Duel

 

"Is everything ready?" asked the stern man, who looked to be fifty, dressed in a ceremonial tailcoat and top hat.

"Yes, Mr. Chairman," replied the master of ceremonies. "The set designer did an impressive job and gave the castle an authentic nineteenth-century appearance, down to the last detail!

" "What are you talking about?" the dandy exclaimed angrily. "I see you're not wearing your livery! The ball will be in half an hour, and you and, I presume, your colleagues...

" "Couldn't these costumes be avoided? You know full well that we're in the twenty-second century, conquering the skies, building enormous skyscrapers, developing technologies...

" "Silence!" the chairman ordered sharply, threatening the insubordinate with his cane. "All TMR members will arrive dressed appropriately for the era. I demand that you, the gentleman serving at today's celebration, adapt to the crowd, thereby honoring the agreement you made with me."

"Okay, okay..." the contractor agreed, and obediently shuffled toward the staff quarters, muttering, "What a maniac, what a lunatic... He's getting too caught up in the role of a nineteenth-century baron. Nothing good can come of such an attitude."

The good man hadn't made much of a mistake. Mr. Henryk Podgórski, president of the Society of Romantic Lovers, not only felt like a gentleman from three centuries ago, but at that moment he truly believed he was one. Didn't he hold the brass knob of an ornate cane in his hand, didn't he feel the weight of a top hat on his head, didn't he see the old-fashioned decor of the room he was in?

"Good service is hard to come by these days," he sighed, watching the disappearing man in a neat, yet strikingly modern, suit and a white apron tied at the waist. He sighed again and sat down in a large armchair upholstered in red fabric. He didn't move until the first members of the Society arrived.

Once everyone had arrived and the ceremonial greetings had been met, it was time for the speech.

Podgórski raised his hands and cleared his throat several times, subtly yet significantly, signaling his wish to speak. The assembled fell silent and looked at him intently.

The president's gaze scanned the dozens of friendly faces, almost lost among the top hats, tailcoats, and above all, the dazzling dresses of the ladies. He cleared his throat again, suppressing his emotion, and said:

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. It is a great honor and a tremendous joy for me to continue what my great-great-great-great-great..." he stammered, "...my ancestor began in 1949, and to welcome you all to another gala ball of the Romantic Society, held annually to commemorate the founding of our magnificent, top-secret organization. An organization that for many, many years has been the only refuge for us romantics from the ever-encroaching, vulgar world. Tonight is more magical than usual, for today marks exactly two hundred years since the first gathering of our noble Society. If, however, we were to go back in time three hundred years," the president's cheeks flushed. "Yes, ladies and gentlemen, we would find ourselves in the very heart, in the very flowering of the era we love." So, as we begin the 200th ball of the Society of Romantic Lovers, I propose a toast." With that, Podgórski signaled to the liveried waiters to bring out glasses of champagne. "To Romanticism! To TMR! To us!"

The crowd, mesmerized, repeated this triple toast, raising their glasses.

The president drained his champagne with a flick of his wrist and immediately nodded to the conductor standing in front of the orchestra, positioned against the south wall of the room. The maestro, who had been generously paid before the ball, didn't need to be told twice. He waved his baton, and the entire hall, perhaps even the entire castle, resonated with the wonderful melody of the waltz from Verdi's La Traviata.

With the first bars, the enormous doors opened, and from them emerged enormous tables pushed by waiters, laden with exquisite food and drink, the kind that nineteenth-century Europe was famous for, yet unheard of by the palates of people in the age of artificial intelligence. The party began: they consumed, sipped, waltzed, conversed... they had a great time.

Suddenly, Mr. Szamiliński, the Society's vice president, rose from his seat and, tapping his fork against his glass, tried to attract everyone's attention.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" he called in a booming baritone. Because he enjoyed universal respect, the music stopped, and the crowd turned toward him. "Together with the venerable maestro and his orchestra, we have prepared a surprise. As you know, for over twenty years, not a single music school has operated in our country or the world. Our ancestors could only dream of opera." Art, and especially classical music, is on the verge of total ruin.

"Yes, it's true," the crowd whispered with deep sadness.

"But we, present here," the vice president continued, "love Strauss, Mozart, Donizetti, and other masters of the world of music. We do not want to participate in eradicating from the hearts of contemporary people those sublime emotions that only the beautiful music of classical instruments can bring.

" "We don't!" the assembled crowd echoed.

"That's why I undertook a heroic endeavor and acquired—don't ask how—a crumbling singing book and songbooks with the most beautiful operatic arias. Day after day, while my son, a supporter of Modernity, went to work, I shaped my voice, trying to expand its capabilities, practicing, practicing..."—here the moved gentleman wiped his eyes with a handkerchief, then finished emphatically—"to present to you today the once-famous toreador aria from Bizet's opera Carmen."

Enthusiastic applause rang out, lasting five minutes uninterrupted.

"I can't believe they didn't take any precautions," laughed a young man, who had entered the castle through the back door. "All I had to do was approach this ridiculously disguised guard, dressed like a nineteenth-century flunkey myself, and then dismiss his suspicions with a simple, 'I'm one of the waiters. Upon my honor, please let me in. The chairman will be angry.' He didn't even bother searching me. He wouldn't have noticed the plasma camera in my button anyway. If I manage to capture this footage, I'll be famous! Famous and rich! And all thanks to my father's carelessness. The old man had taken to keeping a traditional paper diary...

He walked down a cool corridor, dimly lit only by gas lamps, and looked around carefully. Their annual ball must be taking place somewhere here... But he saw no doors leading to the castle chambers; he only passed display cases full of yellowed newspaper clippings, strange old objects whose purpose he had no idea, dusty rags, revolvers, rusty swords and sabers. He guessed he was in the TMR museum.

Suddenly, a voice reached his ears, soaring loudly and clearly, accompanied by some unusual, subtle music. The journalist stopped, enchanted. He had never heard anything like it. He knew the word "singing," but only in reference to a few birds, which, sitting in cages in the Museum of Nature, sometimes recalled the former freedom of the avian family and emitted mournful trills. People didn't sing. There was no music either. There were only electronic sounds without melody or words, to which young people entertained themselves. So the journalist froze, listening as if captivated, unaware that he was listening to real music. After a moment, quite unconsciously, he began to move towards the soothing melody and the emotional words he didn't understand. His ears, usually numb to the jarring sounds of the Modern Age, now guided him through the dark space of the castle.

Like a sleepwalker, he entered the large, colorful hall, filled with fine-tailed gentlemen and ladies in lavish attire. He blended into the crowd. His gaze swept over the nineteenth-century aristocracy and finally found the source of the exquisite sensual experience. He didn't have time to see the singer's face, for he had just finished his aria and began to bow to fervent applause. The journalist didn't applaud; he was too stunned by the beauty of what he had heard to move. His impotence deepened when he recognized the bowing man as his own father.

"An informant!" the Society's president shouted at the same moment, rushing toward the camouflaged journalist.

"Yes, he's a spy! He didn't applaud our baritone! He came here to spy!" voices shouted.

The music lovers forced the journalist onto a chair, which they then surrounded in a tight circle, preventing him from escaping.

"Search him!" Podgórski ordered.

"We've already done that, Mr. Chairman. All right.

" "Hmm... Wait a minute, this young man reminds me of someone. Isn't he Mr. Szamiliński's son?

" "Yes, he is my son," the vice-chairman confirmed, stepping forward.

"So am I to understand that you betrayed our hiding place? For seventy-two years, no outsider has barged into any of our meetings, let alone a gala ball!

" "I swear I wouldn't even dream of telling any Contemporary about our Society! I never let my son in on..."

The Chairman interrupted him with a gesture.

"I believe you, you're a man of honor. However, your son is a journalist, and a Contemporary at that," he emphasized emphatically, "and I don't know if, or on what basis, we can believe his silence."

"Who told you I was going to keep quiet?!" the journalist exclaimed, standing up. He had already recovered from the impression his father's singing had made on him. "I'm going to broadcast this material on today's news!"

"Son, don't do it!" Szamiliński cried in despair. "Don't you understand that Modernity will annihilate us? They won't let us live!

" "You're exaggerating," the young man replied harshly. "They'll broadcast the material about your nineteenth-century party in 'oddities' and..."

"So, without regard for," the chairman interrupted, approaching the impudent journalist, "the noble hearts of the Society members and your esteemed father, you intend to tell the whole world about our ball, so that the vulgar, disgusting modern reality will destroy the last vestige of nineteenth-century romanticism we have?

" Young Szamiliński laughed derisively.

"I don't know exactly what you mean, but it seems to me that it is."

"In that case... in that case..." the chairman said, flushed with anger, "I challenge you to a duel!" Having issued the challenge, he slipped off his white glove and threw it in the astonished journalist's face.

"You old, eccentric son of a bitch!" the man shouted, lunging at Podgórski with his fists. He didn't even scratch him, as several gentlemen in tuxedos immediately held his arms.

"Bring sabers!" Podgórski shouted, removing his top hat and tailcoat, and rolling up his shirt cuffs. "We'll fight with old Polish weapons."

"A duel?" the young man repeated incredulously. "But it's illegal! A duel has long been illegal. It's simply a crime!

" "A crime? Don't talk nonsense! The crime is that you just insulted me gravely in front of my friends; your presence here is illegal! You have a saber and fight like a man."

"Will you do nothing? Will you let this madman kill me?" the journalist asked his father in disbelief, reflexively accepting the weapon he had been offered.

"It's a matter of honor; blood ties don't apply here. I would have challenged you myself if Mr. Chairman hadn't," Szamiliński drawled, then turned to the assembled group. "Please stand aside. The fighters will need space."

The TMR members obediently lined up against the walls. Podgórski waved his saber in the air, testing his dexterity. His opponent, who had never handled this weapon, lifted the piece of iron with obvious effort. He was beginning to feel afraid.

"Are you gentlemen fighting to the first blood?" Szamiliński asked hopefully, his fatherly feelings suddenly rekindling.

"To the last!" the chairman replied seriously, continuing his training. "We'll stake everything on one card. When your son dies, the Society of Romantic Lovers will be saved." If I, the president, and the founder's descendant die... oh, woe to us, woe to us... This Contemporary will report everything to the mass media and the authorities, and they will not allow TMR to be re-established. Dear Mr. Szamiliński, my friend, understand: it is worth sacrificing one man so that, in due time, many other Contemporarys can reveal the beauty of art, show the value of true literature, the charm of old music, the joy of song... If this traitor does not die in a noble fight, we will not do it, and then the people of the future will forget what a warm smile and a heartfelt outpouring are. Do I need to explain this to you?

"No, you don't have to. Fight, gentlemen, and let romanticism prevail.

" "They're lunatics," thought the unfortunate journalist, growing increasingly terrified. "This old man wants to chop me up, and the rest of us stand by and watch with approval! Even my own father wishes me dead!"

"Come on," the president growled, taking the appropriate fighting stance.

Even before Podgórski challenged the intruder, the master of ceremonies, the one who had so reluctantly agreed to don nineteenth-century livery, had notified the police and the emergency services of the impending brawl. He was the only one of the hired men who managed to smuggle a cell phone into the castle. He had no intention of informing the press or anyone else of the gathering of these obsessives of the past ("let them enjoy their romanticism in peace"), but when he heard the chairman's cry of "Confidant!", he realized the situation was serious and required immediate intervention.

Having surreptitiously notified the appropriate authorities, he returned to the ballroom. The duel had already begun. Podgórski, brandishing his saber menacingly, was pressing against the young man, who was still retreating, apparently seeing no other defense. After a few moments, the journalist's back touched the wall. He visibly shuddered. The chairman let out a triumphant cry, withdrew his arm, and struck. Aimed. The boy screamed and jumped aside. The lapels of his coat instantly darkened. He swayed, walking backward, trying to avoid his opponent's blade.

"He's finished," whispered the master of ceremonies. "The President will soon pin him to the wall again."

Suddenly, the journalist, apparently at the last of his strength, raised his weapon above his head and with a savage roar lunged at Podgórski. The latter, completely taken by surprise, had no time to defend himself from the desperate blow. The sleeve of his snow-white shirt was stained with blood.

"Well, you're finally fighting like a man should," the president muttered with some appreciation through gritted teeth.

As soon as he said this, the journalist slumped to the floor with a dull groan.

"Don't be a wimp. Get up, coward, and fight!" shouted Podgórski. He raised his saber to deal death to the fallen man.

Then the main door to the chamber burst open with a bang, and an armed unit of the secret police burst into the room.

"Halt!" "The commander-in-chief roared through some sort of loudspeaker. "Put down whatever you're holding, put it on the ground. Hands on your necks.

" "There's a duel going on here. It's none of the police's business," the president protested, but obediently put his saber away.

"Cultural disputes are our business.

" "But, Commissioner, we're not a cult!" a woman shouted.

"Arrest everyone!" the same police voice ordered, and a moment later a group of armed men pounced on the members of the Romanticism Society.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. In today's "Peculiarities," I have the pleasure of presenting to you some extremely interesting material I recorded two weeks ago in one of the old castles. I think there's no need to comment on what the camera in the button recorded. Before I show you this fascinating footage, I want to assure you that the entire group from this suspicious society has been arrested and is currently being held in a mental hospital."

"You did great, Szamiliński. When people see this video, we'll gain enormous popularity. You get a promotion and a raise.

" "Thank you, boss."

The journalist sighed and went to the restroom, the only place without cameras. He needed peace. No one should see or hear him right now. He took his cell phone out of his briefcase and dialed a number.

"Good evening. Please tell me how my father and the rest of the lunatics are doing.

" "Hello, Mr. Editor. It's strange, we took away their strange outfits, put them in one rather cramped cell for observation...

" "And?

" "There's no saving them now. I'm sorry, but ever since we locked them up, they've been singing all the time..."