night brought with it an ominous rain. The summer, pastel dusk had turned to tattooed blackness. The Master sat in his study, alone as a dove in the attic. He studied arcane books on the fringes of his retreat. He wasn't in the best of moods. He had just received a letter from Uncle Gonzalez. Uncle Gonzalez had never been able to write how things could have been. He always wrote as they actually were. And this lack of room for interpretation threw the Master off his usual track of relative optimism.
Lost in thought and absorbed by books and manuscripts, the Master reached for his mug. How immense his disappointment must have been when, instead of the sour taste of Earl Grey, a pile of coffee grounds filled his mouth. Involuntarily, he spat the contents of his mouth onto the floor. He looked around helplessly, searching for the culprit behind the whole ordeal. The assistant had come down with mouse flu, and the Master seemed a little helpless. He glanced around again to reassure himself that neither I nor the Second were nearby.
"The Second!" he yelled. The only response was the barking of a dog that had burst into the room. "Shut up, you shit-eater!" The poor dog tucked its tail. "I wasn't talking to you! Besides, we'll talk later about that thing on the bathroom floor. How many times can I show you how to use the toilet?" The Master shook his head irritably. Meanwhile, the animal had returned to its bed.
The old man leaned on his cane. He sighed heavily and headed for the kitchen, holding a mug in his hand as if it were a chain restraining his movements. Leaning against the kitchen counter, he put on a pot of water for tea. Meanwhile, the Second and I had just returned from our existential stroll. The Master looked at us.
"Where have you been?!"
I looked helplessly at the Second.
"On a walk, just like the Master ordered – if his gaze had physical properties, he'd probably yank us out by the ears.
" "Yes, yes. I forgot. Let it be." He poured boiling water over the essence. "Listen, we have a task.
" "Will the Master send us hunting for raspberries again?" the Second joked. But he noticed the scolding glances just in time and apologized, remaining silent.
"Not you, you fool!" The Master pulled a letter from his coat pocket. "This is a message from Uncle Gonzalez. He says we have to come immediately." He handed us the letter, and we read it with bated breath, like a Stephen King novel. Although without the plot twists.
"Nephew. Dark clouds and evil forces have descended upon the previously peaceful Grey Field. Illogical and so far inexplicable things are happening. An unfortunate fate has fallen upon us like a terrible Egyptian curse. Cows are not giving milk, hares have dropped their ears, domestic animals have scattered somewhere in panic. Children are crying, women are fainting, and men are drinking themselves to death. Nothing has changed with the latter, of course. However, I wanted to emphasize this. Because this time they have an indisputable reason for it. Now, I advise you to sit down; all the inhabitants of Grey Field are GOING BALD! Yes! You didn't mishear. Everyone is GOING BALD. Men, women, children, old and young. Everyone without exception. I don't know what to do anymore. I've tried every remedy known to me. Since you are the most talented of my nephews, it is you I turn to for help. Let's put our past behind us. The past.
Please. No, I beg you. Come. I fear for my mustache, which I've cultivated since the Battle of Vienna. Our fate lies in you.
Sincerely,
Master of levitation and related arts,
Jose Ramirez Gonzalez, Mr.
The Master led us to his office. He opened an old cabinet of photographs. He reached inside and pulled out a photograph in a stone frame. The photograph showed the Master, still a toddler, sitting on his uncle's lap. In the background were ruins, rejoicing people in ridiculous armor, and a large wooden horse.
"Those were the days." A tear rolled down the old man's face. "We have to go to him," he stated, as if to reassure himself.
"Of course we will," I tried to encourage him.
"It's clear he's trying to suck up, the old fox. 'You're the most talented of my cousins.' He always managed to get the better of me with some psychological trick." A genuine smile finally appeared on his face.
He brightened up a bit and started telling us about Uncle Gonzalez.
"You must know, my dears, that J.R. Gonzalez is a truly brilliant mind. Unfortunately, he was greatly underestimated, and therefore somber, pragmatic, and dry in expressing his feelings." He looked at the photo again. He lit his pipe. Gray smoke slowly filled the space around him. "Jose was the first true Renaissance man. I'll never forget how, in 1504, long before Copernicus wrote his work on the celestial bodies, Gonzalez measured the sun and circumscribed the earth. He published his work, but no one noticed. The next great discovery took place in 1830. In a time when no one had yet dreamed of telephones, much less cellular phones, my uncle, using bamboo stalks, fireflies, and Amazonian ants, constructed the first cell phone." The master pulled a box marked "Erykus 830" from a drawer. He poured out the contents, from which only dried stalks and dead worms were discernible. "He made two of them," he continued, "one for me and one for himself. He sent me the first text message ever. I remember it, it came out perfect, as if it had been created for that very message. Without a single superfluous character. It was a magical moment. Afterward, as is customary in every phone, there was only so much space for text messages." He folded the phone and put it away in the box. "As much space as needed for the words I'll never forget: 'Kid, someone's whistled the kettle. Go make some tea at the Mollers'! Sincerely, JR Gonzalez.'" Later, of course, the capacity was increased. And my uncle never received the honors he deserved. Then something inside him snapped.
Master focused on his pipe to hold back tears. The regular smoke from it calmed him somewhat. Meanwhile, Second began to show signs of nervousness. I apologized to Master, then left, dragging Second with me.
"What's wrong with you?" I tugged at him, not knowing why. This redoubled his fears and tripled his innate shyness.
He began to nervously bite his nails. I slapped him indignantly.
"What's wrong with you? Your body is sacred. What are you doing? If the Master saw this..." My eyelids trembled at the thought. "Magnesium deficiency," I thought. But there was no time to remedy the deficiency now. The other man calmed his breathing, shoved his embarrassed fingers into his pocket, and looked at me, ready to finally reveal his thoughts.
"The Master is ordering us to come with him." He looked back, carefully observing the office door.
"Sure," I replied. "You're...you must be happy, aren't you?"
He lowered his gaze so I couldn't reach him.
"I met a girl and wanted to take her to a party at an epicurean bar. I was even about to buy us tickets..."
I slapped him again, obviously changing the cheek I was attacking.
"Are you crazy?
" "...but I didn't buy those tickets."
"You're lucky," I patted him on the shoulder and tried to recall my older brother's instructive gaze. "I was beginning to think your little bird had interfered with your thought process!"
He nodded. "It's very dangerous," I shook my finger at him. "You can lose a lot with relatively little gain."
"I know. I shouldn't have thought that.
" "Okay, now. Fortunately, nothing happened. Next time, come to me immediately about such matters. Now go pack."
He confirmed, wiped his tears, and headed for his room. Less than a moment later, the Master poked his head out of the office.
"You played it very well," he smiled. "Learning was not wasted. There's always something we want to torment ourselves with. You saved him from that."
The door closed, and, encouraged by the Master's words, I went to my room to pack the necessary things.
In the morning, loaded to the gills, we set off for Grey Field. The journey didn't take long, thanks to the Master's special herbs, which accelerated the soul's metabolism.
To the Master's great joy, we finally saw the Gray Field. It stretched from the outskirts of Hammock to the hills of Corewoods. At its geographical center was Lebowski Hill, with its famous "23" tree. The very center of the Gray Field seemed to wrap around the tree at its summit, spiraling down the hill to spill out into the entire valley below.
As poetic as the flora and fauna were, the buildings themselves didn't inspire enthusiasm. But why should we be surprised? Sages and their families came here, not artists. The buildings were seven stories high. Shaped like a cross between a banana and a lemon, with a predominance of citrus. Each housed three families. Uncle Gonzalez lived at Schrypfenstrasse 85. When our carriage pulled into the small parking lot, my uncle had been expecting us for several minutes, judging by the length of the coffee-colored cigarillo in his mouth. A deck of cards was playing an empathetic game of solitaire at his feet. My uncle had extraordinary manual dexterity, especially in his feet. As a teenager, he had worked for a watchmaker, repairing watches with his foot. Legends circulated about fencing duels with ferocious Moravian kangaroos.
My uncle got out of the carriage. My uncle approached him slowly. Where their eyes met, sparks began to fly. They fell into each other's arms. The sparks ceased.
We greeted my uncle's entire family. At home, over tea, José explained the situation once more. My uncle carefully examined all the local residents. The conclusions were inevitable and unequivocal. Everyone showed signs of a slow, gradual, yet ruthlessly progressive baldness. The master took the local newspaper and locked himself in the toilet for the whole day.
That evening, he presented his plan to everyone. He suspected the moth monster might be the culprit. He asked my uncle and his family to switch rooms with us. The Master lay down in Jose Ramirez's bed, I in his wife Luciferia's, and the Second in the small playpen of their son Laudrupi. Amazingly, the Second fell asleep immediately, not even waiting for dusk. Just when I thought I was the only one unable to sleep, I noticed the glow of the Master's pupils. He was playing animals on the ceiling, reenacting scenes from "The Lion King." He also made a loud snoring sound, intended to confuse his opponent. The hours passed. The moon rolled in at noon. Suddenly, something rustled in the closet at the foot of my couch. I felt every hair follicle flex on my body. The Master, with the agility of a cobra, slid out from under the covers. He dug a flashlight out of his backpack and, his hands poised to cast the most powerful spells known to humanity, began approaching the wardrobe. The noise emanating from it grew louder with each passing moment. I quietly woke the Second. Covering the Master, we positioned ourselves just behind him. He raised three fingers and, curling them inward, began the countdown, marking the three most terrifying seconds of my life. When only his bare fist remained, he yanked the door open. The flashlight's beam was reflected in large eyes. Judging by their position, the enemy was a head taller than us. A scream rang out. The hair on the Master's head bristled as if saluting the figures before us. The hair on his beard was no less visible, momentarily blinding the Master. Maintaining his composure, he aimed the flashlight at the wall. The Second leaped for the light switch. Those few moments before his pupils adjusted to the new conditions were deadly. The Master smoothed his beard, then looked in disbelief at the monstrosity in the closet. It was a hairy, purple-and-red monster. Its eyes were large, but childlike. Its claws were long and pointed. It looked at us, crouched and trembling. The scream clearly woke the residents. The entire crowd rushed into the room at once.
"It's him! That monster! He'll pay for everything!" voices echoed.
It seemed as if the people would tear him to pieces, along with us and the entire building.
However, something unexpected happened. The Master shielded the monster with his own body.
"What are you doing?" screamed Uncle Gonzalez, and the crowd chanted after him.
"It's not him," the Master stated dryly.
"What's it not him!? I don't see any other monster here," screamed Lucferia.
"It's not him," the Master's words calmed the crowd this time. He grabbed the monster's paw and gently, like a small child, led it out of the closet. "It's not the cause of your misfortune. It's not a malicious monster. It must have ended up here by accident. It was just bad luck that it happened at the wrong time. Who are you?" he asked the furry creature. "Can you tell us?"
All eyes were glued to the creature in the closet.
"I'm..." he looked around terrified, "my name is Repeat."
"Hello Repeat, my name is Master." He pulled a candy from his pocket. He handed it to him and asked. "How did you end up here?
" "It's quite a strange story," he said through the sticky gelatin in his mouth. "I was created to play the lead role in Stephen King's new novel. But I wasn't scary enough, so I went on unemployment. When it was over, they arranged for me to scare little children in fairy tales, stories, and the like." Unfortunately, the children weren't afraid. I made friends with many. It was obvious I would lose my job. And so it happened. Exactly six months ago. Since then, I've been wandering aimlessly through the pages of literature. I settled in here because it seemed like a pleasant place.
Everyone was touched by Powtorek's story. Moreover, they felt foolish after the way they treated him. So, all night and all morning, they waited on him as best they could. They brought him cookies, apple pies, gingerbread, cocoa, and tea. Powtorek was safe. But the main problem remained, and the reason we were here. The Master spent the entire afternoon wandering through the Grey Field, searching for answers among the trees and the birdsong. He watched snails climb the Santa Aga rocks, maintaining their balance, and catching the unfettered rays of the sun. Walking through the suburban streets, he watched old women playing chess at Del Justini. They argued over every move, recording the results on crumpled old newspapers.
That evening, he returned and announced that he had solved the mystery. He took everyone behind Lebowski Hill. Beyond the last streets of Gray Field stretched a huge, tin structure. Signs on the walls read:
"Asbestos Ltd.
No Trespassing."
"What is this?" asked Uncle Gonzalez, concerned.
"An asbestos factory, my dear," replied the Master. His face showed both pride, having unraveled the mystery of Gray Field, and concern. Concern for the residents. "I think it's time to move," he suggested.
But at that moment, little was getting through to Jose Ramirez.
"And we blamed you, Repeat." With tears in his eyes, he nestled against the furry creature. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he repeated, sobbing.
The Master placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Well..." he sighed. - If something went wrong, there was definitely someone who said it would.
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