Amberville (10 page)

I surprised even myself.

Like many nights before that night, I heard the rustling of Eric’s bedclothes and woke up. The weather was past midnight. Eric stole across the floor. I was lying dead quiet. As usual I was in agony. But inside me there was suddenly a courage that had never been there before.

I don’t know what caused it.

I waited until he’d gotten out of the window, until it was silent. Then it was my turn to throw off my blanket and pull on my clothes, which were folded over the desk chair.

Then I crept out after him onto the roof.

He wasn’t easy to follow. I ran across the roofs that were Amberville’s shield against the rain. The light breeze burnished the sky smooth and black, the moon’s glow was reflected in thousands of glistening black roof tiles.

I tried to run as quietly as I could.

Beyond the muddle of Amberville’s rooftops, on the other side of Western Avenue, I could see the lights from Tourquai. Some of the façades of the stately skyscrapers were illuminated. Along with the lights down in the street, that light was my salvation.

At regular intervals I caught sight of Eric farther ahead, a blur of motion behind a chimney. As he jumped between roofs, the glow of the streetlights reflected from his belt buckle. Each time he disappeared, he showed up again farther and farther away. I ran as fast as I dared. At last I lost sight of him. By then we had run more than twenty minutes and still the tall buildings in Tourquai seemed just as distant.

I had no idea where I was, other than I was still somewhere in Amberville. Still I went on. The faint breeze sounded like a panpipe. Sometimes an accelerating car engine was heard.

Otherwise it was silent.

Then suddenly a “plunk.”

I stopped. I looked in the direction of the sound and discovered Eric down on a red street. He disappeared around a street corner. Remaining on the sidewalk was the empty pop can he’d stumbled against by mistake.

I got down from the roof as quickly as I could. It sounds easy, but it was an adventure, a story of danger, drainpipes, woken-up neighbors who threatened to call the police. Once down on the street, I ran as fast as I could toward the place where Eric had vanished. I, too, rounded the street corner.

I found a granite-gray dead-end alley.

No brother, only this alley.

In front of me: a ten-meter-tall brick wall without windows or doors. The façades on both sides up to the wall were windowless except for a few openings sitting so high up that Eric never could have reached them.

Or?

There was a large container on the street. Perhaps you might be able to climb up on its edge and from there, with an agile leap, reach the lowest window opening to the left.

For me, such gymnastics were impossible. It shouldn’t have been possible for Eric, either. But I was no longer sure about Eric.

I remained standing. At a loss. I stood staring at the brick wall—presumably—for a few minutes. The way home would feel even longer with a task that was unfinished.

Then I heard.

“Psst.”

I readily admit that I jumped.

“But what the hell, Eric, didn’t you just get here?”

I looked around me in confusion.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

“Come in, then,” said the voice.

With a metallic sound as if from a large metal spring, the short side of the Dumpster opened and I stepped in.

Casino Monokowski.

The container was a container on the outside.

On the inside it was the entrance to Casino Monokowski.

The gorillas in the door nodded to me in recognition. For them, I was my twin brother.

The container itself was nothing worth describing. It looked like a container on the inside as well. With the difference that on the long side there was an opening that led into the building against which the container stood. I went in through the opening and remained standing a few steps inside the place.

My mouth opened wide.

I had never seen anything like it. As large as the interior of Sagrada Bastante. Or like a gutted Grand Divino. Decorated with gilded draperies along the massive walls and dark-red wall-to-wall carpets on the floors. Filled with endless rows of clattering, flashing gambling machines and quantities of round poker tables, large roulette tables, and high, half-moon-shaped blackjack tables. Interspersed between tables and machines were long bars whose mirrors revealed all the tricks the poker players were up to.

A planned-out chaos.

Filled with stuffed animals.

Despite the enormous capacity of the place, it was the guests who dominated the impression of Casino Monokowski. Mammals and snakes, birds and fish. Felines and dogs, predators and imaginary animals. The noise level was deafening. The jingle of one-armed bandits, the clinking of glasses and bottles, the rustling of bills at the poker tables, and the murmur of suppressed expectation. The smells made me dizzy. Cigar and cigarette smoke. Perfume and sweat. Arrogance and nervousness.

I was inundated with impressions, but I resisted. Slowly I forced my way over to a bar and ordered a soft drink.

The bartender, who obviously also recognized me as my twin brother, smiled, amused but amiable.

Somewhere in here was Eric. What should I say if I found him? Of all the accusations I had formulated, which one bore being said out loud? Without humiliating myself more than the one I accused? Perhaps it was better to return to reality and leave Eric’s salvation to Odenrick and the church?

But he was my twin; our bonds were strong.

I took a swallow of my soft drink and was on the verge of exploding.

Like a siphon, the alcohol sprayed right out over the bar,
and in my throat there burned a hellish fire. I was sixteen years old. I had never even tasted red wine at home.

I dried the corrosive liquid from my lips and prepared to scold the bartender when I realized the obvious.

This was what Eric drank. He was already abusing alcohol. When I ordered a soft drink, the bartender thought it was a joke.

Still bewildered, someone tapped my shoulder. I turned around. There stood a chinchilla.

“Table twenty-three,” he said. “It’s urgent.”

I understood nothing. I said nothing in reply.

“Urgent,” said the chinchilla with irritation. “Get a move on.”

I shook my head. It was pointless to pretend to understand what he expected of me.

“It’s a dog, he’s been winning a good while now,” said the chinchilla in order to acquaint me with the situation. “We’re talking big money. I’ve been looking for you.”

Finally my surprise appeared not to be out of place.

“It was Dove who located you,” said the chinchilla, nodding up toward the ceiling, as if this dove were Magnus Himself.

The chinchilla placed a hand on my shoulder and shoved me away from the bar. I still said nothing. This seemed to make him nervous.

“Dove is watching,” he whispered in my ear at the same time as he continued to push me ahead of him as if I were a plow.

“Stop the dog. Quickly.”

With that we were at what must have been table twenty-three, for the hand on my shoulder was suddenly gone. I turned around. The chinchilla had vanished. In front of me there was a tall table where three animals were playing cards. One of them was a dog, and in front of the dog was a mountain range of chips.

I knew nothing about gambling games, but I wasn’t stupid. I realized that the chips were money; I realized that my—or, rightly stated, my twin brother’s—task was to play against this dog and defeat him.

I sat down at one of the vacant chairs at the table. The rooster who was dealing out cards immediately pushed a few piles of chips over to me. Then he dealt out the cards; we each got two cards.

The player to the right of me nodded, and the rooster set a third card in front of him. I didn’t know what that meant.

“Card?” the rooster said to me.

I nodded.

On the day the green pickup delivers us we are all good. That is my conviction. After that we are exposed to temptations that lead to actions which have consequences which, if we aren’t thoughtful, come to be experienced as evil. We all carry within us the conditions for developing into a Dictator, a Sadist, or even a Psychopath. That is why I live as I do at Lakestead House. Carefully.

This sounds bombastic. I’m not ashamed of that. I have devoted my life to goodness. The consequences became infinitely more extensive than I thought, but I regret nothing.

The walls in my room are light blue. I live a great deal of my life in this room. That wasn’t the idea, but it’s logical.

Evil is found in experiences. Never in intentions.

A classic problem is how evil the evil intention which leads to a good action really is. This line of reasoning can be turned around. It can be asked how good a good intention which has evil consequences really is.

For me this is of no importance. This is the sort of thing Archdeacon Odenrick can figure out. My definition of evil is simple.

Evil is what the victim experiences. Nothing else.

The Dictator, the Sadist, and the Psychopath are not driven by evil intentions. They are out for material gain, emotional gain, or else they’re following an instinct without any intention whatsoever.

Their victims are not interested in intentions. Their victims experience pure evil. If the victim knew about the Dictator’s plan, the Sadist’s bent, or the Psychopath’s childhood, the victim wouldn’t describe what he withstood as evil. He would talk about fate, about bad luck, or explain it by his “getting in the way” of something.

Pure evil is a result, not an intention.

Pure evil must be “unjust” from the victim’s perspective.

Pure evil is an experience.

There was already a six of clubs and a queen of spades in front of me on the table. The rooster gave me the eight of clubs when I asked for one more card. Then that round was over.

My plan had been to figure out the rules during the course of play. That didn’t work. On the other hand, it seemed to me as though the dog was getting rid of more chips than me.

The rooster continued dealing out cards. We pushed out our chips. Took our cards. Then it was time for the next round. I had no idea what was going on. But the dog, like the others at the table, became more and more furious.

The fury was directed at me.

“What the hell are you up to?” hissed the dog.

I shrugged my shoulders.

But before there was time for anything more to happen, the chinchilla suddenly showed up by my side. With a discreet nod he got me to leave the table and my chips. He placed the same question as the dog, although in a lower voice.

“What the hell was that?”

We kept each other company away from table twenty-three.

“Are you out of your mind?” he asked. “A few rounds more and they would have had to carry you out.”

I didn’t answer. We walked slowly in order not to attract attention. Everyone moved slowly inside Casino Monokowski. The heat, perhaps the alcohol, but above all the mass of animals meant that you were forced to take it carefully. We turned to the right into a long corridor bordered by slot machines giving off an ear-splitting din.

“Take this,” whispered the chinchilla right next to my ear, slipping me a small package.

He did it so discreetly that the package was in my hand before I noticed that I had gotten it. It was no larger than a matchbox. White wrapping paper and thick, beige tape.

“It’s for Otto. He’s sitting farthest in, in the Twilight Room.”

“Otto?” I said.

“What are you taking this evening?” asked the chinchilla with irritation, and stopped me right before the corridor of slot machines ended. “Otto Orangutan. In the Twilight Room. Shall I lead you there?”

Before I had time to accept his offer, he turned around and left.

There I stood with a small white package in my hand, not knowing what I should do. The clatter was ringing in my eyes, I was still bewildered by my experiences at the gaming table and the taste of alcohol still remained on my lips.

Should I give up and go home?

That was a possibility. Events were running away in an uncontrollable manner, and I was feeling physically ill from the greed and bewilderment that were in the air. True, I hadn’t run into Eric, but perhaps that was just as well?

I had uncovered his secret.

It filled me with shame and disgust.

I decided to go home, but it wouldn’t be that easy.

That fateful evening at Casino Monokowski was a fore
boding of the rest of my life. Psychosomatic illnesses, pre-destination, and religiosity; it’s all about faith. Having sufficient imagination in order to be able to twist reality into faith’s more limited framework. If I spend my days searching for signs, I’m going to find them in the end. Perhaps it’s the same way with that night at the casino. Perhaps I attributed greater significance to it in retrospect than it had?

Perhaps not.

At first glance, Casino Monokowski looked like a single, gigantic room. It proved to be more than that. To make your way from where I stood to the exit was a real hike. Slowly I walked against the current, with my gaze to the floor in order to avoid all the “acquaintances” who knew Eric but not me.

My strategy was simple. I walked along one of the outside walls. That must lead me to the exit.

Golden sheets of cloth were hanging along the walls. They muffled the sound in the place and gave the miserable reality a certain degree of class. I assumed that the walls behind the draperies were unfinished cement. Thus I was surprised when the golden drapery was suddenly pulled to the side.

Out through a gap in the drapery a gazelle’s head appeared. The gazelle’s right horn had come off in the middle. His eyelashes were so long that for a moment I wondered if I had been mistaken, if he actually was a she?

“Come!” whispered the gazelle, indicating behind the drapery with his hooves.

For a moment or two I considered ignoring him and continuing toward the exit, but it was easier to do as he wanted.

I stepped in behind the drapery. There was yet another large room. Here, however, the dimensions were more normal. Animals were sitting at round tables playing cards, and the only bar was traditionally located, along the short wall.