Chapitre 13: Proletarian Fair
Mark came to himself again, and the feeling of returning was sharp, like an electric shock. At first, his consciousness was clouded, and he could not immediately understand what was happening. There was a ringing void in his head, and his body seemed not to have come to its senses yet, as if he had been pulled out of a deep quagmire and thrown into an unimaginably alien reality. Soon, realizing that he was sitting in a car, he began to look around, trying to figure out what was happening.
But the world around him remained unchanged. He was back in the same taxi he had been in not long ago. The taxi… Yes, that was it. He was in that black sedan, with a driver who had never spoken to him. He remembered how before that moment he had been in the house where he had met Jordan Thurlow, that strange, mysterious man who had said unimaginable things, his sinister sermon echoing in his mind like a heavy burden.
Mark looked around again, trying to notice anything that could explain his strange state, but he didn't find the slightest hint of change. Everything around was the same as before. The same road outside the window, the same night silence, the same cold light of street lamps that broke through the glass. Everything was so familiar, so serene - as if he had simply returned to the moment when the nightmare had not yet begun, and did not know what he was about to experience.
But the voice of Molly, his little daughter, was still in his head. It was so clear and close that it seemed as if she were sitting right next to him, in the seat next to him, whispering in his ear.
"Dad, I'm desperate," her voice sounded, and there was such hopelessness in it that Mark felt his heart squeeze. "They tried to kill Mom when she was on a walk in prison, and now they've made it clear that her fate depends only on your decision…"
Mark shuddered, as if a sharp pressure had been applied to his throat, and for a moment he lost his breath. His fingers tightened on his knees, and a wave of anxiety ran through his body again, as if some silent struggle were raging within his skin. Everything that was happening, the words he had just heard, seemed at once terrifyingly real and utterly absurd. He couldn't shake the feeling that his mind could no longer cope with this burden.
Mark glanced at the taxi driver, but he remained silent, his eyes focused on the road. The driver's silence only increased the feeling that he was in some kind of intermediate state - between reality and a nightmare that did not let him go, drawing him deeper and deeper. Outwardly, everything remained unchanged, but inside Mark felt that this reality was alien to him, like an alien world from a dream in which he could not wake up.
"Molly..." Mark suddenly blurted out, as if his daughter's name was connected with some painful weight that wouldn't let go of him.
The same phrase came back to him, as if Molly herself had said it, her voice full of despair: "Her life depends on your choice." But how was that possible? What could he do to change Harey's fate? How could his decisions affect her life when she was imprisoned, a place that was impossible to get into?
Anxiety washed over him again, like a wave squeezing his chest. His hands began to shake, and he felt the pressure inside him becoming unbearable, as if his body could no longer cope with this burden. He tried to pull himself together, but his thoughts continued to rage in his head, like a river that knew no shores. Every moment was threatening, but the path forward remained unclear. He did not know how to get out of this vicious circle, how to make the right choice when everything around him was dissolving into a fog that gave no support.
At that moment, his gaze fell on a building that caught his attention. He didn't think long - he asked the taxi driver to stop, paid, and, getting out of the car, looked around. At first, it didn't seem to him that there was anything unusual in the surroundings, but as soon as he turned towards the building, his gaze immediately caught on a figure that appeared from behind the columns at the entrance. It was Paul Buher.
The old man looked as usual: a little strange, as if his presence in this place was accidental, but he knew exactly how to remain unnoticed. He was bald, with a wrinkled face, and his light blue jacket was a little out of shape, as if it were hanging on him, but not quite right. His white bowler hat was slightly askew, and in his hand, as usual, was an old cane, which swung like a pendulum. He stood motionless, but moved steadily with his step, as if thinking about something, slightly moving his lips, as if talking to himself. At some point, a barely audible, almost childish melody escaped from these lips - strange and restless.
Mark felt the familiar tension again and glanced at Buher. The old man apparently noticed his gaze and quickly disappeared behind a column. This was habitual - he knew that Buher did not appear by chance, that he always appeared at the right moment, as if specially to observe.
But Mark didn't stop. He didn't allow himself to be distracted and, with a firm gait, headed towards the entrance of the building, trying not to think about the old man and to concentrate on what lay ahead.
As soon as he stepped into the lobby, his gaze fell on the reception desk, where a young administrator sat. He was wearing a formal vest, white shirt and tie, which gave his image excessive formality. His face remained neutral, only a slightly raised eyebrow indicated that he had noticed the visitor. In general, his gaze was cold and indifferent, as if he was just another client, unremarkable in any way.
"Is the owner there?" Mark asked in a firm and decisive voice.
The manager glanced at him, and without looking away, slowly shrugged. It was so indifferent that Mark couldn't tell if it was even a form of response. The silence that followed the gesture seemed strangely empty, as if he not only didn't know where the owner was, but didn't feel the need to explain it to the visitor. His silence felt like more than just indifference-it was a barrier, as if Mark meant absolutely nothing in this place.
Mark felt his nerves begin to stretch. His head suddenly became noisy - his thoughts were confused, and the only thing he felt was a desperate desire to stop all these games. He could not wait any longer. Weighing the situation in a split second, he realized that he could not delay any longer. Without further thought, he took a step forward and headed for the door hidden behind the counter, trying to find a way inside, despite all the obstacles.
The administrator, seeing his movement, jumped up. Irritation flashed in his eyes, and he immediately tried to stand in the way. His dark gaze, full of discontent and threat, stopped Mark for a second, but immediately cast aside all doubts. The man did not say a word, but the very fact of his movement, his attempt to block the way only further inflamed Mark's rage.
He couldn't control himself any longer. All the pent-up anger, the irritation from this dead atmosphere, the complete disregard for his presence - all of it spilled out in an instant. Taking full control of the situation, Mark suddenly raised his hand and, pushing the administrator with force, broke through his barrier.
"Get out of my way, lackey!" Mark barked, his voice full of rage and disappointment, not trying to hide his feelings.
The administrator, who had not expected such a reaction, was so taken aback that he staggered back, almost losing his balance. His steps were unsteady, and he barely kept his feet from the force of the impact. Mark, without turning around, grabbed the door handle and turned it with furious determination. With each movement, he felt the tension he had been holding in until that moment being released. He stepped inside without slowing down and, without looking back, disappeared through the door.
Mark walked down the dark corridor, and every step he took echoed in this empty, time-swallowed place. The walls, hidden in the semi-darkness, seemed to compress the space, and the light seemed to disappear around every corner, not having time to illuminate the path. The air was heavy, filled with some invisible pressure that was increasingly felt on his chest. It seemed that every step took him deeper into this labyrinth, as if something invisible but tangible was pulling him into the depths of this strange, alien world.
He stopped at the door, unable to continue walking forward. It was dark inside, and only in one corner an old lamp dimly burned, barely illuminating the space. The light, diffused and subdued, created bizarre shadows that seemed alive. On the table in the center of the room, littered with papers, stood a cup of long-cold coffee. In the very corner, almost merging with the shadow, sat a man absorbed in his work. His hair was gray, and his face was wrinkled and tired, as if he had not known rest for a long time. He concentrated on turning the calculator, his fingers sliding over the keys, not paying attention to the person entering.
Mark felt his heart squeeze in his chest. He couldn't tell where this coldness in his body came from, this restless anxiety, but the words came out of his mouth despite everything:
"My wife was attacked yesterday."
The man at the desk did not look up. His fingers continued to click on the calculator, and the voice that came into the silence was indifferent, as if he were answering a simple question:
"Really?"
Mark stood frozen, stunned. He tried to comprehend what was happening, how it was possible, but his thoughts were all jumbled up, and the world around him was becoming increasingly shaky, unreal. He looked at the man sitting at the table, and his gaze began to focus. The moment stretched, and then he realized it was Jordan Thurlow, the man who was the most important person in the loyalist club, the Union of Gabriel the Archangel. His heart leapt, and his consciousness seemed to slow down.
Mark couldn't take his eyes off his figure. Time stood still in the room. And Jordan, without changing his position, was still sitting at the table, bent over the calculator.
"Well, they didn't kill her, did they?" he suddenly said in a calm, almost monotonous voice.
Mark felt as if the man's words were not touching his consciousness. He stood there, not understanding what was happening. His thoughts were confused, as if stuck together, and his tongue could not find an answer. He did not understand how he had ended up here, why this place, this dark room, this man seemed so alien and familiar at the same time. Everything around him was somehow blurry and absurd, but Jordan's face was so clear that it seemed to displace everything else.
He opened his mouth to say something, but the words wouldn't come out. At that moment, Jordan slowly raised his eyes from the calculator and looked at Mark. His face remained calm, almost indifferent, and there was not the slightest sign of excitement in that look. He said with the same light, almost indifferent intonation as before:
"We warned you then, right on the tracks, in a good way."
Mark felt a painful stirring inside, but his thoughts had not yet had time to form a response. But Jordan's words gave him a second to collect himself. Focusing with difficulty, he spoke with confidence, but with a hint of challenge:
"And I also came to warn you now. In a good way."
Mark did not hesitate. After his bold remark, he quickly pulled a revolver from his pocket, and at the moment when the air in the room became tense with his determination, he fired at the lamp standing on the table. A bright flash of fire illuminated the room, and the glass shattered into a thousand pieces, reflecting the light. Jordan, dumbfounded, jumped up, his face distorted with horror, he somehow awkwardly jumped away from the table and, giving up, leaned his back against the cabinet. From the impact, a box fell from its surface to the floor, and papers flew in all directions, as if they had fallen out of a disorderly scattered archives.
Mark, his expression unchanging, held the revolver in his hands with cold determination, his gaze impenetrable. He did not move, his eyes never leaving Jordan as he trembled and stared in horror at the gun pointed straight at his chest. Sternly, with some kind of silent command, Mark began firing again, the bullets piercing the cabinet, leaving behind them small holes that, like a semicircle, contracted around Jordan's figure.
When the last shot died away and a deafening silence fell over everything, Mark did not remove the revolver from Thurlow's chest. He continued to stare at him, as if trying to squeeze the last drops of fear from his eyes. Jordan, breathing heavily and turning pale, barely keeping his balance, coughed sharply, trying to get air. He came to his senses a little and, with an effort to squeeze out each word, said:
"Next Friday... your silly bitch... along with the rest of those sentenced to life imprisonment... will begin working... on a barge... at the Charles River pier."
The silence was thick, like a heavy cloud, and it seemed to fill the entire world. Mark continued to stare at Jordan Thurlow, keeping his gun pointed at him. There was no confidence in his enemy's eyes, only desperation and fear. Mark could feel the tremors running through his body. He didn't move, didn't take a single step, as if testing Jordan, waiting for him to finally understand the gravity of the moment. Every word he spoke would be weighed, every breath, forgiveness.
Thurlow, still clutching his shoulders, struggled to catch his breath, his breathing hoarse and jerky, as if trying to swallow up all the space around him, but it was not enough to hide his internal struggle. He coughed again, and when it seemed the moment was at its breaking point, he forced out:
"I said... I told you... your wife... she will start working... on the barge, on the pier... Charles... On the bend..."
Mark watched Jordan's lifeless face for a few seconds, then, without saying a word, put the gun away. His eyes were cool and calm, but behind that calm façade was the weight of his decision. He released the trigger and the gun returned to its holster. Jordan, who had been on the verge of panic, relaxed a little, but the tension remained. He wiped his mustache and glanced at Mark with a shadow of contempt.
"You're going the wrong way, mister Parvis," he muttered irritably. "The wrong way," he repeated, meeting his gaze again.
Mark was silent. Only for a moment did a barely noticeable smile touch his lips - not an angry, not mocking smile, but rather a confirmation that his decision was inevitable. There was something affirming in it, as if he knew that everything that was happening was meant to happen.
Ignoring Jordan's words, he turned and walked towards the door without taking a single step back. Jordan fell silent, but his gaze continued to follow his every move, as if he was still hoping for a miracle. However, Mark did not react, moving decisively and calmly, like a man who had long ago accepted his path.
As he walked down the hall and into the lobby, his gaze met the eyes of the receptionist, who was standing by the door, as if waiting for him to appear. Mark stopped. The receptionist, meeting his gaze, instinctively recoiled, cringed, as if preparing for a blow.
Mark said nothing. All that was needed was hidden in his gaze, that cold, furious, determined look that made the man retreat. He walked past the receptionist's desk, ignoring his presence, and wasted no time in leaving the building. The doors slammed behind him with a sharp thud, as if summing up the entire scene.
The clearing adjacent to the station, where construction and bustle had raged just recently, now had a completely different atmosphere - a festive atmosphere. The fair, which workers had been working on for several days, had finally opened its doors. Everything was ready: bright tents, garlands shimmering with all the colors of the rainbow, music softly sounding from the speakers, and the enticing smell of fresh buns and fried pies. Around the square in front of the fair were stalls with toys, cotton candy and all sorts of treats. And in the center was a carousel painted in bright colors, on which children laughed and whirled with delight on multi-colored horses.
Crowds of children, mostly railroad workers, were running around looking for adventure, their faces full of excitement and fun. Boys were chasing kites, and grinning girls were catching each other's tails on an old but sturdy rope that had been stretched between two large pine trees. Near the stage, a group of boys were playing an impromptu game of football, with the ball almost sliding off the field.
Moms and dads, tired after a week of work, happily watched their children, buying them sweets and pointing out games where they could have fun until they dropped. Old people sat on benches, chatting with each other and looking around at the crowd that had come, noticing with interest how their children had grown, and even more so, how the generations were changing.
The workers' comrades, away from the children, found a table with drinks and grilled meat kebabs, chatting cheerfully about the latest construction project. Nearby, in a corner, sheltering from the sun, several people were animatedly discussing the plan for the next week and what else needed to be done to get the new section of road completed on time.
This day, like a forgotten corner of the world, was a moment of rest for all the inhabitants of the fair, a small retreat from the worries of everyday life. And no one, not even the workers who spent this day laughing loudly and fussing, knew that ahead, on the horizon, somewhere lurked an unknown storm.
In the midst of the merriment, amid the laughter and noise of the fair, with children playing with kites and adults interrupting each other and enjoying the treats, the gates swung open with a crunch and a man appeared in their shadow. He was dressed in a brown suit, obviously not new, but cut with a neatness that immediately attracted attention. Paul Buher, the loyalist spy, entered the crowd, and his appearance did not go unnoticed. His steps were confident, but no less alien to the joy of the day. It was as if he had come not to be part of the fun, but with the intention of changing or destroying something.
As soon as he took his first step towards the fair, the workers standing nearby froze, noticing his figure. Someone smiled wryly, someone quietly whispered, but everyone understood: this man was not here by chance. His gaze was heavy and purposeful, as if he was looking for someone or something in this noisy sea of people.
Paul Buher wasted no time in making small talk and, without slowing his pace, took off his jacket, crumpled it and threw it over his shoulder. He moved forward, avoiding the pie stands and wooden toy booths as if he didn't notice them. His goal was clear. He headed for the stand where Mark stood, a young man in a white suit who looked at the workers as if they were his only audience. The white suit contrasted with the motley crowd, and Mark looked not only focused but also a little detached. His face was slightly tilted, listening to one of the workers speak, and his attention was not distracted even by the noise of the fair.
Buher approached the platform where Mark stood. The latter, not noticing his arrival, continued to lecture with concentration, while the workers, attentively listening to him, were not distracted by his words.
"Gustav Mahler," Mark said confidently with shining eyes, "is not just a composer, but a real breakthrough in the world of music, a man who broke through the boundaries of his time and opened up for us the unexplored expanses of the German symphonic tradition!"
The men standing nearby turned to him with curiosity. Every gesture of Mark, every word of his, full of passion and sincere conviction, caught their attention. Even the smell of sweat and the noise of construction work that came from afar seemed to disappear against the background of his words. They involuntarily listened, feeling that Mark was not just talking, but living what he was talking about.
"His music is more than just sounds!" he continued, not noticing that his listeners' attention was already entirely focused on him. "He created on the edge of madness, but it was precisely this madness that was the source of his genius. His works seem to be ahead of their time, they open the way to unknown worlds that have yet to be understood!"
He paused to give his words weight and a chance to settle in the air. The workers were silent, looking at him, trying to catch the meaning of his every movement, every accent in his speech.
"And his legacy can teach us much more than just how to read music!" Mark continued, raising his voice as if everyone around him needed to hear his revelation. "It teaches us how the future can be an integral part of our perception of the present, how events that have not yet happened can already influence our perception of reality."
He looked at the listeners, who were no longer just listening, but were absorbed in his words, in his every gesture, in every moment of his speech. Mark was not going to stop.
"Mahler was a prophet!" Mark said with bitterness in his voice. "Not only for musicians, not only for future American composers, but for all ordinary mortals, for each of us! His symphonies are not just music. They are the key to a completely new understanding of life. He can raise us, ordinary workers, to a revolutionary perception of our everyday life! His works are a mirror in which we can see not only a reflection of our time, but also the future horizons that await us."
As Mark spoke, Paul Buher stood to the side, a vicious expression on his face, watching every move carefully. His gaze was sharp and cold, as if he was analyzing not only Mark's words, but Mark himself as well. Buher did not move, his eyes never leaving Mark, and there was a certainty in them, as if he knew that all this would not go without consequences.
Mark stepped forward, his boots treading heavily on the muddy path, echoing across the platform. He looked at the workers standing before him, their exhausted faces, their hands covered with scars from labor, and there was something more in that look - it was the look of a man who saw not only the present, but the future. His voice, which had sounded from the podium a moment ago, was now soft but full of confidence, as if the words came from the heart, trying to penetrate the soul of each person standing before him.
"Mahler dreamed of a city," he said, raising his hand in the air as if drawing an invisible picture before them. "A city where the streets would be full of people, beautiful, happy and dressed up. People who would walk not along heavy, dirty roads, but along bright avenues, where every step would bring joy and light.
The listeners froze. Their gaze was focused, they stood motionless, as if there was some deep meaning hidden in these words that they were trying to grasp. Their faces, stern and tired, now reflected attentiveness, almost prayerful concentration. Mark continued, and his voice became warmer and warmer, a certain tenderness appeared in it that could not leave even the most tired worker indifferent.
"He dreamed of a city where there would be no place for melancholy and despondency," Mark continued. "Where music would sound at every step, where every home would be filled with joy and harmony. Where songs would fly in the air, and laughter would become a natural part of every day.
Mark paused, letting his words sink in. He stood there, looking into the distance, as if he could see the city he was talking about. He could feel its power, its living, pulsating energy that would fill every corner of the world. Several people looked at each other, their faces softening, something like hope in their eyes. Several women in the back rows whispered quietly, as if hearing something they had been waiting for.
"And you and I are obliged to fulfill the dream of this great German composer, a fellow countryman of Karl Marx himself," said Mark, looking at the people in front of him. "We are the builders of a new city, in which freedom and happiness will become a reality, where our children will live not in the shadows, but under the light of a prosperous future. We must create a world in which our descendants will not know fear and oppression, but will be proud of what we left them as a legacy. All this is possible thanks to Gustav Mahler and his symphonies, to the sound of which we must unite and stand under the banner of the revolution!"
His words had an effect. The workers stepped back a little, exchanging glances. Their faces became serious, as if each of them was considering what they had heard. It seemed as if Mark had awakened something deep within them, something that required reflection.
Paul Buher, standing to the side, watched the proceedings carefully. His face remained grim, but he realized that the moment was not right for conflict. Mark was the center of attention, and his words were captivating the workers. Concealing his anger, Buher took a step back, and then another, until he was at a safe distance. The children's laughter, ringing and carefree, deafened him like an unbearable noise that could not be silenced. The bright balloons, the joyful cries, the adults laughing with the children, seemed not only alien to him, but also wrong.
He looked around as if he were in a terrible nightmare, where everyone around him had lost their minds. The workers, whom he was used to seeing as stern and reserved, now seemed to him pretentiously happy, as if someone had bewitched them. Their children, with cheeks flushed from running and sincere smiles, looked in his eyes more ridiculous than joyful. This festival of simplicity and freedom was an unacceptable, almost painful spectacle for him.
Buher was a supporter of loyalty, an ideology of order and hierarchy in which the worker always knew his place and power remained unshakable. The communist ideas that Mark preached disgusted him. Freedom, equality, dreams of a happy future for everyone - all this, in Buher's opinion, led only to chaos and the destruction of true values.
He stopped at one of the food stalls. A family of three-a man in overalls, his wife in a simple dress, and a little girl with pigtails-were sharing a caramel apple, laughing and exchanging pieces. Buher watched them, feeling irritation growing inside him. This was not just alien to him, it was unnatural.
"How low discipline has fallen," flashed through his mind. "The workers have forgotten their place, forgotten their duty to the president. It's all him, this impudent Parvis with his Marxist ideas!"
Buher turned away abruptly and walked on, avoiding the looks full of joy and carelessness. The scene of the general celebration seemed to him something alien and ominous, like a crowd ready to swallow him up, leaving him alone in the chaos. Anger was growing in his chest, but he held back, hoping to find the right moment to teach Mark a lesson.
Meanwhile, Galbraith stood to the side of the dance floor, leaning against a pole decorated with a garland of brightly colored lights. Cheerful music was playing from an old gramophone, and smart workers in suits and ladies in modest but neat dresses were whirling in the dance. The young people were laughing merrily, and couples, moving smoothly along the creaky boards of the improvised dance floor, filled the space with a festive atmosphere.
The seventeen-year-old worker felt awkward. He wanted to dance, but the lack of a girl left him a spectator. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, watching the dancers swirl around and around in a whirlwind. "I wish I could invite someone," flashed through his mind, but he quickly pushed the thought away, saying, "Not today."
Suddenly, something caught his eye. Off to the side, a little further from the crowd, a figure of a man flashed by. Galbraith tensed, recognizing the bald head and neatly pressed trousers of a brown suit. Paul Buher, a spy for the Union of Gabriel the Archangel, walked slowly, as if he were looking for something. His movements were confident, but his face was tense, almost angry. Galbraith followed his gaze and saw Buher heading purposefully toward the woods, far beyond the fair.
"What is he doing here?" the guy thought, frowning. "This loyalist rarely showed up for no reason. He's probably sniffing out something for his own people again."
Galbraith felt a surge of irritation. Buher's very presence spoiled the atmosphere of the party. But he quickly pulled himself together, pretending not to notice. Why make a scene? The workers were having fun, the children were laughing. Let the spy sniff out something and go away. Was he going to stay here for long?
He looked away from the figure that had disappeared behind the trees and focused on the dancers again. The light from the garlands, barely flickering, illuminated the people who were swirling around with such sincerity, creating an atmosphere that was almost magical. Galbraith, trying not to reveal his inner state, sighed and assumed an air of indifference, although somewhere in the depths of his consciousness he continued to feel an indefinite tension.
Meanwhile, at the other end of the square, Mark came down from the podium with a smile, where he had just finished a speech full of inspiration and promise. The applause was still in the air, but he could not wait to add something more lively, more personal to the atmosphere. In his white suit, a striking contrast to the motley crowd, he seemed almost an integral part of the celebration, and his face was beaming with enthusiasm, ready for new achievements.
He approached a group of workers standing a little to the side and spoke with playful energy:
"Come on, friends, let's not just stand there! Let's dance in a circle! There's enough room for everyone, forward, hands in hands!"
Laughter rippled through the crowd, and people began to gather around. Men took off their hats, ladies adjusted their headscarves. Several children immediately grabbed their parents' hands, and a large human chain began to form around Mark.
"That's it! Come on, hold on to each other tighter!" he commanded, already in the center of the circle. His voice was loud, but friendly, charging everyone with his energy.
When the chain closed, Mark stretched out his arms like a conductor in front of an orchestra. His gestures were broad and expressive, as if he were actually conducting a symphony, where instead of music there were the steps, laughter and joy of the workers.
"Let's start slowly," he said, and the chain moved. The dance began to spin, first in one direction, then in the other. "Now, faster! Let's show everyone that we can not only work, but also have fun properly!"
The circle dance spun faster, people laughed, stumbling awkwardly, but not letting go of their hands. Mark waved his arms, setting the rhythm. He moved as if conducting a complex piece, shouting out commands:
"To the right! More to the right! Now back! That's it!"
His enthusiasm was infectious, and the circle grew larger, with more and more participants joining in. Even a few children, having escaped from their parents' embraces, ran to the center of the circle, clapping their hands.
The workers' faces were shining. They were looking at Mark, who, raising his hands to the sky, seemed to be conjuring them to laugh and rejoice even louder. It seemed as if the entire holiday was concentrated on this round dance, which was becoming larger and faster, filling the air with ecstatic cries and the music of universal joy.
Chapitre 14: The Bad Father
Mark walked down the cobbled street of Cambridge, his boots making a faint thud on the stones, and the ringing laughter of children that had filled the air of the fair just a short time ago continued to ring in his ears. It was like a spark in the pitch darkness, but Mark knew that it could not illuminate everything around him. It was just a small ray of light in the depths of despair in which society was drowning.
He frowned slightly, looking up at the sky, which was beginning to be covered with gray clouds. Around every turn of the street, Mark saw the familiar facades of houses - graceful columns, strict windows with flowers on the windowsills. Against this background, he thought about how these facades were like a screen for the deep cracks that were tearing society apart from within.
"Too little time, too much darkness," he thought, remembering the faces of the people at the fair: smiling children, young workers, elderly veterans dreaming of a better life. Their eyes were full of hope, but also fear. Mark couldn't help but notice the fear hidden behind the smiles.
He paused for a moment as he passed the window of a bookstore. The window displayed volumes of philosophy, romantic novels, and biographies of famous politicians. One of them, embossed in gold, bore the name of a man whose presence Mark could hardly bear. It was a treatise by one Joan Hart, entitled On the Purity of Democracy and the Dirt of Communism. Mark clenched his fists at the sight of the title, but quickly regained his composure. "Not now," he thought, turning away from the window and continuing on his way.
Mark slowed down, his attention drawn to an unusual scene: on the porch of one of the old shops stood a rare gramophone, from which music poured. The melody was barely perceptible against the background of the city noise - like a light haze in the bustle. He stopped, listened, and soon recognized it: it was a fragment from Gustav Mahler's Third Symphony, "Lustig im Tempo und keck im Ausdruck" performed by the BBC Orchestra under the baton of Sir Adrian Boult, which seemed to permeate the air with its special, unique sound.
The cheerful, playful notes of the female choir, full of life and enthusiasm, intertwined with the gentle rustle of the wind, and the sounds of passing cars, in turn, seemed to dissolve in this harmony, creating a unique musical landscape that could not leave anyone indifferent. At that moment, Mark felt his heart fill with a warm, almost forgotten feeling - as if the music that burst out of this ancient time machine opened some long-forgotten door in him.
This melody, light and joyful, like children's laughter at a fair, played on the edge of memories, as if inviting him to a land of bright moments, where everything is possible, where hope reigns. It carried a special message - a reminder that even in the most difficult, even in the harshest circumstances, music can be the spark that warms the soul. No matter how hard and difficult it is at times, it is these moments, filled with light and joy, that can restore strength and remind that life, despite all its difficulties, is still beautiful.
"It's a wonderful thing, isn't it?" his thoughts were interrupted by the salesman standing at the door of the shop, laying out old records on the counter.
Mark flinched, as if from a sharp light, and, a little confused, turned his gaze to the man. He was standing outside, on a hot sunny street, and despite the fact that it was midday, there was still a light, cheerful bustle in the air. The seller looked quite calm, immersed in his business.
"Yes, indeed," said Mark, turning away from the music and slowing his pace a little. "It's a very beautiful thing."
He glanced again at the antique gramophone that stood on the shop's porch, but it was only a fleeting reaction. In fact, his attention had already returned to the thoughts that had been engulfing him for the last few minutes. The music coming from the gramophone was familiar and warm, but at that moment it seemed part of something past, something that no longer mattered.
"We recently came across some really rare records," the seller continued, almost with pride, "including Mahler recordings. This is a real treasure for true connoisseurs, because you won't find such rarities anywhere else. If you want, I can show you - no problem! And, of course, if you like something, I'll even give you a discount to make it even nicer."
Mark paused for a moment, lost in his thoughts. He could almost physically feel how the old vinyl records, neatly laid out in front of him, would look in his apartment, a small but cozy one that he rented within walking distance of the train depot. Life in this place had its own special, noisy rhythm: every day, the rumble of trains came from the window, their low, metallic screech, not the most melodic, but still making you think of the past, of a time when the world seemed slower and simpler. In this atmosphere, it seemed that there was still something alive here, as if the railroad itself carried memories and stories.
But these were only fleeting, random thoughts, like one of those thoughts that flash by without having time to penetrate deeply into consciousness. It had been a long time since he had allowed himself to dwell too much on the past, had not allowed himself to be nostalgic. How many times in his life had he put off buying things that were connected to memories, things that only reminded him of the days when everything was different? Records, old books, unused collectibles - all of this now seemed like something superfluous, something that did not fit into his current reality.
Mark realized that his life had changed, had become more practical, focused on the present. He had things to do, important issues that needed to be addressed here and now. He no longer felt the need to collect as he had before - he no longer invested the same meaning in those things that had seemed so significant in his youth. He had left them in the past, as something that no longer had any relevance to his current life.
"Thank you, but I don't think I'm going to add this record to my collection," he finally said with a slight smile. "I was quite happy just listening to it for a while right here in your store window."
The salesman nodded, unsurprised, and continued to lay out records as if such conversations were part of his daily routine. Mark squinted in the bright sunlight, paused, waved goodbye, and turned away, heading toward the bustle of the street.
The music was still ringing in his ears, but now it was merging with the noise of the city, becoming something distant and insignificant. The wind played with his hair, bringing with it the freshness of the midday air, and his steps became light and quick. At that moment it became clear to him - he needed to move on, not to linger in the place where everything had already been said.
As he approached the crossroads, his gaze immediately fell on the majestic columns of the city council building, standing before him like silent witnesses to many destinies. These walls, strict and monumental, were the place where decisions were born that changed people's lives, where laws were passed and broken, promising one thing but bringing another.
"For whose benefit are these decisions?" he thought, knowing the bitter answer to this question.
These thoughts did not depress him, but, on the contrary, filled his chest with stubborn determination. He straightened his tie, glanced at his watch. Time was inexorably passing, but his own mission was only beginning. With a confident step, Mark moved forward, like a man ready to enter a new battle, full of determination and understanding that everything that had happened before was only preparation for the main thing.
Reaching the train depot, Mark paused for a moment at the front entrance. His hand involuntarily touched his chest, where his heart was beating noticeably under the fabric of his jacket. Sighing, he resolutely pushed the heavy oak door and found himself in a spacious vestibule, lit by dim lamplight.
His steps were quick, nervous. Every sound, from the creaking of his boots to the rustling of papers behind the reception desk, seemed unnecessarily loud. As he headed for the wide staircase, he heard the quiet clatter of footsteps approaching from above. Halfway up the stairs, he noticed a figure. The man in the gray coat and hat, descending from the top flight, was one of the two police bloodhounds who had searched him in the arcade. The same search that could have led to a catastrophe if not for Mark's clever trick with the bow tie, which unexpectedly became his salvation.
The spy, seeing Mark, raised his hat in a gesture that could have been either a greeting or a silent warning. His face betrayed no emotion, but Mark was immediately overcome with a feeling of alarm. Trying to remain calm, he took a step forward, continuing to climb, but, having reached a higher point, he could not resist glancing back. The police dog, having already reached the bottom of the stairs, paused for a second, as if considering something, and then disappeared through the door leading to the street.
Mark felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead. He instinctively quickened his pace, almost running up the last few steps. Once he reached the right floor, he dove into the corridor without stopping. The walls felt too close, the air was stale, and every step he took echoed loudly, adding to the feeling that he was being watched.
Running to the door of his office, Mark slowed down, took a deep breath to calm himself, and adjusted his bow tie, as if wiping away traces of anxiety. Having tidied himself up, he opened the door with a confident movement and walked inside.
His office greeted him with its usual disorder: the desk was covered with papers, laid out chaotically, as if each of them demanded urgent attention. Mark walked sedately towards the desk, his steps now sounding measured, almost solemn.
He did not sit down. After looking closely at one of the papers, pulled out closer than the others, Mark took a ballpoint pen from the table and carefully wrote out several lines. His hand moved quickly but confidently, as if each word had long since matured in his head.
When he had finished, he put down his pen and picked up another sheet of paper, on which was printed a text in tiny letters. Holding it up to the light, Mark ran his eyes over the lines, frowned, and then, without thinking, folded the paper in half and was about to put it in his pocket when the door to the office suddenly opened and Paul Buher walked in. He was wearing the same brown suit he had worn at the fair, but now he seemed even more out of place in the austere atmosphere of this room.
"And I must admit, you are an excellent conspirator, mister Parvis," he said with a nasty smile, tilting his head to the side.
Mark froze. His eyes, like two sharp points, darted to the door, and his expression instantly changed: now he looked like a cornered animal, desperately trying to isolate the source of the threat. Buher, without giving him time to collect himself, stepped inside without any hint of politeness, pushing into the space of the office, without waiting for an invitation from the owner.
"It's a disgusting trait of mine, an old man, to drain a glass to the bottom, even when the wine isn't worth it," he said mockingly. "As in your unfortunate case, mister Parvis!"
Like a knife, these phrases cut through the silence, and Mark felt an icy chill run down his spine. He slowly sank into a chair, like a man losing his last strength and support. His gaze fell on the documents in front of him, but their text was already illegible, and seemed to have no meaning. The ground beneath his feet disappeared, and the space became empty, as if everything that was happening was just a nightmare from which it was impossible to awaken.
Mark, feeling his world shrink with every word, finally found the strength to speak. His voice was low and a little shaky, as if he was trying to maintain control of the situation but still couldn't escape the feeling of hopelessness. His eyes darted around the corners of the room, looking for some kind of shelter, and his whole appearance had a touch of studied innocence, almost shyness.
"I don't understand what you're talking about?" Mark asked, addressed not so much to his unpleasant interlocutor as to himself, as if he still hoped that the answer would restore at least some sense of confidence.
In response to this, Buher let out a vile, almost animalistic laugh that filled the space, cutting off the air. The laughter was loud and ominous, as if it itself were the source of everything unpleasant in this office. Buher clutched at the air, his movements were deliberately theatrical, as if he was setting himself a goal - to paralyze Mark with his contempt.
"No mortal dares to understand that!" he said with mockery and dark satisfaction, as if enjoying the moment, letting his words hang in the air like thick, suffocating smoke.
The old man took a step forward, his smile growing more sinister, as if he knew exactly what Mark was going through. A strange spark of pleasure flashed in his eyes, and the air around him seemed to thicken, filling with a heavy, foggy pressure. This sensation, like an invisible hand, squeezed Mark's chest. Buher did not take his eyes off him, like a predator, and continued, his voice becoming more and more saturated with poisonous sarcasm:
"Do you remember, mister Parvis, how I asked you about the town of Toronto?" he said with a cold, almost perverted courtesy, as if he wanted Mark to feel how deeply he had sunk his claws into his soul.
Mark was silent, his throat constricted with fear and confusion. The words seemed to be stuck in his throat, and despite all his efforts, they could not break out. Buher, without waiting for an answer, continued with an unperturbed, almost entertaining intonation, as if everything that was happening was nothing more than a funny moment for him:
"Well, never mind, I drained your glass to the bottom after all," he said, as if he had performed some extremely unpleasant action for himself. "I corresponded with your grandfather, with your parents, and do you know what? It turned out that you and I know each other, sir!" he suddenly raised his voice and looked at Mark as if he had revealed some truly important secret, and this discovery brought him extraordinary pleasure.
In his eyes, Mark read something more than just satisfaction. It was not just a discovery, but an unimaginable pleasure from the realization that all this was his, Paul Buher's, victory. The old man continued to look at Mark with a disgusting smile, as if enjoying the moment of his bewilderment. His words were like a mockery, provoking Mark to react.
"That very fateful day, May 18, 1982..." he said, slowly drawing out the words. "Doesn't that date mean anything to you?" he asked Mark, raising one eyebrow.
Mark continued to follow him with his eyes, but there was no longer fear in his gaze, only concern and a deep desire to understand what was happening. Buher's words echoed in his head, but apparently it was all part of some game he didn't know how to play.
Buher, noticing that Mark was not answering, continued with a satisfied grin:
"You passed away that very day, mister Parvis. We have such misfortune that your humble servant was present at your funeral. And since then there has been a lump in my throat..."
There was such sarcasm in these words that they cut like a knife. Buher again feigned mild surprise, as if he was about to burst into tears, and even put his hand to his throat, as if his own dramatic performance might cause Mark to regret it.
But Mark, despite the absurdity of the situation, did not give in and gradually regained his composure. He was no longer the confused man who was horrified when he saw Buher on the threshold of his office.
"And what do you intend to propose, sir?" he asked the old man in a restrained tone.
Buher, smiling with a vile satisfaction, slowly approached the table. He tilted his head, as if studying Mark.
"Kill me without delay!" he said with obvious glee.
He paused, then added with some exaggeration:
"It's not convenient here, so we'll find another place, more secluded, so that a mosquito can't get its nose in!"
Mark remained calm, but something stirred inside him. Buher continued, as if justifying his proposal:
"It's in our blood to solve problems using such methods."
As Mark looked down, trying not to let his emotions get the better of him, Buher said in a soft, almost soothing tone:
"You are simply embarrassed. A revolutionary should not be afraid of blood, because killing his neighbor is his destiny and dream!"
As he said the last words, he pretended to kiss the air, and at that moment Mark felt his irritation rising like a wave. Buher was clearly enjoying his theatrical gesture, and Mark, sensing that this conversation could lead him into a dangerous game, looked at him with obvious disapproval and, smiling, said with cold contempt:
"I will not give you that pleasure, sir."
Then he turned his head, casting a quick glance towards the window, before turning his attention back to Buher. His voice became even, but filled with a hidden threat:
"Killing a feeble old man is a sign of weakness of spirit, not strength of will."
Buher, sensing that the conversation was beginning to get out of his control, immediately interrupted Mark with unusual self-satisfaction:
"This is a sign of extreme generosity, and you, as a true Catholic..."
But Mark wasn't going to listen to him any longer. He stood up from his chair, holding back his inner tension, and headed for the exit, speaking without any emotion, without turning around:
"Now is not the time to touch on my relationship with faith."
He went to the door, but, unexpectedly for himself, he stopped and turned around. For the first time in this entire conversation, his gaze was full of confidence. With the grace of a winner, he put one hand on his side, looking at Buher as if he had already lost. Buher stood there, swaying, his eyes full of some kind of hatred and irritation. His lips began to tremble, and the words came out of his mouth with difficulty, as if he himself could not believe what he was saying:
"But are you the Antichrist, mister Parvis?"
Mark, feeling completely superior, calmly removed his hand from his side and, slightly bowing his head, said with a slight half-bow:
"This, sir, is a subject for special discussion."
Having said this, he smiled, and this smile was not friendly, rather mocking. Mark straightened up again and added:
"But I don't have time for her now."
Then he took off his pince-nez and, wiping it with a careless air, added:
"Let's leave faith alone and move on to questions of honor."
Buher, as if the word "honor" had sent him into a fit of rage, looked at Mark, and his voice became hoarse with anger.
"The code of honor cannot be applied to the American Revolution," he said, glancing to the side as if trying to hide his confusion. "Our fellows, under my supervision, were engaged in..."
Mark, not letting Buher finish, continued his thought with a slight smile, putting on his pince-nez again:
"Crimes that dishonor the name of the Archangel Gabriel, whom you so respect."
After these words of his interlocutor, Buher seemed to lose the power of speech. His face turned pale, and his mouth opened like that of a man who had just been stunned. He froze in place, and then, with difficulty choosing his words, said in a barely audible voice:
"After all, all ordinary American people are Catholics!"
Mark chuckled and shrugged, a slight sneer creeping into his gaze. He chuckled as if the old man had just said something completely absurd.
"Every single one of them?" Mark asked the old man sarcastically. "Don't you make any exceptions?"
Buher, still shocked, said with even greater insistence:
"You have no choice, mister Revolutionary, you will have to kill."
Mark looked at him with a cold, motionless gaze and simply answered:
"I can't."
Buher, trying to justify himself, hesitated for a moment, and then added with some nervous determination:
"Kill with mercy..."
Mark chuckled again, and his face became even more indifferent.
"Even more so, I won't be able to," he answered with icy confidence.
His words sounded like a final verdict, as if he himself had no doubts about his decision, and Buher seemed not to know what to say next.
"You are timid, sir," whispered Buher with barely restrained anger.
Mark, hearing these words, laughed, and there was not a shadow of fear in his laughter. He met Buher's gaze and, as if thinking ironically, said:
"Yes, to a certain extent." He paused, then added, with a slight mockery: "I risk losing my self-respect, and it..." He raised a finger to the ceiling, as if emphasizing the importance of his thought, "is objectively more valuable than your life."
Mark looked at Buher with gentle reproach, as if saying goodbye to him, and said with a slight movement of his head:
"I have honor."
With these words, Mark slowly left his office, leaving Buher standing in the center of the room, like a statue, frozen in complete solitude. The old man did not move, his body swayed slightly, as if he were a man who had just drained an entire bottle of wine, but this effect was more internal than external. His gaze remained fixed on the doorway, as if he could not comprehend what had happened, and was sure that Mark would return, say that it was only a joke, and continue the conversation as if nothing had happened.
But the silence that followed Mark's departure only increased Buher's confusion. His eyes showed an inexpressible melancholy mixed with despair, and his whole being desperately waited for some sign, some turn of events. But there was nothing. The silence that burst into his consciousness became more and more oppressive, and Buher sank deeper and deeper into the realization that his world was collapsing.
After a minute that seemed like an eternity, he couldn't take it anymore. With a heavy, almost painful sigh, Buher took a step back, as if he had lost control of his body. His legs buckled and he collapsed onto the bench, not sitting down, but as if he had simply collapsed onto it, unable to keep himself upright. He continued to stare into the empty space in front of him, his eyes not registering anything in the room, as if his perception had been torn from reality.
There was something terrifying in his gaze, an unimaginable fear that seemed to pierce him to the depths of his soul. He could not believe that Mark had not given in to threats or provocations, had not retreated before him. Mark had not wavered, had not shown the slightest doubt, but had simply, calmly, left him to his humiliation. Buher, finding himself in such a position, seemed to have lost everything that kept him on his feet, and now stood before a reality that he did not know how to cope with.
At this time, a barge with criminals glided along the calm waters of the Charles River. Its massive hull, leaning under the weight of people and cargo, seemed part of the landscape itself, merging with the river and the sky. The bright rays of the midday sun, reflecting off the water, painted it a blinding white light, contrasting with the shadows that fell from rusty metal structures intertwined with dry ropes and cables. Silence hung in the air, broken only by the creaking of the barge and the occasional conversations of the prisoners.
The river flowed slowly, as did the barge on which its passengers worked. Tanned and exhausted by the hot sun, they stood with their hands crossed behind their backs or leaning on their chains, looking at the flat banks. In the distance they could see green fields and dense forests, but all these views were indifferent to them - their thoughts seemed to have flown far beyond this quiet part of the world. One could say that the barge was almost empty, and except for the prisoners and a few guards who carefully supervised their work, there was no one else on it. Among the prisoners on this barge were both political prisoners and ordinary citizens, convicted of various sins. All of them were brought here for hard labor, requiring incredible physical strength and endurance, which with each passing day exhausted them more and more.
The task that awaited these unfortunates on the barge was truly horrific and merciless. The waters of the Charles River, with their apparent calm, concealed deadly threats - pollution and toxic chemicals that required incredible human effort and the use of dangerous, sometimes toxic substances to clean up. Workers, huddled in tight, suffocating groups, their skin coated in sweat and dirt, were forced to clear flooded docks and prepare areas for new berths.
The work was slow, arduous, and each day brought painful chemical burns and injuries, the inevitable result of inadequate protection and constant contact with toxic substances. The barge, which was both a workplace and a painful imprisonment on the water, was an arena where new suffering and despair awaited around every turn.
At this time, Harey Dunlop, one of these poor souls, stood at the edge of the barge, watching the others, but her mind was elsewhere. Mark Tempe's ex-wife was one of those sentenced to this hard labor, and although her eyes were tired, there was still a spark of inner strength in them, although her body was already beginning to give in. She did not pay attention to the other prisoners, whose faces, covered in sweat and dirt, had lost their human features. Among them was an old man who had spent his entire life in hard labor, but today, standing at the edge of the barge and watching the river, he looked like a man whose strength was almost exhausted. His face was covered with a network of small wrinkles, his hands trembled, and his eyes had become dull. He was one of those who, despite all the trials, could not be broken, but his body was ready to give in. In his eyes burned not strength, but fatigue, from which there was no escape.
Another prisoner, a young man, lifted a heavy iron beam with a tense expression, cursing his fate. He tried to concentrate on his work, but his thoughts would not leave him: about the horrors of what lay ahead, about how his life was now an eternal cycle of pain and despair.
The guards, dressed in dark uniforms, watched the proceedings with restraint, their gazes expressing neither pity nor sympathy. They stood at their posts, strictly controlling the process, their faces cold as stone, and every gesture clear and confident. One of them, tall and thin, watched with a grin on his face as the prisoners, struggling to lift heavy objects, trembled under his gaze, like robots for whom there was no pity.
Everywhere on the barge there were rustling sounds, quiet conversations and shouts, echoes of people trying to somehow ease their existence amidst this merciless labor. Nevertheless, the barge continued to float, rocking like an unstable vessel rushing toward its final destination, where the fate of each prisoner was already predetermined.
Suddenly, one of the guards, his face lined with fine lines of lust, slowly approached Harey. His eyes, filled with obvious desire for a woman, slid over the figure of Mark Tempe's ex-wife, and it seemed that he enjoyed her every movement, her every breath, as if he were watching a movie of a subtle nature. He stopped next to her, not hiding his impudent smile, like a predator watching its prey. His gaze was insistent, as if he was anticipating the moment when everything would be under his control.
"Come on, sit down!" he suddenly shouted hoarsely.
With these words, he roughly pushed Harey toward the benches that lined the wall of the cabin. She felt all the physical dominance of the warden - his strength and self-confidence. Her hands were cuffed, and despite all her internal resistance, she could not resist his strength. Slowly lowering herself onto the bench, Harey felt the weight of her body, burdened with chains and fatigue, pressing on her spine. Every movement was excruciatingly difficult, as if every cell in her body demanded rest.
The warden stood by, watching her slowly lower herself onto the bench. Satisfied that Harey would not dare to resist, he grunted in satisfaction. With one last glance at the other prisoners, he slipped into the crowd of guards without saying a word, leaving her completely alone.
Harey's thoughts were shattered like a whirlwind, and the pain of humiliation did not leave, felt like a weight on her body. Submission was her only way to survive, but in her eyes, hidden from his gaze, there was still a spark of determination, though suppressed by fatigue and fear. When the overseer disappeared from sight, his presence still hung over her, a threat that remained in her mind.
Through the soft roar of the Charles River, a boat suddenly appeared. It moved slowly, throwing up light waves that lapped against the side. There were two people on board, a man rowing an oar and Mark sitting opposite him.
"To be honest," the man at the oars said thoughtfully, looking up at the river, "I dream more about the future raising of sunken ships than about the sinking of operating ones. Restoration, you know, is a much more useful occupation than the release of some criminal elements."
His words were calm, and he spoke like a man who had long been sure of his opinion. There was no fear in his voice, only interest and excitement at the prospect of regaining lost opportunities. He glanced cheerfully at Mark, who grinned, leaned forward slightly, and looked at the man with some disdain for his philosophy.
"Well, in order for you and me to raise sunken ships for the joy of science, we first need to sink a prison barge in the name of justice!" he said with slight irony, emphasizing that what the man was talking about seemed completely irrelevant at the moment.
The boat glided slowly along the water, the oars cutting through the surface of the Charles River with a light effort. Mark, dressed in a simple white shirt with short sleeves, involuntarily reminded himself of his daughter Molly, although he could not understand why. White fabric with red stripes, the same short sleeves - this was her style, her favorite clothes. Strangely, Mark found himself wearing exactly this shirt, without thinking about why he chose it. At that moment, it seemed to him that his choice was not accidental. As if this shirt was connected by an invisible thread to his desperate attempts to save the mother of the girl for whom he was a father.
Mark looked thoughtfully at his shirt, as if realizing its color and shape for the first time. It was simple, but its red and white stripes seemed to evoke a strange sense of unease. Why did this particular shirt, with its almost childish, naive pattern, evoke such feelings in him? He had never paid attention to clothes before, but now that he was wearing it, it was as if he were in another world, in an alien reality. It seemed that this shirt not only reminded him of Molly, but also pointed to something deeper, something unconscious, an unknown connection that he could not understand.
He felt his body and mind begin to play the role of someone else, as if Mark Purvis himself no longer existed and someone else had taken his place. He tried to understand why this image-this shirt, its colors, its associations with his daughter-had entered his life, completely uninvited. He tried to push the thoughts away, but they kept coming back, over and over. At some point, Mark realized that this had not been a random choice. Perhaps the shirt was not just an object, but a symbol, hiding something he had long tried to ignore: his connection to Molly, her innocence, something he had left behind in trying to become who he was now.
Meanwhile, Harey was sitting on a bench, leaning against the outside wall of the cabin, her hands, handcuffed, lying limply in her lap. She was motionless, but a storm was raging inside her. Her gaze was dull, but then something suddenly caught her attention. A boat, slowly gliding across the water, appeared in her field of vision. She turned her head slightly in its direction, and something alive flashed in her gaze, like a long-awaited ray of light breaking through the thickness of heavy clouds. It was not just a remark - it was a realization. It was something more than an accident.
Harey's heart began to beat faster, and she parted her lips slightly, trying to suppress the rush of emotion. She couldn't believe her eyes. The boat moving down the river seemed to have torn her away from this suffocating environment. She couldn't see the man rowing, couldn't see anything except the man sitting on the other side - Mark, dressed in a white shirt with red stripes, just like the one her daughter Molly wore.
Her eyes had it all. They held the pain of loss, the endless suffering she carried, and the silent hope that maybe things could still be changed. She looked at him, her gaze filled with intense emotion, as if she saw nothing else but him. This scene was only for her. There was no despair or weakness in that look - there was only a desire to be heard, to be seen.
She didn't move, didn't try to get attention, didn't try to scream, as her soul demanded. She just sat, quietly and patiently, watching the boat, watching Mark. This moment was her chance, a chance to be freed from the nightmare that had become her reality. She knew that everyone else was absorbed in their work, oblivious to everything around them. But she felt that something had changed. It was more than just the appearance of the boat. It was a sign that perhaps all of this was coming to an end.
One thought was spinning around in her head like a broken record: "Maybe this is it, the end of all my suffering?" But her hope was cautious, as if she was afraid to believe it seriously. She sat motionless, but her heart was already beating in time with what could be her last chance.
At this time, the man who was sitting at the oars stopped the boat and looked at Mark with a heavy expression on his face.
"You know this is madness, right?" he said, his voice full of reproach. "Why risk it? You know what will happen if we get caught. Both of us... and everyone here."
Mark was silent, his gaze focused on the dark surface of the water, his thoughts far away. He knew that the man, even though he was helping him, still considered his actions suicide.
"Well, okay," the man continued, not hiding his displeasure, "since you insisted. It's your choice, not mine."
With that, he pulled out a scuba suit from under the seat of the boat , but it wasn't what you'd expect when you heard the word. Instead of the usual full body suit, this one consisted of just the two most essential elements - a helmet and an air hose. This minimalism allowed Mark to breathe underwater while still allowing him freedom of movement, eliminating the feeling of constriction that a standard full suit brings .
"Are you kidding me?" The man looked at the suit, then at Mark with a reproachful expression. "You want to swim underwater like that? Just a helmet? Aren't you afraid that because of this you'll get bogged down in this story up to your ears?"
Mark, without answering, took the helmet and pulled it over his head. There was determination in his eyes, but also worry, which he hid under the outer calm. The man noticed it.
"Well then," he said with a sigh, "put it on then. It's your life, it's not up to me to decide how you'll live it!"
With these words he handed Mark the helmet, which he put on, and with clearly visible displeasure continued:
"I didn't think you'd have to swim with this. God, I don't even want to think about what will come of this."
Mark checked the air duct that ran from the helmet. Everything was fine.
"I hope you understand that I won't come after you," the man said, crossing his arms over his chest and giving Mark a look full of reproach and disappointment. "This is madness, even if you're counting on a miracle. But you'll still stick your head in the fire, I know it. You always do. You can't stop. So go ahead, go," he said, raising his eyebrows and looking away, as if he wanted to ignore what was happening right under his nose.
Mark was silent, his eyes hard and unwavering, but even he found it hard to ignore the lingering anxiety that was gripping his heart. He felt something squeezing in his chest, but he was determined - it was not in his nature to hold back doubts. He did not answer, only leaned forward slightly, peering into the dark water, as if he wanted to make sure of his resolve.
Shaking his head, the man glanced at Mark again, but there was a kind of suppressed worry in his eyes. He knew his friend wouldn't stop, even if everything around him screamed about an imminent catastrophe. But eventually his disappointment turned into silent acceptance. He retreated to the stern of the boat, not trying to hold Mark back.
Mark walked to the edge, took another deep breath, feeling the cold wetness touch his skin. His fingers trembled on the handle of his helmet, and without looking back, he stepped into the dark waters, absorbing the sensation as a last solace before the uncertainty. The man, taking hold of the rope that was tied to Mark's helmet, reluctantly began to lower it into the water. He pulled it with his hands, but every movement was full of indecision, as if he knew that every action brought his friend closer to inevitable risk. His face was frozen in bewilderment and irritated pity, as if he were watching a man who was willingly stepping into the abyss.
His fingers tightened around the rope and he slowly released it, watching Mark's helmet sink deeper into the water. There was a strange mixture of worry and condemnation in his eyes. He couldn't understand how Mark could be so determined to go on this madness. The man just shook his head, clenching his jaw and closing his eyes for a moment, as if trying to shake off the thought of his friend being in danger.
"He's gone mad," the man whispered in a voice hoarse with emotion and looked around anxiously, as if trying to avoid what he was supposed to see.
He slowly lowered the rope, never taking his eyes off the spot where Mark had disappeared under the water. His expression was not only sad, but also despairing, as if he was worried about his friend more than Mark could imagine. With every meter of rope he let go, his face became more and more embarrassed, and he could not hide how difficult this situation was for him.
"Suicide," he said quietly, at the end, when Mark had finally plunged into the dark depths of Charles.
The man continued to hold the rope that connected Mark's helmet, and watched the water's movements with caution. His gaze darted from the surface to the rope, then back to the dark, endlessly calm river. His heart was constricted with tension. He counted the time, feeling how each moment increased his anxiety. The minutes dragged on like an eternity. The water remained motionless. Everything around was so quiet that even the sounds of nature seemed to be absorbed by this viscous expectation.
When his patience was almost exhausted, the man finally saw movement. A shadow, dimly outlined in the murky water, began to appear. He peered intently, and suddenly from the water appeared the figure of Mark, who seemed to be very close, but did not reach the barge. The man felt his heart jump sharply, he instantly dropped the rope and jumped to his feet. Horror flashed in his eyes, he rushed forward, unable to tear his eyes away from the figure of his friend.
Mark, as if nothing had happened, stood waist-deep in water, and calmly removed his helmet. He rubbed his hair with his hands, shaking his head several times to shake off drops of water, and inhaled air with obvious relief, as if he had just emerged from a dark labyrinth into the light. His face was serene, as if this was all part of the plan, and not a mortal risk.
The man froze in horror, not knowing what to do. He was ready to scream, but he couldn't utter a word. His gaze was fixed on Mark, who was shaking himself like a dog emerging from a river. The man clenched his teeth, realizing that everything could have been different if not for this dizzying stupidity. He opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, there was a deafening explosion.
The extraordinary force of the blow shook the air. The water rose into a tall column, as if the river itself had split, and began to descend rapidly, leaving behind only a pile of crashing waves. The man instinctively took a step back, unable to tear his eyes away from the column of water that was compressed into the sky, like a giant monster bursting out of the ground.
Everything that was happening around him left him with a strong feeling of helplessness. He watched as the force of the explosion destroyed everything around him. The water bubbled and gurgled, becoming more and more agitated.
Meanwhile, Mark, as if he hadn't noticed all this, slowly turned his head with a deeply disappointed expression on his face. He looked at the helmet, which had become superfluous, no longer having any meaning after everything had gone wrong. Sighing, he swung it with restraint and threw it towards the boat, as if he was specifically aiming to hit the man. The helmet flew through the air with a characteristic whistle and, falling with a small splash into the boat, crashed into its side, almost turning it over from surprise.
The man froze, his eyes wide, and he looked at Mark with obvious bewilderment and confusion. He was shocked by this action, as if Mark himself had just done something completely unpredictable and completely inappropriate. All he saw was his friend's figure moving along the river with the look of a man who had not even noticed the explosion itself, had not felt the world around him crumbling.
Mark, meanwhile, continued to move towards the boat without stopping. His steps were confident but not hasty, like someone who knew that his actions no longer mattered and who did not expect anything from what had happened. His figure, submerged to the waist in water, was approaching, despite all the danger that awaited them.
The man, still dumbfounded, could not take his eyes off Mark. He felt a strange tension creeping into his bones, as if something invisible and heavy was hanging in the air between them. His head was in disarray, contradictions were spiraling, and the feeling of despair was becoming more and more palpable. But he could not understand how all this had happened. Why was Mark so calm? How could he walk into such a storm without feeling either fear or fatigue?
As the blast cut through the silence, its shockwaves reached the barge, and the ground beneath the prisoners' feet shook for a moment, as if the river itself were reacting to what was happening. The water in the Charles foamed, rising into the air in a column of dirty water and steam that instantly melted into a haze, leaving behind a strange sense of irreversibility.
The barge was almost deathly silent, broken only by the sound of the waves and the sharp breathing of the guards. All eyes were now directed towards the explosion, and everyone, from prisoners to guards, froze in anticipation. At the same moment, before the echoes of the explosion had even died down, the guards, reacting instantly to what was happening, pulled out their pistols. Their hands were tense, their eyes wide, and they began to look around quickly, trying to understand what had happened. Did they realize that the explosion could be part of something larger, or was it just a desperate impulse on someone's part? The questions remained unanswered, but anxiety had already permeated the atmosphere.
Work on the barge immediately stopped. The prisoners, who had just been absorbed in their work, now froze in their places as if on command, not moving, and only occasionally exchanging tense glances. It seemed that each of them understood that now their fate depended on what would happen in the next minute. For a moment, the barge became a motionless island in the raging water, as if everyone was waiting for an answer to this unexpected and alarming signal that came from the water.
Harey, sitting on the bench with her head down, suddenly felt her heart pounding and her breath catching. She stood up instantly, her body seemed to shake with a rush of wild hope, and without thinking, she threw herself towards the side of the barge. She knew that if she had a chance, she would not let it pass. Every movement was dictated by an inner thirst for freedom, she felt her legs running faster than ever, as if the Charles River itself was pulling her into its arms.
As Harey almost reached the edge of the barge, ready to throw herself into the river, her quest for salvation was interrupted at the very last moment. Two guards, noticing her intentions, quickly jumped up to her and grabbed her arms with such force that she barely suppressed a painful cry. Her body shuddered from the sharp pain and, desperately trying to break free, she felt her attempts helplessly colliding with the inevitable. The hands, like iron pincers, squeezed her wrists, not giving her even the slightest chance of freedom.
"Where are you going, bitch?" one of them growled, his voice full of anger and indignation. His breath was hot, and his face was twisted in rage, as if Harey had committed a personal insult.
However, her attempts to break free were of no avail. She looked at them with despair, her lips trembling helplessly, but not a single tear escaped her eyes. A storm raged inside her, but she knew that her actions were useless.
At that moment, the sharp sounds of police sirens suddenly pierced the silence from the shore, their wail echoing along the river like a harbinger of an approaching storm. The signals signaled that the police, having heard the explosion, had immediately decided to send patrols to the river. The situation on the barge instantly became tense. The sirens were like gunshots, breaking through the fog of uncertainty. At that moment, the prisoners on the barge exchanged anxious glances, as if instinctively realizing that the situation had gone beyond what they could control. Uncertainty flickered in their eyes - what would happen next? What should they do now?
The guards exchanged worried glances, unsure of what to do in this situation. Meanwhile, two of them held Harey tightly, not allowing her to break free. She continued to scream, with desperation in her voice, addressing her husband, who was somewhere out there, just a few meters away from the barge:
"Mark! Mark!" Her words were like a roar, like a plea, and every jerk of hers was full of fury. She struggled, despite the fact that her hands were clenched in chains. "Let me go! Let me go, I have to go to him!"
One of the guards squeezed her wrist even harder, and then snapped sharply, with anger in his voice:
"Shut up! You'll give us another reason, and I..." His voice shook with rage, but he didn't finish the threat, realizing that right now she simply had nothing to think about except saving herself.
"No!" Harey broke away, her eyes wild and her body tense as if she were not a woman but a beast. She struggled forward as if she did not realize that she could not overcome this barrier. "I have to go to him! I have to! Let me go!"
The second guard, realizing that the situation was getting out of hand, grabbed her by the shoulders, trying to force her to stop. He shouted over her with difficulty, his voice low and tense:
"Are you crazy?! We're here to control you, not to let you go! No one will help you!"
"He'll save me!" Harey screamed, not noticing that her hysteria was only increasing her helplessness. "He... He'll come for me, I know it!" Her voice shook as she tried to break free again.
The warden who was holding her right hand leaned towards her and hissed, his words full of threat:
"Don't try to struggle any longer, woman! You won't achieve anything! Enough! Do you understand?!"
But Harey heard nothing but her own voice screaming Mark's name. She was overcome with a maddening despair, her body shaking with tension, like a string ready to break. Her heart, aching and clouded by consciousness, was beating against her chest, and once again she tried to break free, gritting her teeth.
Her breathing became ragged, her arms and legs felt like they were being held in chains, but she continued to struggle, ignoring the pain in her body. As she made another desperate lunge, her cry echoed in the air like a sharp, painful splash:
"Mark, I love you!"
The tears that rolled down her cheeks only emphasized her determination. Her eyes, full of pain and fear, were narrowed, but she did not give in. Even in these conditions, with the guards, with the chains, she continued to fight, trying to get him, to get herself, trying to break out of this hopelessness.
A few days later, Mark Tempe sat on a bench in the shade of an old maple tree that spread its thick branches over one of Dana Park's quiet alleys. The park was alive with its own life: children slid down the slide, splashed in the sandbox, and climbed metal structures that could barely support their restless energy. Parents sat nearby, talking to each other or watching their children with soft smiles on their faces.
But for Mark, this world was like behind glass. He looked at the children, but saw only one image in front of him - his daughter Molly. Her face, familiar to the smallest features, seemed to appear out of thin air, filling his entire consciousness. Her eyes, always so clear and alive, looked at him with reproach. It was a look full of childish resentment and disappointment.
Mark clasped his hands in his lap, feeling the muscles tense beneath the white fabric of his suit. He could almost hear her voice, thin and ringing, full of sadness: "Why didn't you save her, Dad? Why did you let us both down?"
He closed his eyes, trying to push the image away, but it only made it worse. He saw Harey again, her face twisted in despair, her body struggling in the guards' grasp. Her scream, "Mark!" echoed in his head again, making his heart clench painfully.
Mark slowly opened his eyes and looked down at the ground beneath his feet. The grass beneath the bench was neatly trimmed, and the thin roots of the maple tree poking out of the ground reminded him of how fragile the foundation on which everything rests can be.
Beside him, Baselard sat motionless, his silver-topped cane resting between his legs, his fingers wrapped gently but firmly around it. The old man seemed calm, but Mark knew there was more to his reserve. He could feel Baselard's eyes on him from the side, not judgmental but rather appraising, as if he were trying to read every emotion on his face.
Baselard was a man who believed that every mistake required correction, every failure needed reflection. When he heard in Boston about his former student Mark Tempe's desperate attempt to sink a prison barge on the Charles River, he could not remain indifferent. The story had reached him in distorted form, overgrown with rumors and speculation: some spoke of heroism, some of recklessness, and some of sheer stupidity. But Baselard knew Mark well enough to realize that there was more to the act than mere impulse or anger.
As soon as the old man learned of the incident, he set off for Cambridge without hesitation. It didn't take him long to find Mark; he never hid from his mistakes, and Baselard appreciated that. But when he got to the city, he didn't immediately tell his student everything he thought about his reckless behavior. Instead, he suggested that they meet at Dana Park, on neutral ground, where they could calmly discuss what had happened.
And now they sat on the bench, silently looking out over the bustling park. Baselard could feel the tension enveloping Mark. He knew that the words that had to be said would not be easy for either of them. For Baselard, this was a moment of mentoring sternness: he had come not to console, but to point out the mistakes, to analyze them, and perhaps to warn Mark against further rash actions.
But for now there was no need for words. Baselard, like a wise old man, knew that silence sometimes speaks louder than any lecture. He waited for Mark to speak, or at least to signal that he was ready to listen. But for now Mark just stared at the children playing in front of them. The wind stirred the treetops slightly, and the sounds of the children's laughter mingled with the soft rumble of the cars passing by. Mark seemed detached, almost motionless, but inside him a hurricane of emotions raged. His gaze was riveted on the little girl who ran with a joyful squeal to her father, who was standing nearby. The man picked her up in his arms, and she laughed loudly. The picture, so simple and ordinary, caused a painful lump in Mark's throat.
The words he had once spoken to Molly, his daughter, with such confidence and love came back to him: "You can always count on me. I'm your daddy, and I'll never let you down." They had been words of comfort then, a promise given at a time when she needed it most. Now they sounded like mockery, as if someone invisible were repeating them, but with a sneer.
His attempt to save Harey, her mother, had been a complete failure. The barge had survived, Harey had remained on board, and he had returned to shore not just empty-handed, but with the burden of knowing that his actions could have ended in tragedy. He had endangered not only his own life, but perhaps the safety of those dear to him.
Mark sighed heavily and ran his hand over his face, as if trying to erase these painful thoughts. But they returned, again and again. The current silence of Baselard, this gray-haired mentor, seemed almost unbearable to him. Mark knew that the conversation was inevitable, and he knew that he would hear the unflattering truth. But what he feared most was not the old man's words, but that there would be too much truth in them.
Baselard finally broke the silence, his voice as sharp as a blow.
"You little brat, you little pup!" he began, breaking into rudeness, as if the rage that had been building up inside him had burst out. "I vouched for you with my head before the Cambridge Committee of the Labour Party, and you decided to play Cossacks and Robbers!"
Mark glanced at him briefly, full of guilt, but then looked away, lowering his head. The pain caused by the old man's words was almost physical, but he could not object. Every word was true, caustic, burning, but inevitable.
"Why did you come here?" Baselard's voice broke into an angry shout, and he rose abruptly from the bench. His old legs, despite their age, moved firmly as he began to pace nervously in front of Mark. "To ride on a handcar, huh? To show off your heroism in front of the enemy?"
His steps became more and more sweeping, and his words became more and more caustic, as if the old man could not contain the flow of accumulated emotions.
"And you're still messing around with some kind of scuba gear!" he continued, turning sharply to Mark to give him a reproachful look. "Adventurer!"
He paused, hands on his hips, his gray mustache visibly twitching, betraying the anger seething within. Baselard's face twisted in disappointment, and he looked straight at Mark, who remained motionless.
"You let your wife down," he said more quietly, but his voice took on an even greater heaviness, as if every word was nailing Mark to the bench. "But there was such a chance to save her!"
These words, like a hot knife, pierced Mark's heart. He shuddered slightly, but remained where he was, his gaze still directed somewhere into the distance, at the busy park. Children were laughing, birds were chirping, but all this seemed far away and unattainable.
Mark gritted his teeth, feeling his insides clench with pain and shame. His hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms, but he didn't say a word. Baselard began pacing again, as if trying to work out his rage with his steps, but his movements were nervous and jerky.
"Do you even realize what you've done?" he threw over his shoulder, not stopping.
Mark was silent. He bit his lips until they hurt, tasting the metallic taste of blood, but even that couldn't drown out the guilt. Any excuse, he knew, would only make the situation worse.
Suddenly, a sharp shot rang out in the air, echoing across the green lawns of the park. Mark flinched, and Baselard instantly stopped his pacing. He raised his head warily and turned toward the train yard, where the noise had come from.
"What's this?" the old man muttered, but almost immediately his face softened and he narrowed his eyes slightly, as if he had remembered something important.
Then a second shot rang out, followed by a third. Baselard snorted softly and shook his head.
"Oh, right," he muttered, now calmly. "These are your newly minted fighters. They're training, then, in shooting at the enemies of communism."
His voice had lost its earlier edge. He turned to Mark, his expression becoming thoughtful, then surprisingly gentle, almost paternal.
"You know, boy," he began, looking at the horizon, where the roofs of the depot could be seen behind the trees, "a lot of work has been done."
He paused for a moment, as if savoring his thoughts, and then looked at Mark again.
"The Boston cell approves the creation of the Cambridge squad. And, whatever you say, you're a good guy. The first victory over the loyalists is a serious matter."
There was a note of respect in his voice that Baselard rarely heard, and he bowed his head slightly in recognition and stepped closer to Mark.
"For this you have revolutionary gratitude," he said firmly and extended his hand.
Mark, sitting on the bench, looked up. His eyes were still clouded, and he seemed not to fully comprehend what was happening. But, instinctively, he mechanically shook the old man's hand. His handshake was weak, almost mechanical, but it was enough to feel for a moment the warmth and recognition emanating from his older comrade. Baselard, usually reserved and stern, softened. He patted Mark on the shoulder, as if to relieve him of some of that invisible weight.
"No need for this false modesty," he said with a slight smile, but his voice was firm.
He straightened up, putting his hands on his hips, and looked at Mark more seriously.
"Don't despair. All is not lost," Baselard continued, his voice calm but determined. "But for now, you need to step off the stage for a while."
Mark tensed up at the words. He rose slowly from the bench, his hands shaking and his voice full of pain, as if each word was difficult for him to say.
"Well, gaffer..." he muttered, barely holding back his tears.
Baselard stopped him from continuing, raising his hand with a gentle but firm gesture.
"Listen," he said soothingly, "I came here from Boston to take you back. You need to go away, kid. Get out of the game for a while.
Mark, as if hearing the verdict, lowered his head.
"You must submit," the old man continued. "Your life does not belong to you alone."
The words, though stern, carried with them concern and a reminder of the greater cause to which Mark had dedicated himself. They moved forward slowly, crossing the green lawns of the park, heading towards the train depot. The warm light of the setting sun played on the leaves of the trees, and around them they could hear the sound of children's laughter and the distant sounds of city life. Mark walked with his head down, looking at his feet, as if he were searching there for answers to his tormenting questions.
Raising his hand to his chest, he suddenly said, his voice sounding muffled but decisive:
"You know, Baselard, I disagree. My life belongs only to me, even if it is a hundred times harder to live alone than in a group."
He shoved his hands into the pockets of his white suit, his step becoming a little more confident, but his gaze remained thoughtful.
"To decide for me where to be bold and where to be calculating," he continued, turning his head to the old man walking next to him, "is a disastrous business."
Baselard frowned at his words, but said nothing. His piercing gaze studied Mark's face, as if the old man were searching for something more than rebellion in his words.
Suddenly Mark stopped, so abruptly that Baselard almost stepped forward. The young man turned to his mentor, and, looking straight into his eyes, began to speak with feigned pathos, which even seemed slightly comical.
"The revolution is being made..." He paused dramatically, like an actor before the climax of a monologue, "by desperate, brave, young, smart and cheerful people.
He took a deliberately deep breath, placing his hands on his hips, as if history were being made. Baselard, without showing surprise, looked at Mark with a slight squint, as if expecting him to say the next thing. After a moment, his face took on his characteristic ironic grin, and he asked quietly:
"Who are you quoting, Plekhanov?"
Mark, smiling, looked at the old man and, without hiding his amusement, answered as if he had just heard the funniest joke:
"No!"
Baselard, without wasting time, tried again, recalling the names of the greatest revolutionaries:
"Ulyanov? Or maybe Bukharin? Or the same Trotsky?"
But Mark interrupted him with as much satisfaction as if he had just revealed an old secret.
"You, gaffer!"
The old man froze for a moment, as if he had been caught in some inadvertent act. He looked down and shook his head skeptically before looking back at Mark. Mark was standing before him with the most sincere smile, as if he had just remembered something important.
"That is a correct judgment," Baselard finally said, suppressing a slight grin.
Mark suppressed his laughter and rushed forward again, and the old man followed him. Mark's quiet laughter continued to sound in the air for a long time as they moved further through the park, and both felt that a special understanding had been established between them, despite all the differences and disagreements.
Walking alongside Mark through the park, Baselard listened with restraint to the distant gunfire. It sounded like a constant barrage of gunfire, most likely a squad training exercise. It caught his attention, but he quickly returned to the task at hand, fully concentrating on what needed to be done next.
"The main thing now is to get out of Cambridge," he said, and his gaze became more determined. "First we'll go to your apartment, you'll take all your things from there, and from there straight to the steamer Alexander York..."
But before he could finish speaking, Mark, slightly quickening his pace, interrupted him:
"Well, if I have so little time, then maybe you will allow me to stay here for another hour?"
Baselard paused for a moment and stared at Mark, completely taken aback by his request. His eyes reflected genuine surprise. He shook his head and, raising his eyebrows, asked, as if he could not believe his ears:
"Again? Have you come up with something else?"
Mark, seeing that the old man really did not understand his intentions, began to justify himself with such an expression on his face as if he absolutely had to be understood:
"No, don't worry, I really need you, really. And anyway, I'm going to come right after you, so wait for me at my apartment."
With these words, Mark took the keys from his pocket and handed them to Baselard. Old man looked at them doubtfully, as if they were some kind of riddle to him, and held his hand in the air, not taking them at once. His gaze was wary, with a slight irritation, as if he suddenly doubted Mark's sanity, thinking that he had finally gone mad.
"Are you sure you're in your right mind?" he finally said, still not taking the keys.
Mark didn't answer Baselard's question. He just looked at the old man in silence, his gaze a mixture of sadness and some strange excitement, as if he understood that a new stage was coming, but he couldn't shake off the feeling of inner disappointment. He felt that at some point his life had been torn into two worlds - one in which he was, and another to which he could no longer return.
Baselard, still wondering what to do with it, took the keys from Mark's hands. His face twisted and he said, clearly holding back his irritation:
"Well, what should we do with you..."
With an air of deep hurt, Baselard, with his lips pressed together, walked quickly toward the park exit. His every movement was charged with a peculiar tension, as if he were trying to avoid not only further words but also any looks. His back was straight and tense, and his steps were quick and precise, as if he were in a hurry to get away from something that might call his own sense of dignity into question. He did not turn around, did not say another word, and soon disappeared around the corner, leaving Mark standing where he was.
The park, which had once been alive and full of sounds, was now swallowed by silence. Only distant gunshots from the Cambridge railway lines disturbed the peace. They were sounds that seemed at once reality and its destruction.
Mark remained standing, as if his feet could not leave the ground. He felt contradictions growing together inside him, which he could not cope with. His mind was overloaded with thoughts, emotions, decisions, but he did not know which of them would be right. He understood that everything that had happened did not matter if he did not make his choice. But this choice remained for him as foggy and uncertain as it once was.
Finally, with a heavy sigh, he moved forward, but his steps were different. They were measured, as if he were trying to get himself back on track, but inside him there was emptiness, as if he had just taken the last step on a path that led nowhere. He looked at the park one last time, at the children playing, unaware of the real problems of the world, and suddenly realized how alien this scene, so full of innocence and simplicity, seemed to him, how the world he lived in was no longer his.
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