Amberville (3 page)

H
e stood in his tower, looking out over Mollisan Town in the twilight. Deep within his small, cold eyes there burned a fire, a white fire of unshakable will. He revealed this will to no one; he understood that it would frighten any stuffed animal who saw it. And he could keep it concealed, because he never lost control. If you couldn’t control yourself, it was impossible to control others. And from his perspective, control was equivalent to power. That was how he lived his life. He seized power, and he administered it. In the shimmering orb of his eye a smile glistened fleetingly, but this smile was impossible to see. It was the smile of power, self-satisfied and terrified at the same time.

He was standing in the darkness. Down below his lookout point the two rectilinear avenues divided the city into four districts. His city, a world of objects and desire. He stood completely still, observing how the cars skidded around like fox fire on ingeniously labyrinthine streets. Every street in the city had its own characteristic color. Every important building was painted, from foundation to roof—including doors and windowsills, roof tiles, and chimneys—one of the
rainbow’s many shades. From his tower, Mollisan Town was an explosion of colors during the daytime, but after darkness set in, it was the neon lights instead that gave life and personality to asphalt, brick, and cement. He loved this city.

Mollisan Town was a few kilometers from the coast. To the west was the great sea and Hillevie, the resort town for the well-to-do. Otherwise they were surrounded by deep forests to the north as well as to the south and east. And the city was growing: at its edges trees and brush were being shoved aside to establish heavy industries. With each century the stuffed animals had conquered a few kilometers of the forest in every direction. Yet the forests were endless; no one had ever succeeded in exploring or mapping them in their insurveyable immensity, despite attempts being made.

The stuffed animals were curious by nature, he thought. That was their joy, and their misfortune.

The four districts of the city, distinct in their differences, competed at being the largest. In the past they had been independent villages, but they had grown together inexorably and been forced to share resources. Amberville’s bourgeois prosperity; Tourquai’s hectic urban life; Lanceheim, which remained a city within the city; and, finally, Yok, which with each year in the present century had grown to be a greater and greater problem for the city’s administration. Today in each of the city’s districts there lived more than a million stuffed animals, of all types and colors, dispositions and mentalities. Sometimes he saw himself as their puppet master; it was a matter of power and control. If he closed his eyes he could envision four million thin threads running from his brain, binding each and every animal in his city.

Pride, he thought. A mortal sin.

The cat who spilled the beans, the cat who had tattled to Nicholas Dove…the thought made him furious. Unconsciously his muscles tensed and he grabbed hold of the
arm of the chair. The thought that such an insignificant animal, such a fool, had been able to upset a circle…that the almost perfect world he’d built—not for himself but for everyone—might crack apart so easily…that over the years he’d become so spoiled and lazy that he no longer worried…let himself be taken by surprise…surprised by something as obvious as…the spinelessness of stuffed animals.

He shook his head.

He breathed slowly.

He was forced to turn the argument around so as not to explode. Without insignificant errors like this thing with the cat, he thought, life would be all too easy. If chance didn’t remain his opponent, who would be able to challenge him? Standing here, cursing the cat, led nowhere. The time for action had come.

A
long sky-blue South Avenue and mint-green East Avenue, the district of Yok reminded a careless observer of the well-cared-for townhouses in Amberville. After a few moments of scrutiny the differences became apparent. In expectation of good times that never came, the landlords had evicted their impoverished renters. The hope was for new, wealthier animals, but no one like that appeared. The years passed, the unoccupied buildings fell into disrepair, and finally they were so decrepit that the owners no longer had the means to keep them up. Especially now, because they had evicted the renters who up till then had provided them with their sole source of income.

In time the buildings along South and East Avenues came to be regarded as the boundary line between a functioning and a nonfunctioning society. Many had business in Yok, because both the Ministries of Finance and Culture had chosen to relocate certain aspects of their operations there for social reasons. Visitors took the bus along the deep-blue Avinguda de Pedrables, the street that flows from north to south like a broad river through that part of the city.

Those who lived in the chaos of streets running in all directions without name or number, the stuffed animals who made decrepit or improvised buildings their miserable homes, would all have moved to Tourquai, Amberville, or Lanceheim if they’d had the opportunity. No one chose of their own free will to live with the stench from the overloaded sewer system and the garbage fermenting in the streets. No one enjoyed the insecurity, the unpredictable aggressiveness of the homeless, or the fistfights and gunfire that were part of everyday life there. It was easy to hide in Yok, to lie low year after year without the risk of being discovered. In the food stores, on the streets, or in the bars, it was wisest to look only at the person you were talking to, or even better: at nothing at all. The inhabitants of this part of the city knew how to take care of themselves, ignore others, and secretly hope to get a chance one day to leave Yok for good.

Eric Bear and Tom-Tom Crow left Grand Divino, crossed the mint-green avenue, and took the way into Yok via Rue d’Uzès. Eric had written down the address on a slip of paper that was in his pants pocket: 152 Yiala’s Arch. They walked rather quickly. The crow had always felt uncomfortable in Yok’s decrepit poverty; he had grown up in Tourquai. He was the cub as well as grandcub of a long line of successful shopkeepers. He was slurping on a bag of salty pretzel sticks he’d brought with him from the department store, which meant that he didn’t complain about having missed out on the vegetable soup.

In silence they continued due south, and after a half hour or so they could no longer distinguish one block from the next. Gray concrete buildings, four or five stories high, whose lowest floors were covered with sun-bleached graffiti over rain-tattered advertisements. Here and there were shops that lacked names and that often sold unexpected combinations of wares: vegetables and handbags, liquor and plastic furniture. Eric and Tom-
Tom were alone on the streets, and yet they felt they were being watched.

“Damn, how I hate this,” said Tom-Tom.

“Don’t forget that you’re the one who’s big and dangerous,” Eric reminded him.

Tom-Tom nodded to himself. He appreciated being addressed in a sort of familiar understanding, like two grownup stuffed animals making conversation. Eric Bear was the only one who used that tone of voice with him.

Just when Tom-Tom was thinking for the third time about asking whether Eric really knew where he was going, the bear nodded toward a narrow, grass-green alley some ten meters farther along on the left side. The alley seemed to disappear down a steep slope between the buildings, and it was so narrow that Tom-Tom was unsure whether there would be room for him with his wings.

“There,” said Eric.

“Are you sure? I mean, it’s frigging hard to find your way around here,” Tom-Tom pointed out, taking the last pretzels from the bag. “But I’m guessing you must have been here before.”

Eric nodded. True, it was a long time ago, so long that it almost didn’t count, but yesterday afternoon he had hastily checked. Sam Gazelle was still living at 152 Yiala’s Arch, which, by the way, was one of the few green streets in this neighborhood.

“Hope the poor devil is home,” said Tom-Tom.

“Worst case, we’ll just have to wait,” said Eric.

“Hope he’s alive,” said Tom-Tom.

“He’s the type who never dies,” said Eric.

Tom-Tom nodded and smiled. There was something to that.

The alley was not quite as narrow as the crow had thought, but the stench of urine was so overpowering that
he almost turned around because of it. In some remarkable way, he had the idea that the buildings were closing behind him. When he looked over his shoulder he realized that there was nowhere to flee, if that should be required. In these neighborhoods you never knew. The crow was filled with fear. The reason he’d abandoned his previous life and started working in the notions department at Grand Divino was that he never wanted to feel like this again. Others related what happened when he fell into his black holes of panic; he himself recalled nothing. Sometimes it went well, other times not so well. It was after one of these memory losses—after he’d long since left the Casino—that he’d returned to consciousness in a small sewing notions boutique in Lanceheim. The event had awakened an interest in handwork that surprised him, and when he started at Grand Divino, life took a positive turn. His needs were not great, either. To be able to one day finish his embroidered wall hanging was a dream sufficient to give the crow happiness for many years to come.

It hadn’t taken more than an hour with Eric Bear before Tom-Tom again found himself in the situation that he thought he’d left behind for all time. His pulse pounded so that it hurt. He looked around yet again, and he thought he glimpsed something or someone there, far away. Fear seized him with a firm grasp, and the world began to spin.

“Here it is,” said Eric.

“What?”

“It’s here.”

Eric nodded toward an entryway, the first and only door in the entire long, narrow slope.

“Sam lives here?”

Eric nodded.

“What the hell!” said Tom-Tom with emphasis.

The entryway to 152
Yiala’s Arch was broken. The bear and the crow went into the building without encountering anyone, and when they reached the first stairway landing the screams were heard.

“He’s home,” declared the crow.

Eric nodded. The scream they heard was one of pain, but there had also been a concealed note of pleasure. They continued purposefully up the stairs, and right before they reached the fourth floor it became silent.

On three floors there were two closed, unmarked doors, and Eric was on his way over to the one on the right when he became hesitant. He stopped, taking a step to the left, but then made a decision.

“No, it’s the one to the right, I’m sure,” he said.

“We could always knock and ask,” suggested the crow.

He took a step past the bear and knocked firmly on the door to the right. If it were possible, the stillness in the building seemed to intensify during the seconds that followed. They stood, waiting, but nothing happened.

The crow knocked again, harder this time, calling out at the same time.

“Sam! It’s us! It’s Tom-Tom!”

Another minute passed without anything happening, and Eric lost patience.

“It’s no coincidence,” he said, “that the screams we heard have gone silent. Knock down the door.”

“Should I?” asked Tom-Tom.

“Knock down the door,” repeated Eric.

Tom-Tom moved away a little, took a deep breath, and ran up against the closed door, heaving himself against it with his whole body and feeling how it gave way. In order not to give Sam a chance to take the back way out, both
Tom-Tom and Eric stormed in. The gazelle was sitting on a little stool next to a bed on the farther wall.

The gazelle looked up in terror. His torso was bare, his naked, white belly turned toward the door, and it seemed as though the black rings around his eyes had become even larger. His sand-brown fur glistened beautifully thanks to expensive shampoo, but the freshness of the fur stood in stark contrast to the horizontally ringed horns. The right horn had broken off in the middle even before he’d started at Casino Monokowski more than twenty years earlier, and he’d never managed to get it fixed.

In the bed next to Sam an old duck was lying, tied up. He looked unusual, mint-green with a blue beak. Alongside him, both on the mattress and on the floor, newly plucked feathers were whirling in the draft from the broken-in door. Certain feathers were scorched on the edges, and there was a faint odor of burnt animal.

The old duck stared at Eric and Tom-Tom with a look of panic.

“Help,” he said unexpectedly.

There was no strength in his voice, the word was more like a statement.

Sam twisted toward the duck and looked at him with surprise. The old bird took a few breaths, filled his chest with air, and cleared his throat.

“You must help me,” he said in a somewhat steadier voice. “The gazelle has hurt me. He has really hurt me.”

And tears ran from the duck’s eyes.

“Sam, let him loose,” said Eric.

Sam gave a start. He’d thought there was something familiar about the figures who had broken down his door, but in his clouded brain he had a hard time placing them. Now that there was a voice to go along with the bear’s face, the lights came on.

“Eric?”

“Send the duck away, Sam,” Eric repeated. “We have to talk.”

“Eric, darling!” exclaimed Sam, and now there was an exaggerated delight in his voice. “And Tom-Tom! You look really old!”

And with a laugh like the ringing of small bells, Sam got up from the stool. In a particular way that couldn’t be accused of being exactly feminine, but definitely wasn’t masculine, he minced over to his uninvited guests and embraced them both. Eric froze. He’d always had a hard time with touching. Tom-Tom, on the other hand, squeezed back, hiding the gazelle under his wings, feeling that he’d missed this fragile being.

“Damn, it’s been a long time,” said the crow. “And I didn’t even know I missed you.”

“You’re sweet, darling,” Sam smiled. “Thank the good Magnus for dumb crows!”

And he giggled happily. Eric nodded toward the duck. Sam shrugged his shoulders, but went over to the bed and loosened the ropes that bound the duck from head to foot.

“That you come here to visit,” said the gazelle elatedly while he struggled with his own buttons, “in the middle of the night…”

“Sam,” said Tom-Tom gently, “for heaven’s sake, it’s the middle of the day.”

“As if that should be important, sweetheart?” said Sam. “When you come here to visit…at last…finally…and together. It almost makes me want to cry. I guess it’s just Snake that’s missing.”

“Soon it’ll be his turn,” informed Eric.

The duck got out of the bed, recoiling from the gazelle and making a large detour around him in order to make his way to the door.

“I’m thinking of calling the police on you,” he said, pointing at Sam.

Eric Bear and Tom-Tom weren’t fooled. They both knew that the duck had paid Sam Gazelle for…special services. The duck disappeared out to the stairway and they heard his rapid, flat footsteps echo on the way down to the entry.

Sam went over to the kitchenette and poured himself a glass of water. He looked at Eric and raised his eyebrows, but Eric shook his head.

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“Okay, talk,” said Sam.

“Hell, Sam,” said Tom-Tom, looking after the duck, “are you still carrying on with…you are after all…that bird must have been over sixty?”

“Sweet crow, as long as they pay they can be over a hundred,” Sam replied. “And that goes for you, too, Eric. And if you ask really nicely you might not have to pay at all.”

The bear ignored the invitation and got right to business.

“This is how things stand,” said Eric, who knew that Sam wouldn’t be satisfied with anything other than the truth. “I’ve gotten an assignment from an old acquaintance. We’re going to find the Death List. And we’re going to be sure to remove his name from it.”

For once—this happened very seldom—Sam Gazelle had nothing to say. He was taken by surprise, astonished, and he stared suspiciously at Eric, who realized that the moment was perfect for proposing the first part of his plan.

“Sam,” he said, “I was thinking I might rent your apartment. Starting now, and for a week or so going forward. As long as needed. This will be our headquarters.”

“Darling, I haven’t even said if I want to be involved or not,” the gazelle protested.

“I’ll pay more than the rent, of course. And whether we
end up succeeding or not, I guarantee that you will be liberally paid for your efforts.”

“Exactly what do you mean by ‘liberally’?” asked the gazelle.

And Eric Bear concocted a story about how much Nicholas Dove would pay, and half in advance if they failed, and it was no more difficult than that to entice Sam Gazelle to join up as well.

Sam filled two more glasses with water, and the three animals made a toast.

“An advance in case we don’t succeed sounds good,” said Sam, “especially since there isn’t any Death List, is there?”

His light, whinnying laughter rang again like a small bell.