Bab 683: Chapter 466: Is Shiller Sick?_1

In the midwinter, small sparrows lined up on the dry tree branches, grooming their feathers. One of them, spreading its wings, flew down to the ground. It hopped through the thick layer of snow on the ground, in search of possible food.

A hand threw down a trail of bread crumbs. Many sparrows gathered around, and the bakery shop owner, wearing a cotton cap and apron, straightened his back and brushed off the remaining crumbs from his hands.

A "squeak" was heard, the sound of bicycle brakes. The newspaper boy, wrapped up tightly, took off his gloves, and rapped the bike bell with his fingers.

The bakery shop owner, wearing his thick boots, stepped over the snow on the ground, scaring the sparrows and causing them to flock up. He walked briskly across the sidewalk and came to the roadside, taking the newspaper from the newspaper boy.

"It's you, the brainy little imp! You must know the old men here are the most reasonable and you always manage to grab their business."

The newspaper boy, a freckled young lad, like most children in Gotham, was lively, wild, and full of rebellion.

These children weave their way through the streets and alleys of Gotham, undeterred by wind, frost, rain or snow, always full of energy. Just like the sparrows foraging in the streets in winter, they are the most vibrant scenery in this City of Sin.

The bakery owner handed the newspaper boy a small piece of dark roasted bread and asked, "Any gossip around?"

The newspaper boy took a bite of the bread, the heat made him gasp. While puffing to cool his mouth, he spoke in fits and starts, "Things aren't bad."

"I heard that the charity dinner in Metropolis was a great success, those wealthy fellows donated a lot of money to address the traffic problems caused by the snow disaster."

"I heard that our mayor used the donations to buy several large snow removal trucks. Now the Central Roundabout and the East Dock area have been cleared, otherwise traffic wouldn't have been restored today."

The newspaper boy took another bite of the piping hot bread, his nose was freezing red. He wiped his nose with his hand, took in two breaths of cold air, and said,

"Gotham University is reopening today. You can tell from the way the pampered teachers and professors can all drive to work that good days are coming soon."

"Thank God!" exclaimed the bakery shop owner as he sneezed and rubbed his nose. He said in a deep, husky voice:

"Since the traffic jam due to the snow disaster, my bread hasn't sold well. If it weren't for you kids helping deliver to my regulars, I would have closed the shop long ago."

"Oh, speaking of which!" The bakery shop owner seemed to remember something. He raised a hand, shook his fingers, patted his forehead, and turned around to hurry back into the shop, scaring off many sparrows that were feeding.

After a while, he came out with a paper bag and then said, "Professor Rodriguez's butler phoned last night to order fresh bread baked this morning. Could you deliver it for me? I'll treat you to black rice cake and sausages for lunch today... "

The newspaper boy snapped his fingers, indicating no problem. After receiving the paper bag, he stuffed it into his coat, leaned forward, gripped the handlebars of his bike, and pedalled hard, whizzing away quickly.

Watching his fading figure on the street, the bakery shop owner shook his head and returned to his shop. As he went to the counter to check the order record, he murmured to himself:

"It's strange, hasn't the professor always liked alkaline bread? Why has he now started buying butter toast?"

The turning order sheets rustled. The bakery shop owner shook his head and whispered, "...They probably have guests."

"Dong, dong, dong, dong, dong..."

When the mansion clock struck, Shiller stood in front of the ground floor window and stretched, yawning. He then walked over to the dining table and picked up the glass of water.

Holding the glass, he walked around the ground floor hall, then stopped rather confusedly in the middle of the room, starting to ponder a question—if he wanted to drink water, where should he go to find it?

In Marvel's sanatorium, where Shiller used to stay, his accommodation had been a one-room suite converted from the former bank manager's lounge, equipped with a bedroom and a living room. There was an electric kettle on the table in the bedroom, and a water dispenser in the living room. When he woke up each morning, he could find drinking water within 10 steps.

Shiller knew it was now 1988. He had lived through this era before he time-traveled, but he had never owned a mansion in that era.

Now standing in the mansion's front hall of over 600 square meters, Shiller felt a bit lost; was this what noble life was like?

Just as Shiller stood by the staircase, cup in hand, hesitating whether to walk for 10 minutes to find the kitchen, Merkel rushed down the stairs.

It was obvious that he was quite anxious. His suit jacket was unbuttoned, his tie undone, and even his hair was only hastily combed, with some strands not smoothed down properly.

"I'm sorry, sir, why did you get up so early today?"

"Early?" Shiller glanced at his watch. It was 5:30 in the morning. Then he looked out of the window; it was still dark outside.

Merkel rubbed his eyes vigorously, trying to wake himself up, but his thoughts were still fuzzy. He was deeply shocked by Shiller's erratic schedule.

Before coming here, he had learned in the Steward Academy that butlers should adapt to their employers' schedules as closely as possible, in order to provide timely service.

Therefore, after starting work at Rodriguez Manor, Merkel tried to synchronize his routine with Shiller's.

Before this, Shiller's lifestyle was quite extraordinary. In a time without much electronic equipment, he often would stay up until two or three in the morning before going to bed. On teaching days, he gets up at 9 am; on non-teaching days, he generally gets up at noon and only eats a brunch.

Merkel scarcely managed to adjust his regular routine to match Shiller's essentially nocturnal one, but ever since Shiller returned from Metropolis, his routine had normalized — almost excessively so. He now sleeps between 8 and 9 p.m. and wakes between 5 and 6 a.m. …

Merkel stood on the steps, leaning on the armrest of the chair, feeling dizzy, but he still tried his best to perk up. He took the water cup from Shiller's hand and said, "I apologize, sir. I didn't arrange for the water to be heated this morning. I will go do it now. Do you want breakfast?"

"Of course. Didn't you order bread for me last night?"

"Uh, but the newsboy from the West District won't be here until 7:30 at the earliest. Neither the newspaper office nor the bakery is open at this time."

Shiller looked out the floor-to-ceiling window on the right side, glanced at the street outside, where it was still pitch black with not a soul in sight.

Even though Gotham could be considered an international metropolis, it was still the 90s. The pace of life wasn't as fast as it is now, and the West District was an old city area mainly inhabited by old school rich people, very few of whom got up this early.

Shiller sighed and said, "Alright, let me know when breakfast is ready."

With that, he went upstairs to his bedroom. Merkel, still standing on the steps, watched Shiller's retreating figure, his confusion intensifying.

If it were the usual, Shiller would have made a cold joke about it, something like, "I hope next time you order bread faster than the sparrows in front of the bakery," and then he would skip breakfast and drive to Gotham University for his class.

Of course, Merkel hadn't forgotten the strange dream he had.

At that time, he took advantage of Shiller's absence and wanted to find some clues in the manor, only to realize that all the doors to significant rooms had been locked with a series of riddles set up. After a great effort to solve these puzzles, he entered Shiller's dream because he touched a bottle of wine on the rack.

Merkel had no other choice but to ask Shiller to help him protect the mysterious East Coast agent and keep the roster safe. Shiller didn't directly answer him, and Merkel had no idea what had happened on the day of the banquet.

For him, the mysterious agent was still nowhere to be found, and he had no idea where the roster was. The only advantage was that he was certain his employer didn't mind him being a Soviet agent, as long as he did his job well, this might become a stable disguise.

But now, his biggest problem was that since Shiller returned from the charity dinner in Metropolis, he seemed to have changed. From his routine, lifestyle, to the way he spoke, everything was completely different.

From the first day Merkel arrived here, he wanted to collect as much information about his employers as possible. Not only could this help him work more smoothly, but it was also part of his agent duties. After some time together, Merkel thought he had figured out Shiller's temperament.

But now, all his previous efforts had gone to waste.

The boiling teapot emitted a sharp whistle. Merkel quickly crossed the corridor, took the teapot off the stove, grabbed a towel from the hook on the wall next to it, wrapped the handle of the teapot, and then carried the teapot to the front hall of the manor. After filling it with water, he carried the tray upstairs.

Upon entering the bedroom, Shiller was leaning against the head of the bed reading a book. Merkel put the water on the bedside table, then paused hesitantly.

Shiller put down his book and looked up, asking, "What's the matter? Is breakfast not going smoothly?"

"Well, no, sir. I just wanted to say... that is... you have been a bit... um..."

"Oh, my anxiety has been acting up. So my behavior might be a little different from before. Don't worry about it. It might get better soon."

"Anxiety disorder?" Merkel muttered to himself in confusion. But remembering Shiller's eccentric temperament, he thought this explanation was plausible enough.

Just as he wanted to ask more about it, suddenly, the faint sound of the mailbox bell came from downstairs. He turned his head to look at the clock on the wall. It was just 6 o'clock now.

Merkel hurried out of the room, put down the tray, put on his coat, and walked out of the manor door. Sure enough, the newspaper boy was standing in front of the mailbox outside, waving at him.

"Why are you so early today?"

Merkel greeted him warmly. There were few newspaper boys who frequented the West District, and Merkel recognized almost all of them. The one who came today was the one he was most familiar with. The distinctive freckles on his face made it easy to recognize him.

"The traffic around the East Dock has been completely restored, don't you know? After delivering the newspapers here, I have to go there to grab more work."

"The dock traffic has been restored?" Merkel took the newspaper and bag of bread from the newspaper boy. Then he took some coins out of his pocket and dropped them into the boy's hand. The freckled boy raised an eyebrow, but before he could ask, Merkel finished his sentence:

"You came too early today. The bread isn't ready yet. Cold bread is too hard and can break your teeth. You should go buy something else to eat."

The newspaper boy put the coins in his pocket, squinted his eyes and smiled. He was mischievous yet adorable as he said:

"Please say hello to Professor Rodriguez for me! He's a great guy, always has been!"

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