That day, the Master came to my room to fetch me. He had been searching for the Second all day, but he couldn't find him and needed help. There wasn't much time left to waste. After all, we were soon to accompany the Master on another extraordinary day. But more on that later.
We found the Second in the garden. At a table. Under an umbrella. Like a weary philosopher, he was sleeping in a strange position, his head resting on a book. The Master looked at him with a pitying smile, then turned to me.
"This one could fall asleep even on a broken chair." He pointed at the sleeping philosopher, barely holding back a laugh. He was in an exceptionally good mood, considering the considerable challenge before him. But more on that later.
With a stifled laugh, I agreed with his words. Meanwhile, he approached the Second.
"The Second!" No reaction. "The Second!" he shouted again. One eyelid opened. When the eye caught sight of the Master's face and the brain connected it with a specific person, the effect didn't take long. The Second sprang to his feet, his head catching the umbrella.
"Hello, Master," he rubbed the spot where his head met the umbrella. "How's your day going?" he grinned, trying to smooth things over, but since his smile was awful, it was no use.
The Master placed both hands on his wooden staff. He tapped the toe of his sandal with it for a moment, gazing at the sky and whistling jazzily. Finally, he spoke.
"You know, Second, it's flying somewhere. Some people have to work," he looked at me. "So others can rest." He laughed, and we laughed along with him. He was in an exceptionally good mood.
He took each of us by the arm and asked,
"Ready for your first Tournament of Champions?" It was surprising how calmly he spoke about it.
We both nodded.
The Tournament of Champions is held every five years. Most likely somewhere in southern Switzerland, but the exact location is unknown, as each participant is transported to the venue in a special carriage. Furthermore, they are blindfolded throughout the journey. For exactly twenty-one days, twenty-one nights, twenty-one hours, twenty-one minutes, and fifteen seconds, the participants reside in a picturesque castle. They compete in a variety of events, including spiritualistic chess, telepathic hypnosis duels, reading the stomach of a sperm whale, and many others. On the final day, there is not so much a competition as a demonstration. Each participant presents their unique, original invention. This day and this event have a decisive influence on the tournament's outcome. The champion has already won five times in a row, and this year he intended to break the record of six victories held by former Champion Von Ubernauer.
Now Ubernauer sat on the Masters' Council, or jury, and was a dear friend of our Master. His biggest rival, as every year, was to be Fun Shui, the only one with a real chance of putting up a fight on equal terms with him. Emotions were bound to run high. Moreover, the Second Master and I had the chance, for the first time, to see everything with our own eyes.
We felt immense pressure. The Master couldn't concentrate. His gaze constantly shifted. When he tired of his cup of tea, his hazel eyes would shift to us, which only intensified his growing anxiety and excitement.
We'd barely finished our evening Earl Grey when the doorbell rang. Silence.
"Master! It's for you!" rang the heavenly voice of the assistant.
The Master choked on the last of his tea.
"I'm coming. Let him wait!" he replied, slightly flustered. As if this moment had arrived unexpectedly. Yet he had been anticipating it for months. He casually threw on his coat and stepped out into the hallway. He and the second one peered out, timidly poking their heads out of the office.
A dark-skinned messenger in an elegant tailcoat stood in the doorway. He handed the Master a sealed envelope with the symbol of a dragon. He bowed low.
"I'm waiting." His face showed no emotion. Only a forced smile.
The Master smoothed his fringe and began to open the envelope.
"Yes, I know," his hands were shaking like a teenager's pants on a date. "Fifteen minutes. I know. Gentlemen, your bags!" he shouted at us.
Tripping over our own feet and catching on every carpet in the house, the second one and I ran to retrieve our bags. The Master, meanwhile, went to his office. He meditated and donned the special attire required for the Tournament. His gold outfit (the color of last year's winner) was a hybrid of an elegant tuxedo and a sports tracksuit. The Master, dressed and full of combative optimism, appeared in the hallway. His appearance dazzled everyone present. The assistant squealed in a high key, and the black messenger gazed at the Master as if he were an idol. Meanwhile, the Second and I loaded our luggage onto the carriage. The Master said goodbye to the assistant. He handed the messenger a crumpled envelope. The black boy, receiving the acknowledgment of receipt, opened the carriage door. He blindfolded everyone. The Master boarded first, and we followed close behind. We set off.
The Master pulled out his pipe and began to puff rhythmically. The scent of vanilla tobacco filled the room. The Second took out a book of philosophy. I lifted my blindfold slightly to see the title: "Dendrology and the Mating Behavior of the Female Andalusian Mosquito." He had all the classics of elite philosophy, in editions for the blind. Since he knew Braille, he had no trouble filling his time. The Master sensed that my blindfold was out of place and immediately reprimanded me, leaving the woody scent of his staff on my hand. I covered my eyes and fell asleep. Judging by the characteristic baying of wolves, I woke up somewhere near Transylvania. The Master was still puffing on his pipe, the Second had fallen asleep with his hand on chapter twelve. The carriage sped at breakneck speed along the uneven, rocky road.
"Soon," the Master said.
His teeth bit harder and harder into the pipe's mouthpiece. Smoke filled the air with increasing frequency. I shuffled my feet nervously. The Master patted my shoulder.
"Don't worry. It'll be alright," he comforted me, vainly. He placed his hand on my face, and I fell asleep once again.
The Second One woke me there. I uncovered my eyes. Fortunately, we arrived late in the evening, which eased the pain in my pupils. We unloaded our luggage, and before our eyes stood the castle, fabulous in its shape and appearance. Straight from another era, it graced the hilltop of a densely forested peak. But what puzzled us most was how we had gotten up there in the carriage, when there was no sign of any road in sight.
The castle gates swung open with the creaking of centuries-old hinges. The Master greeted his friends, and we stood by his side, bowing low to everyone. Despite the general sympathy and kind words, the atmosphere was tense. As we learned from Octavian Plume, several participants couldn't handle the pressure and resorted to throwing spells and incantations at each other, which was forbidden during the Tournament.
The losers were mostly beginners: Calvinius Romus and Eric of Roztropia, but also veterans, including the living legend Hrobak of Silesia. On the one hand, this worried the Master somewhat, as it promised exceptionally fierce competition, but on the other, the competition had already significantly weakened.
The next day, the tournament was in full swing. Host Charles Strassenburger unleashed the Owl of Wisdom, signaling the official inauguration of the games. The participants' gray matter was working at the limit of their neuronal endurance. The occasional lightning bolts escaping from the players' ears were no surprise. The champion was on fire. He won one competition after another: spiritualistic chess, a telepathic hypnosis duel, and hammering nails with one's gaze. However, Fun Shui was always right behind him. He was in second place overall. A win in the decisive "invention competition" would give him the ultimate victory. The champion couldn't let that happen. The atmosphere was close to boiling. The Celtic fortune teller, Daryll Starlingate, commentating on the competition, repeatedly erupted into convulsive spasms with a faintly erotic tinge. Emotions were reaching the treetops, and they were likely to rise even higher.
On the last, twenty-first day of the Tournament, the invention competition began. The competition was fierce and highly competitive. Each participant sat at their own station. As assistants, the Second and I sat behind the Master to help him with his presentation. Fun Shui and I didn't take our eyes off each other. Their smiles were merely uncontrollable tics.
"I'll wipe that pleasant smile off his face," our Master gritted through his teeth. "Beware! God's away on business today. We're the only ones left—he was willing to sell his heart to a junkie just to win.
" Roland Lutoński presented his magnificent "Pain Subtractor." With it, he won a provincial competition in western Burgundy. He certainly couldn't be underestimated. The Master presented his "Fishing Bicycle," which earned a standing ovation that lasted three-quarters of an hour. However, Fun Shui hadn't yet said his last word. He shocked everyone with the "Transcendental Harvester." The applause was no less loud than that for our bicycle. Charles Strassenburger announced a recess. The Masters' Council adjourned. Daryll Starlingate asked the participants to retire to their rooms. Taking his mind off the Tournament, the Master lay down on his bed and meditated. The
Second and I tried to focus on a game of utilitarian poker, which didn't bring us any luck, as the topic of the Tournament immediately came up.
"What do you think? Do we have a chance?" The Second was clearly worried about the outcome.
"Are you kidding?" I shared his concerns, but I wanted to boost the team's morale. Like the Master, I was aware of the technological excellence of Fun's harvester. "Of course we'll win. Our 'Fishing Bike' is unrivaled."
"If you say so," the Second accepted my words as revealed truth.
"There's no point in arguing. We'll win unquestionably!" I closed the conversation.
There was a knock on the massive oak door of the apartment. The Second opened it. A messenger, this time with Latino features, beckoned us downstairs.
The verdict was in!
We helped the Master put on his tuxedo and then headed to our booth. The room was filled with audience whispers and a din of speculation. Charles Strassenburger, microphone in hand, stepped to the center of the room. However, the large envelope containing the results was more captivating than the microphone. The Council took their seats in the box. Master von Ubernauer occupied the center of the room. He glanced at the Master. They exchanged friendly smiles.
"Quietness, please," Strassenburger appealed.
The gong sounded, announcing the decisive moment. Its brass clang filled the room with a deathly silence.
"By decision of the esteemed Council of Masters," the host continued, "the third prize in the invention competition remains undecided." Consternation erupted.
This could mean that Master and Fun would share first place. Although this wasn't what the Master had planned, it would still give him the record.
"Relax. Please remain calm." Strassenburger was losing control of the crowd. "Second prize, and the Silver Owl of the Tournament of Champions, goes to my dear friend, the Master, and Fun Shui, tied for first!"
The room fell silent. A thunderous ovation, mixed with consternation, began to timidly break through the silence. These words were like a kick in the gut. The Master buried his face in his hands. I felt dizzy, then my stomach. The Second Master didn't have enough sleeves to wipe the tears from his cheeks.
But we lost." The Master took a deep breath and lifted his head. He smiled on his way to the podium, but what he really wanted to do now was to get Fun, Strassenburger, and Ubernauer and deal with them. He accepted the prize, exchanged hugs with Strassenburger and Fun. The announcer presented them with medals and commemorative diplomas, and then the big losers of this edition took their places on the podium.
All that remained was the formality of presenting the Golden Owl to Roland.
Strassenburger took in as much air as he could and began shouting into the microphone, which was soon covered in spit.
"First place in the invention competition, as well as victory in the Tournament of Champions, went to... Rooooland Luuuuutoński and his "Pain Subtractor"!"
"Roooland Luuuuuuutoński is the winner!" Starlingate echoed in Brazilian style. "Advancing from third to first place! Roland wins by a straight shot! Ladies and gentlemen, what a Tournament that was! We haven't had such excitement since the days of Emmerych Vilnius, who won first place in 1878 with his unforgettable "Egg Pressure Cooker"—at that moment, Starlingate knew no bounds of ecstasy—and let me remind you, he only had one place to make up. All the more applause for Master Roland!"
These words, the almost hour-long ovation and congratulations to the winner almost took away the Master's will to live.
The return journey was immeasurably long and mercilessly silent. Thoughts swirled in our heads. The Master seemed resigned to defeat, though recently he'd been ready to cast some terrible curse on everyone. I, too, had managed to cope with the Council's verdict as best I could. The other, however, was young and exuberant.
"How could this happen?" he sniffed, swallowing back tears.
The Master put down his pipe. He removed his blindfold, then took a Kashubian cigar from his pocket, intending to light it after his victory. He broke it and threw it out the window.
"It's only life; complaints and cluttered explanations won't help. Wonderful colors and charms belong only to trivial, visual impressions. Perhaps this tournament symbolizes only such an illusion, a deeper dream? And aren't dreams most beautiful when they're unfulfilled?"
We said nothing. Subjective questions only have subjective answers, and those answers are rarely correct.
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