The Dead Mountaineer's Inn by Arkady Strugatsky Read Free Book Online Page A

disapprovingly.
    â€œNot really,” I retorted. “First of all, none of these activities appear to have any goal other than confusion. Second, the dog isn’t acting like there are strangers here.”
    â€œOh yes,” the owner said in a hollow voice. “Of course, noone in this house is a stranger to him. But HE wasn’t just ‘not a stranger’ to my Lel. HE was his god, gentlemen!”
    Moses stared at him.
    â€œWho is this ‘HE’?” he asked sternly.
    â€œHE. The dead mountaineer.”
    â€œHow fascinating!” Mrs. Moses chirped.
    â€œDon’t fool around with my head,” Moses told the host. “And if you know who’s behind these events, then advise him—strongly advise him!—to stop. Understand me?” He turned his bloodshot eyes at us. “Otherwise I’ll start pulling some practical jokes of my own!” he snapped.
    Everyone was silent. It seemed to me that they were all trying to imagine what a practical joke from Mr. Moses would look like. I didn’t know about the others, but personally I didn’t think anything good would come out of it. Moses stared down each of us in turn, not forgetting to take a sip from his mug as he did so. It was completely impossible for me to tell who he was and what he was doing here. And why was he wearing that ridiculous coat? (Perhaps he had already started joking with us?) And what did he have in that mug? And how come it always seemed full, even though, to my eyes, he had already taken around a hundred sips from it—deep ones, too?
    Mrs. Moses set down her plate, applied a napkin to her beautiful lips and, raising her eyes to the ceiling, said:
    â€œOh how I love beautiful sunsets! What a feast of colors!”
    I immediately felt a strong desire to be alone. I stood and said firmly:
    â€œThank you, ladies and gentlemen. I’ll see you at dinner.”

3 .
    â€œI have no idea who he is,” the owner said, examining his glass under the light. “He signed the book claiming to be a salesman traveling for personal reasons. But he’s no salesman. A half-crazy alchemist, magician, inventor maybe … but not a salesman.”
    We were sitting in front of the fireplace. The coals were hot; the armchairs ancient, sturdy, reliable. The port was warm, infused with lemon, and fragrant. The low light was comfortable, ruddy, utterly cozy. A blizzard was whipping itself up outside and causing the fireplace to whistle. The inn was quiet, except for the peal of sobbing laughter that burst out every once in a while, as if from a cemetery, accompanied by the clack of a well-shot billiard ball. Kaisa was banging pans together in the kitchen.
    â€œSalesman are usually cheap,” the owner continued thoughtfully. “But Mr. Moses is not cheap—not at all. ‘Might I ask,’ I asked him, ‘Whose recommendation I have to thank for the honor of your stay?’ Instead of answering me he took a hundred-crown bill out of his pocket, set fire to it with his lighter, then lit a cigarette off of that and answered, blowing smoke in my face: ‘The name is Moses, sir. Albert Moses! A Moses doesn’t require a recommendation. A Moses is at home everywhere and under every roof.’ What do you think of that?”
    I thought about it.
    â€œI know a counterfeiter who said the exact same thing when asked for his papers,” I said.
    â€œImpossible,” the owner said smugly. “His bills are real.”
    â€œSome kind of insane millionaire, then?”
    â€œHe’s definitely a millionaire,” the owner said. “But who is he? He’s traveling for personal reasons … But no one just passes through my valley. People come here to ski or rock climb. It’s a dead end. It doesn’t go anywhere.”
    I leaned back in the chair and crossed my legs. It felt unusually good to be sitting in exactly this position and speculating,