice to chat, but boxes do not carry themselves. By the way, Spectrum has already been waiting for you. He is on the third, where he usually is."

Pulling on his gloves, Ghost waved his hand to the couple in parting and returned to the apartment, from which he had just brought a box a few minutes ago.

Cord looked after him.

"Charismatic boy. And handsome. But isn't it too early for him to work?"

"He's fourteen," Dia smiled, "and he does not work here but lives. In a sense, not just here, but in the same building, together with his adoptive father, who, by the way, is our playwright."

"He's an orphan, or what?"

"Yeah. The guys from our theater are essentially like family to him. By the way," Dia giggled, "no one knows if he has a real name. He was nicknamed Ghost in the orphanage because he always appeared out of nowhere when he was needed. And he also knew how to disappear imperceptibly. But he is a cool guy, albeit a little, hmm—"

"Expressive?"

"No, another word… Eccentric. You never know what to expect from him."

***

They knocked on a door with the number ten on it. Shuffling steps were heard behind it, and then the smiling face of the director appeared in front of them. He had a mustache like a world-renowned surrealist artist, but outwardly, other than that, he did not portray that image at all: a short man in a green checkered shirt and trousers with suspenders.

"Hello!" he announced in a drawn-out fashion. "There you are, Cord! Nice to meet you!" The man shook his hand vigorously.

"Me too," Cord replied politely. "Dia said you wanted to meet me?"

"Of course, my friend, I wanted to!" the man gestured guests into the apartment. "Oh, and I completely forgot to introduce myself! Spectrum!"

They went to the table. On the patterned tablecloth, Cord saw what he had not expected at all—a pot-bellied samovar1 with sparkling brass sides. In front of it were three cups on a saucer and three crystal serving dishes with gingerbread cookies, waffles, and chocolates. Cord, although he had eaten recently, nevertheless decided not to offend the hospitable host, as did Dia, who was never averse to satisfying a sweet tooth.

"Dia!" began Spectrum when they sat down at the table and poured themselves tea from the spigot. "It's not true to say that I wanted to talk to your boyfriend. In fact, the opinion of both of you is important to me. It's about your pregnancy."

Cord looked closely at the director.

"As far as I understand, childbirth is expected in May or June?" continued Spectrum.

"Well, yes," Dia nodded.

"And this means that starting from March, and maybe even earlier, you cannot rehearse."

"I don't know yet. I've never been pregnant," Dia smiled.

"I'm judging by my wife," Spectrum smiled. "You will need the least strain in the last trimester. Do you agree with me, Cord?"

"Of course, that sounds reasonable."

"Therefore, I suggest that you, Dia, rehearse more now. Can you come to us three days a week?"

"Well…" Dia glanced sideways at Cord.

"I do not mind, but decide yourself: you're the actress," he said.

Dia brightened.

"I agree!"

"But I have a question," put in Cord. "Do performances take so long to rehearse? It seemed to me three months maximum…"

Spectrum smiled.

"It is possible in three and three and a half. You could even spend half a year on one minor role. It depends on the budget and perseverance. Fortunately, we are not constrained by the means, and the premiere should be perfect." The director took a sip from his cup. "But there is another reason. The construction of our theater will be completed at the end of June."

"Where will it be?"

"Remember the old city library?"

"Which burned down?"

"Right. We want to build almost the same structure—a kind of big hello to wooden architecture, but this time using the latest modern technologies. There is also a small square nearby, you know it? We will make it a noble place."

"And what will you name it?"

"We are still thinking about that. The current leading variant is 'Post-Mortem', as a connection to the postmodern, with the addition of good symbolism. You might say, we are capturing theater art after its death, how about that?!"

"You see, Cord! This is a serious theater, not some shady business!" Dia chided him.

The director grinned.

"Did you really think so?"

"I just never heard of your theater."

"Probably because you were never had an interest in our sphere of activity. Allow me to tell you more about us."

***

They talked for another two hours. The director gave Cord a tour and even showed him documents to convince him that their theater was very solid. And it turned out to be true.

Previously, the theater was based in another city and was called "Dramatic". Then, the leadership changed and decided to completely reformat the company in keeping with new trends. They abandoned the staging of classical pieces and focused on searching for "works with unmatched morality and non-standard plots," as Spectrum put it. Their new productions were so successful that the management sent one of the troupes to conquer the capital.

"And so, here we are," summed up the director. "We decided to not even use our hit repertoire, but to start everything from scratch. Our playwright has written a play called 'Third Parties', with which we will debut in your city."

"Yes, Dia told me."

"I hope you haven't spilled the details of the plot?" the director looked sternly at the girl.

"No, no, how could I!" she waved her hands. "I wouldn't want to spoil the experience for Cord!"

"That's right!" the director laughed. "And I bet you will never forget our performance!"

4

On the way home, Cord wondered what the real reason for the day's trip to the theater had been. Why was he needed there? Dia could have decided the question on the rehearsals herself or asked his opinion at any other time…

Cord could not understand whether there had been anything wrong with the trip. Or was it just something out of the everyday life of normal people, to which he, like a savage, turned out to be simply unaccustomed to?