Chapter III.I

Vitaly Ivolginsky

Always Visible (Another Prayer for the Dying Horror Genre)

Third Act — Qualquer ou Uma Grande Recompensa

Chapter III.I

Galbraith, who needed to catch a British Airways flight, had to spend two and a half hours at Portland International Airport. The wait didn’t promise to be pleasant – by this time, such a crowd had formed in the building that it was completely incomprehensible to the inspector, unfamiliar with local orders, how people would even get on their planes. Leaving his suitcase in one of the waiting rooms, he headed to the second floor, where there were shops and cafes where he could buy a hamburger or coffee. Walking a little forward, Galbraith entered the establishment closest to the escalator – not least because he was attracted by the music playing there. The cafe was small, but quite cozy – the interior was dominated by purple and blue tones. On the walls hung curious paintings, made in the form of engravings, which depicted scenes from the life of the ancient Greeks.

Having taken a free table, the inspector looked around – besides him, there were two young people in the room who looked like Portuguese tourists. One of them was curly-haired and gloomy, the other, on the contrary, red-faced and talkative. They sat across from each other and played Xs and Os on a newspaper marked with a black marker in a six-by-six format. Sometimes these guys raised their heads and, exchanging short phrases in Portuguese, glanced in his direction. Galbraith began to look for the waiter. Finally, he saw a man walking slowly around the tables with some kind of tray. Having called out to him, the inspector involuntarily noticed that this man stood out strongly against the background of the interior – it was just strange to see in this room with a carefree atmosphere this tall and completely bald man, whose face seemed to be carved from granite. He was dressed simply and neatly – black trousers and a white shirt.

Galbraith would not have focused so much on these details, if this man gave his face, if not a smile, then at least just calm indifference, but instead the waiter’s face was distorted by some kind of terrible grimace – as if he looked at every visitor as if he were a concentration camp prisoner who would soon be sent to the gas chamber. The bald spot only deepened this impression – although the inspector understood that even if this waiter had thick shoulder-length hair, his face would still remain the same… When the inspector’s call reached the ears of this person, he turned to Galbraith’s table and slowly walked up to him, after which, freezing two steps away from him, stared at the policeman with his own eyes. The inspector had suspicions that this guy clearly had problems with his gallbladder…

“Does this place serve coffee?”, asked Galbraith, who wanted to relax at a table and drink his favourite drink.

The waiter, who continued to hold the plastic tray in his hands, did not answer, he only glared at the guest. The inspector involuntarily noticed that the pink colour of the tray in the hands of this maypole involuntarily gave his entire appearance a resemblance to a Greek statue on which some jokers had put a skirt and bra.

“I understand correctly that there is no coffee?”, said Galbraith, who was tired of enduring this unblinking gaze.

“No coffee”, the waiter repeated his last words.

His voice sounded incredibly hoarse – the words seemed to come not from a human mouth, but from the speaker of a broken radio. The intonation like that of a automate only aggravated this feeling.

“Could I see menu please?”, asked the inspector, who realized that talking to this waiter was like talking to a shoe box.

The waiter placed the tray directly on his table and walked towards the counter. Galbraith involuntarily began to look at the contents of the tray – there was a empty tea cup with a teaspoon sticking out of it, a saucer with bread crumbs and two crumpled napkins. Apparently, this should have been taken to the car wash, but the inspector unwittingly interfered with the waiter. Galbraith thought that the service in this cafe was simply disgusting – because he had never seen dirty dishes from a previous client being put on a new guest – they say, my hands are full, let him stand… Finally, the waiter returned to his table. He placed an A4 sheet of cardboard folded in the middle in front of the inspector and finally took away this impartial tray.

Galbraith took the cardboard sheet in his hands. Yes, the selection in this cafe was small – black tea, croissant without filling, some sweets (no indication, just “Sweets”) and water. The inspector involuntarily glanced at the Portuguese sitting at the table. Now he understood why, instead of ordering food, they simply played Xs and Os – because rather than pay money for this, it’s better to sit hungry. Galbraith finally decided to order a cup of tea – not so much because he was very thirsty, he just thought that if he sat just like that, without food, then this gloomy waiter would decide to throw him out – they say, why are you sitting here if you don’t order anything?

“Can I have some black tea please?”, the inspector shouted to the waiter, who, having gotten rid of the tray, returned empty-handed.

Bald maypole, nodding barely noticeably, left somewhere again. Galbraith had to wait ten minutes until his order was finally placed in front of him – a small tea cup, two-thirds full of a drink, not much different in colour from coffee. He raised the cup to his mouth and took a sip. The first feeling was that a tea bag was dipped into cold water and left for a day… Barely suppressing the urge to spit out this slop , he put the cup on the table and, sighing, stared at the ceiling. He didn’t know how long he sat there, but when two Portuguese stood up from the table and walked past him towards the exit, he finally woke up and looked at his watch. Oh no, there’s only a little time left before boarding the plane…

Galbraith got up from the table, on which the almost untouched tea continued to stand. The inspector ran to the escalator, trying not to throw off the little children running back and forth. Finally, he reached the security check area. The tedious procedure has begun – in front of beautiful young girls a thirty-one-year-old man had to take off his shoes and pull out his belt from his trousers… Galbraith involuntarily felt like an exhibitionist in a club for a representative of the womanhood. When these metal checks are finally over, he, trying to direct the blood flow back to the head, got into the relegation zone. Finally, Galbraith exhaled, here is the boarding gate.

Having gone down the stairs with other passengers, he found himself on the street, and, shivering from the cold – the wind was blowing – entered the bus, which, after travelling a few meters, stopped next to the Boeing. The ticket, which the inspector bought two weeks before the flight, was suspiciously cheap, and when Galbraith finally found himself inside this metal machine, then he understood why – he got a seat right at the very end of the plane, and right in the aisle. As a result, not only were his feet constantly being crushed by those going to the toilet, but he was also deprived of the pleasure of looking out the window. Well, okay, Galbraith thought, fastening his seat belts, as a policeman who serves the people, his fate is to endure all sorts of inconveniences for the sake of this very people…

On the left hand of the inspector sat two – some old man in a bowler hat who immediately began to doze at the porthole, and a skinny young guy, who, huddled in a chair, looked straight ahead. He looked no more than nineteen, twenty-one at most. The veins on his arms were so visible that it looked like he had transparent skin. Galbraith thought that this guy must be flying an airplane for the first time – so much uncertain appearance was at this yesterday’s schoolboy. The inspector made himself more comfortable in his chair and wanted to read something, but remembering that his suitcase was in the luggage compartment, he abandoned this thought and, in order to at least occupy himself with something, began to look out the window. Unfortunately, nothing was visible behind the dozing old man. Galbraith sighed and followed the example of the skinny guy, simply staring at the back of his chair.

He didn’t know how much time had passed since the plane took off – his thoughts were focused on the operation for which he was sent on this flight. Although, “sent” sounded a little wrong – in fact, he volunteered for this job himself, Portland Police Bureau just made an effort, to help him in this case, but the management itself kept in mind that in this outburst of Galbraith, feelings prevailed over logic, therefore the success of the operation – one might even say in its usefulness – no one took it seriously except Galbraith himself. Sitting like that in his seat, he noticed with his peripheral vision how a flight attendant walked past him, carrying a cart with cold drinks. The inspector raised his head and began to watch as the woman stopped at each passenger and, taking out disposable cups, filled them with one drink or another and gave them to the person asking. Galbraith wanted to ask for water – he felt his throat was dry. But just as he was about to open his mouth, the sight of that terrible tea that he was served in the Portland International Airport’s cafe suddenly flashed before his eyes.

The sight of a cup filled with black liquid was so disgusting that he gave up the idea of asking the flight attendant for water. Therefore, when she turned in his direction, on her question “What will you drink?” he just silently shook his head, thinking about what he could endure until London. Then the woman turned to the thin guy, but he also just silently shook his head. Galbraith couldn’t resist but think that this guy was imitating him. Then the old man woke up and, shaking his head as frightened birds usually do, asked the flight attendant for wine.

“Alcohol on a plane?” the inspector asked himself in bewilderment. Imagine his surprise when the flight attendant not only did not ask the passenger to change his decision, but, on the contrary, took a glass bottle that stood somewhere in the middle of the cardboard packages with juice and, pouring white wine into a plastic cup, handed it to the old man, who greedily extended his hand. Galbraith watched as he downed a small two hundred millilitres cup in one gulp and, grunting with pleasure, stuck it between the chairs. After consuming this drink, all sleep immediately disappeared from the old man for a while, and he, smiling, turned to the inspector:

“Hey, don’t you think it looks very nice?”, the old man was clearly in a good mood.

“Well, I’m just sitting, flying, not touching anyone”, Galbraith didn’t really want to talk, but he couldn’t ignore his fellow traveller…

“Fabelhaft!”, the old man exclaimed in German.

Then, glancing out the porthole, he turned to him again.

“In what kind of cases are you flying on?”, the old man said with attention.

“By personal”, Galbraith answered dryly.

“Don’t tell this gaffer that a police inspector is sitting near to him”, he thought to himself. The old man again uttered a joyful exclamation in German and, having said a couple of good words about the wine, dozed off again at the porthole. Galbraith only now noticed that while he was talking with the old man, the young guy continued to sit silently, pressed into a chair. He immediately started guessing – either this guy is mentally ill or he’s just got his head in the clouds right now, not just heavenly, but narcotic… Having uttered the word “narcotic” to himself, Galbraith suddenly noticed a fleeting resemblance between the dozing old man and the doppelgaenger he had seen on the Portland’s subway, before death of his friend Pharqraut. The similarities included, but were not limited to, the old man’s arm hanging from the chair, as well as the fact that – apparently under the influence of alcohol – his lower jaw began to drop down. True, unlike that mysterious vision, it was clear from this old man that he just dozed off, when doppelgaenger on the contrary gave the impression of sleeping like the dead…

Giving himself up to these thoughts, Galbraith did not pay attention to how the flight was already coming to an end. A blue light came on in the cabin, and the inspector experienced a strange sensation – the internal organs seemed to jump inside his body, as if he were falling from a great height into the abyss… When the plane finally landed, from the invisible to the passengers speakers the voice of the pilot was heard, who said, so that people would not rush to get up from their chairs, but Galbraith was tired of sitting. He did not get up, but, contrary to the order, unfastened his seat belt (which was precisely what was forbidden to do). After a long ten minutes, the same voice, distorted by the speakers, finally deigned to tell the passengers that the pilot was saying goodbye to them and wishing them all the best.

The inspector got up, but it was far from the exit – because he was sitting at the very back of the plane, then he had to spend extra time moving forward one step at a time, trying not to hurt the others. Galbraith could not help but feel as if he were a stone that was slowly being carried along the river, with the only difference being that the river was alive and had a motley colour, and the stone, being also a living creature, felt tired and was angry. When he finally approached the exit of the plane, the flight attendant standing next to him smiled and said:

“We are always at your service”.

The inspector involuntarily glanced at her. He thought how tired this pretty girl must have been of standing like that in a cramped space for almost twelve hours a day and with all her being expressing to complete strangers her readiness to fulfill their requests. Yes, it’s good that men are not hired as flight attendants – Galbraith himself personally would not have been able to stand wearing a mask of lies all day, pretending that he was not indifferent to some people with whom at any other time he would not even shake hands, let alone fulfill their whims… Stepping out onto the ramp, he involuntarily let out a sigh of relief – it was nice to finally be in the fresh air. While going down, he noticed that the sky was overcast with clouds. He frowned with displeasure – there was absolutely nothing good about getting caught in the rain and getting wet immediately upon arriving in another country – and since Galbraith did not take an umbrella with him, these were more than justified concerns…

Then followed a long and tedious fuss at London Heathrow Airport – the inspector didn’t even want to focus his thoughts on this, anyway, all he had to do was follow the crowd of other passengers and repeat their actions. Therefore, he turned on his brains only when, already with a suitcase in his hands, he stood at the exit from the airport. Galbraith looked around for a taxi. It’s good that on this day, even despite the weather, there was a crowd at the entrance. The inspector moved forward, and soon enough he saw a man standing next to his car and smoking a cigarette.

“Hello!”, began Galbraith, approaching him, “Can you take me to the “Stait of Snow Lake”?”

The taxi driver immediately got into the car. The inspector put the suitcase on the next chair and made himself comfortable.

“Do you mean the hotel on Queensborough Terrace?”, asked the driver, turning on the ignition.

“Yes”, Galbraith answered briefly.

The taxi began to slowly leave the airport. The inspector wondered what this hotel would be like, in which his dear gentlemen patrons from the Portland Police Bureau had booked a room.

“Why did you choose such a lousy hotel?”, suddenly a hoarse voice was heard.

Galbraith shuddered – but it was just a taxi driver who, still keeping his hands on the steering wheel, winked at him in the rear view mirror. This sudden question of his pulled the inspector out of the whirlpool of his thoughts, and for a while he stopped thinking about his problems.

“Lousy? What do you mean?”, the inspector was surprised.

“When you booked a hotel, didn’t you look at its rating?”, the driver seemed to be reproaching his passenger.

“Well… I looked at only the price”, Galbraith waved him off.

He didn’t choose this hotel… The taxi driver, having heard his answer, launched into loud spatial reflections regarding the fact that Mr. Foreigner had made a mistake, and he said this with the intonation with which a teacher scolds a guilty student. Galbraith is tired of listening to this expatiation.

“I don’t like tourists”, he replied in a familiar tone. “And if this hotel is as bad as you say, it means that I will essentially be alone there”.

“Oh you misanthrope!”, his interlocutor answered almost with a fatherly intonation.

Galbraith couldn’t help but laugh at this definition. The taxi driver also followed suit, and the conversation stopped for a while.