The subway was full of corporate people with headphones on, staring blankly, trying to ignore each other. After two stations a seat becomes available, which Ruxandra takes immediately, fitting her bag between her legs. Robert kept his iPod in his right jacket pocket next to a pack of nasal tissues. He zipped up and after a bit of a struggle, managed to get his headphones off. An elderly lady with purple hair watched him fidget with small eyes, then ostentatiously turned her back. Shortly before Piața Victoriei, the girl gets up, leaving in her place a tired woman, laden with nets. On the way down, he bumped into a man dressed in workman's clothes, worn and dirty with dust and paint. He apologized, but Ruxandra ignored him. Robert followed her to the other section, hiding behind a pole with a poster for Ben Stiller's new comedy. He buys a merdenea, but doesn't manage to bite into it, because the subway is coming right away. It was much more crowded than before. An elbow touched his iPod, stopping the music. Fortunately, Ruxandra got off at the next station, one of the new, extended ones with high tunnels that connected it to the overpasses, connecting it to trams and buses. The girl slipped down one of these, a corridor covered in white tiles, cut by a green stripe, glowing in the light of strong neon lights. When they got to some shelves where there were all kinds of things, the girl turned into a corridor whose walls had lost their luster a long time ago. In front of a kiosk, an aunt dressed in black was arranging bags of all shapes, colors and sizes. Without looking left or right, Ruxandra opened a metal door and disappeared into the darkness. There was a sign on the door that read: "Access to all but authorized persons is prohibited." Robert is amused to note that it doesn't say "strictly prohibited."

Unlike Ruxandra, he couldn't help but look around warily and found himself staring into the saleswoman's eyes. He had a dull look, in which no kind of interest shone. Shrugging, he took his turn.

It smelled of dampness and stale air. From place to place, bulbs covered with metal nets, like muzzles, spread a raven light. If the girl had stopped, she would have had nowhere to hide. As the trains passed, the ceiling trembled like a fevered body. The light would dim and come back on slowly, as if it doubted that it was worth the effort. After a few minutes of walking, Robert reached a tall room with cement walls. A metal ladder was riveted to one of the walls and was lost in the darkness. From the opposite wall came thick, primer-covered pipes that descended into the floor like giant earthworms searching for a way to the depths. Among them was an iron door, from the latch of which hung an imposing padlock. Next to her was a napkin. By the look and feel of it, it had been used recently.

Robert looks at the clock: 6.30. It was very early. He had enough time to return home, eat something, sleep for an hour and arrive, a little wrinkled, at the office. Playing detective had already taken him far. For a Monday it was more than enough. He had something to tell Antonia. In one fell swoop, the lock was pulled. He woke up with it in his hand. He remembered what his grandmother used to say: "The hardest thing to open is an open door." Humming "Hello, darkness, my old friend," he opened the gate wide.

Robert was 1.80 meters, 85 kilograms, long hair in a ponytail, black jeans and Stone Creek boots. She was far from being a girl about to fall through a pit. He had played some sports in high school. Every Monday evening, he went to play football with some actors on a field near the Children's Palace. He hadn't participated in who knows what in his life, not even when he was in the rockoteca, but he didn't like to take without giving back. He was a normal man, and like any normal man, he thought before entering an unknown place. And what was in front of him looked exactly like a dungeon that could have housed vampires, prehistoric monsters, or Nazis who hadn't learned the epilogue of World War II.

After glancing briefly into the bay, muttering something unintelligible, he sat down as comfortably as he could on one of the pipes and pulled out the paper bag. The pie was a bit oily but tasted good.

From the darkness came a roar. The noise wasn't scary, but it wasn't friendly either. Robert stopped chewing. He put the rest of the money in his pocket. Look around. Except for the sticky tissue on the floor, there was nothing but concrete in the room.

The booing had increased in intensity. Robert took a step back and instinctively clenched his fists. A massive shape loomed in the darkness. In front of him appeared something that looked like a cable car without doors. She remained motionless for a few seconds then, with a slight squeak, began to slide back. Without thinking, Robert jumped through the opening.

Inside it smelled like a herbal medicine store. When she lay down on the floor, she found that it was covered with dry leaves. He pulled out his iPod and plugged it in shuffle. He was not a religious guy, in fact he came from a family with a long tradition of ignoring Christianity. In contrast, one of the grandmothers, with whom Robert had spent a lot of time as a child, was extremely superstitious. Every morning he threw a handful of colored beans into the dust. Depending on how they fell, he found out how his day would be. Although he knew it was silly, Robert used to use his iPod for the same purpose. The first song that came to mind shuffle it was to be considered significant for the journey ahead. This time it happens to be an acoustic version of Echoes of Tommorow, Darkseed. He had kept vigil all night lest Ruxandra should leave the apartment unnoticed. For reasons known only to her, the girl had been agitated all night. At two o'clock he had turned on the water to take a bath, and at four in the morning he had put a pot on the fire which gave off a strong smell of alcohol. Before the malaise completely overwhelmed him, Robert remembered that he had a lunch date with a guy he'd worked for before, who was probably going to offer him a side job.

- Move your sticks, friend, because you won't be a fool!

Still lost in the dream where a group of friends took turns calling him to wish him "Happy Birthday" even though it wasn't his birthday, Robert dazedly exited the log cabin which, freed, continued on, disappearing into another hole in the ground. The voice came from a stout man, dressed in a long white shirt, over which he wore a greenish shell trimmed with lamb's fur. It was cinched with a wide belt, studded with pockets, the sight of which made Robert think of the word "chimir," though he had never seen one before. The hems of the shirt hung like a kind of skirt over the long leather boots, giving him an air of swagger. The fur hat that barely covered her uncombed hair looked equally as ugly. Instead, there was no trace of amusement in his voice. As he struggled to his feet, Robert found that his head was barely above the man's rocky chin. He was not used to being looked down upon. Luckily he didn't have time to deepen his inferiority complex because the man stepped aside, revealing a scene that made Robert blink.

Three times.

The first time, when what was hidden by the broad shoulders of the mullet was revealed to him. A large, vaulted cavern, the walls hollowed out by dozens of mouths from which wagons similar to the one he had come came in and out of. A motley crowd flowed out of them in the middle of the hall, in an unbelievable and dizzying wormhole. Each man carried something on his back or shoulder, carried a bocce in his hands or pulled an animal on a rope. The closest images to which Robert could compare what was in front of him were BookFest at the National Theater or a fair day at the MȚR. But it was much more than that.

The second time the tumult of the mob entered his ears and remained there, like an unsettling din.

He blinked a third time as he became aware that a thick, treacherous, pestilential vapor was circling him, like a giant shark circling a fallen body in the water. He remained with his eyes closed until one of the man's legs threw him into the crowd. Only then did he realize what his nature was. As if they had been abandoned by their souls, different odors arose from the people around them, merging into an entity with a life of its own. It seemed that not a single person in the line that was advancing like a roaring, silty river had ever washed.

In his last year of high school, he had decided to spend the whole summer at the sea. Together with three other friends he had gone to Costinesti. They had not taken any luggage. The money was gone from the first week. They had camped among the tourists, eaten the leftovers found on the terrace tables, finished the beers started by others, sleeping wherever they could and bathing in the sea with shoes on and clothes on. He hadn't taken off his boots even when he had sex, which had happened two or three times. Usually the girls in the rockoteca were too drunk to care what their partners looked like, let alone if they took off their shoes.

It had been the coolest summer of his life. At the end of it, when he had returned home, he had found that a symbiosis had taken place between the sole of the foot and that of the shoe. They had become such good friends that they did not want to be separated. After the separation had taken place, however, he had not been able to walk. Because of the smell he emitted, he could not receive visitors, so he had been forced to spend his time applying various ointments and reading the bibliography for the polytechnic exam. He had caught them well, easily entered the top thirty. Since then he associates goofiness with the smell of feet.

He had never imagined it could be worse. It was like he was taking off his boots every minute. He had never encountered anything like this before, not even in the never-cleaned toilets of the camps he attended in grade school. In addition to the stench that had surrounded him and quickly conquered him, direct contact with his peers brought him a lot of unwanted interactions: hugs, nudges, swearing, saliva. A sharp-edged hatchet hit him in the stomach. A fat man, covered from head to toe in a cloak made from the roughly stitched furs of at least a hundred squirrels, steps on his foot. A hurried peasant, carrying what appeared to be half a calf on his shoulder, smacked him over the head in passing with the finished calf in his hoof. Of course, no one was apologizing.

The mob advanced down a corridor that narrowed as they approached a wooden gate. Standing next to her was a burly man dressed similar to the guy from the wagons, but somewhat less imposing. It looked like a living replica of the cardboard characters from action movies whose silhouettes are placed at the entrance to cinema halls in Malls. When he discovered to his delight that not everyone was gifted with solid footwear, Robert began to take advantage of the fact that he wore thick-soled boots. He continues his way treading hard, heedless of gasps and groans. When he gained some space, he took off his jacket, holding it tightly to his chest, his hands pressing against the curved contours of the iPod.

The traffic thinned out near the entrance, through which one could only pass one by one. After the mocofan in front of him disappeared through the open gate, carrying a bag from which some suspicious hums could be heard, the vlăjgan examined him with small eyes. Realizing with disdain that he was carrying no luggage, he muttered:

- Two pitaks.

Robert looked at him helplessly. Out of sight of the others, he fumbled in his pockets, soiling his fingers with the remains of the cake. If he had known he wouldn't be putting anything in his mouth for a long time, he would have swallowed it on the spot. Those behind, especially those who had been trampled by the boots, began to push him, shouting at them to get out of their way. But the guard put a hand on his chest, so he found himself in the unfortunate situation of being caught between the two sides. None of them seemed to sympathize with him.

"The Gologans are here," said a voice. My father told me to cut it off, because the fool is wasting it.

The rascal grabbed the four coins held out by a small guy with a blond mustache, then took his hand from Robert's chest. With the other, with surprising skill, he attached a leather bracelet to her wrist.

"Slobod," he barked, making room for him through the opening of the gate.

When he looked up, Robert saw that he was standing next to a wooden post. At the top of it hung a plaque that read in large, beautifully painted letters: The Way of Happiness.

"Io mi-s Gopin, Gopin a lu' Mătărăngă," said the blond who had paid for both of them.

He smiled widely, revealing crooked and untidy teeth.

"Thanks, Santa." You saved my ass. I'm Robert.

"Robert?" Isn't that a German name? That's what I thought when I saw your clothes.

Robert was wearing a black t-shirt with a print of a gloomy forest on it, with BEHEMOTH written in large letters above it. Below is the name of the album, And The Forest Dreams Eternally. Behemoth was a Polish band of black-death metal. It wasn't really his favorite band, Lake of Tears, but he had received the T-shirt from Daria and wore it more often than the others.

"I'm from Buzau," said Robert. Okay, I've been living in Bucharest for some time. After college I didn't feel like going back home, small town, nothing to do, you know how it is...

Gopin nodded, though he hadn't understood.

"I'm from Valea Timocului," he shouted enthusiastically. Do you know Timocul? Timocol from above! It's very nice here. As far as the eye can see, only hills and stacks. And there's a lot of copper in the depths. Yes, since the Slavs rushed to our baths, people started looking for work elsewhere.

They were now on a wide street, covered with small stones, well driven into the ground. As if out of nowhere, the first houses appeared, as if from the outskirts, rather unkempt. Between them were fields full of hayfields, which alternated with cultivated fields. The people had cleared their throats, and the stench had subsided, as if the entity had breathed its last. Harmâlaia had remained behind.

Soon they were in front of a beautifully carved stone fountain depicting a fisherman and his gear. Between the thick lips of three fish, water flowed into the basin that resembled a pond. A crowd of locals worked around her. The men looked like they were arguing, but they were actually making fun of each other. They had a harsh, stilted accent, as if it were Romanian spoken by the Dutch. As one tried to drink, bringing his muzzle close to the spout, the others nudged him and, amid the laughter of the crowd, left him with swollen lips. Five minutes later, neither of them had quenched their thirst. Robert took out his phone and took a picture of them.

"Are you in a hurry?" asked Gopin. Can you spare an hour or two?

"Of course, bro."

After the phase earlier, there was no way he was going to refuse the boy. In fact, he was glad that he had found someone who knew the places.

- Terrible! Let's drink some water! I honor you io, because I take the cimbria. I know of a great tavern in Cavadia, a stone's throw from the square where the fair is held. It's a big deal today, you know, right?

Followed by Robert, Gopin turned left into a dusty alley. They entered a slum with dilapidated houses, with thatched and less often tiled roofs, in the yards of which children were renting. Piles of garbage and food scraps, especially melon rinds, lay on the sides of the street. Gopin pointed a dirty fingernail at them and said proudly:

- It's from us. Seedless harvest this year!

- What is your occupation? Robert asked, jumping over the corpse of a small, furless creature. Without realizing it, he rarely spoke, as if speaking to a child or a retard.

— I am apprenticed to Master Lipann. I sweep the yard and clean the shed when I'm not working. I bring the paints when it's ready. When things are going well, Mr. Lipann lets me put them inside each other and make new colors. He says that I'm not really a tolomac and that, if I'm careful, someday I'll be as skilled as you. You know about him, right?

Robert, paying more attention to what was on the ground, shook his head.

"Is this Lipann of yours a painter?"

- Then he gave up on creating faces and landscapes because they didn't bring him gologans and started working with companies for shoplifting. At first he worked with potters, butchers and postmen. It went well for him, now all the merchants come to him, he is barely busy anymore. It is said that at the next meeting of the Council he may be chosen to take care of the insignia of the citadel, from the seals to the tablets of all the streets. And then hold on! It's going to be a big deal, because there are a lot of stakes in the game. Gherghișan will die of grief if he doesn't come out again! There are only three in the city who work on tablets, and it is said that Mr. Lipann is a better craftsman every year. Let's all be friends with each other, because they're all just hipjders.

Robert snorted.

"Hipjders?" I mean?

- Well, Philfizons... You don't know them?

Robert waved no.

— Those ladies who dress up as if it were a wedding every day, and when something happens in the fair, they show off their dresses too. They hang colorful chains on their shirts and keychains, wear pointy shoes made of soft leather, and put all kinds of colorful trinkets on their heads, as if they were from the gangs. Cross yourself, no other! The man has to be a little more handsome than the devil, not like here where they are so tall and solemn that you say they are scumbags.

They had come to a crossroads. In the middle of it, a black man, bare-chested, was shoving a bull. It was a bull like Robert had never seen before, furry on the neck and with a big, bearded head, like the one on the coat of arms of Moldavia. He sat meekly as the farrier hammered iron nails into his hoof with an imposing hammer.

— What are you doing there, my friend, have you never seen horseshoes as ugly as mine? he asked cheerfully.

"He looks… scary," Robert said after a moment's thought.

It seemed like a common word here.

"Welcome to us, brothers," the man added, kneeling next to the bull again. Call out for the milf to give you a drink!

The yard was full of all kinds of household tools, rakes, hoes, spindles, loaves of bread lying on the ground or propped up on the cane fence at least two meters high. In one corner was a brand new loom. Bales of straw, larger and smaller, tightly tied with wire, took the place of chairs and tables. All kinds of individuals were lying on them, as on couches, some more sleepy and drunker, each with a cane in his hand or in front of him. At the end of the yard was the smithy, from which a cheerful fire could be seen glinting. On the earthen oven, closed with an iron door, there was a sign on which it was written in large, "La Nicoară".

- Look, said Gopin proudly, Jupân Lipann did it. Yes, I got him paints.

Robert noticed that the letters were made up of painted horseshoes. Somewhere at the bottom of the headboard was written in small letters "Lipann". With two "n's".

As they sat down on two bales, a dry and tall woman appeared who, without saying a word, placed two full jars in front of them.

Robert had drunk some alcohol in his life, but, except for the summer in Costinesti, this happy event never happened at 8 in the morning. At least that's what his cell phone told him was the time. He wondered if Antonia had woken up and called him somehow to find out how the big chase had gone, or if she was still in her room, sleeping with that chubby giraffe in her arms. As Gopin applied the rod to his throat, he dipped his lips in the burning liquid. He put the glass back and looked around. A man with gray hair and a beard began to sing:

"Drink today and drink me,

drink for 40 days,

Drink price of 9 horses,

I can't get enough of wine"

"Foreign friend, I have a bargain to offer you," said Gopin solemnly, after wiping his blond mustache with his hand.

- Say, bro, what do you want.

"You don't want to sell me your clothes?" I haven't seen a blouse like that anywhere, neither here nor outside, and I think that Jupân Lipan would really like to have it. If the Council gives Mr. Lipan what he needs, we're out of here. Who do you think will be his right hand man? Don't think it's alms. Look, I'll give you three, no, five pitacs and a clean shirt.

Robert looked into the Timocean's blue eyes. He thought of Daria's blue eyes, rimmed with black pencil, that were so far away now.

- Good.

- Be happy all the days of your life as I am happy now, said Gopin.

"But you have to tell me some things."

- Things? the Timocean asked in bewilderment as he took a white shirt out of his bag.

Robert made a confused gesture, waving his hand uselessly in the air, then took off his shirt and handed it to the boy. He took it reverently, folded it like a precious scent and put it in the bag. A man further on, pecking at a bale, had opened his eyes and was watching them with an inquisitive look. He had a spiky cheek full of holes, like a fallow field. He was wearing some torn anklets near his right knee, through which the bruised skin could be seen, and at his feet he held a little shoe.

The shirt was less unpleasant to the touch than he'd imagined, but it smelled like cheese. He looked at Gopin puzzled.

- It's clean, daddy washed it in whey, he assured him.

Robert sighed as he pulled her over his head. It reached almost to his knees. If they had tied it with a belt, it would have looked like the Phoenix ones. Never been a big fan, but they had some cool songs. Actually only one.

"Where's the bathroom?"

Gopin's eyes widened.

- WC? the toilet?

Gopin's helpless look was touching.

"I want to piss!" Robert shouted angrily. Several unwashed faces, including that of the man with the bent knee, turned towards them.

"Well why don't you say that?" You go and piss on the fence after the blacksmith's, colo-sa, said Gopin with relief and motioned to the grandmother to bring another row of sticks, although Robert's had remained untouched.

On the fence were scrawled the same perennial messages that were also found in the toilets of Bucharest, although there were more drawings than words. Robert was especially delighted by the following: "A warm mouth to yearn for, look for Nicu from Costesti".

The knots in the boards reminded him of the drawings in the books of his childhood where, if you connected some dots, you discovered all kinds of outlines of objects and animals. While humming "Green girl with forest hair" it got in your head to jet-draw a guitar. At the same time he was trying not to get his new shirt wet, so he didn't feel the man approaching.

Before he fell to the ground, he heard a voice say "Bloody hell if this ain't a slob"!

Curiously, he kept getting phone calls saying "Happy Birthday!". When his mother called him too, Robert realized it was more than a prank, because his mother had been dead for three years. He decided to turn off his cell phone. He looks on Facebook. His Wall was filled with wishes from people known and unknown, although his date of birth, March 5, 1982, was visible. A guy named Gopin had given him a link to a video. When he opened it, he got error 800f0826, which meant he had an update problem.

Then he realized that he was the computer and that he could not perform any more operations.

When he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was a beam on which they hung, stuck in iron hooks, pieces of smoked meat, sausages, ham, salami and other pork preparations. For the first time in the last few hours he took a deep breath.

Robert inhales and exhales heavily, like in yoga classes on YouTube. It was about all he could do with his legs and hands tied with string.

He wants to shout, but a pitiful meow comes out. When he moved his neck, a sharp pain shot through him. His temples were throbbing, the back of his neck was burning. Even if he hadn't been tied, he wouldn't have been able to stand.

The still life with stilettos and leprechaun was covered by a spiky and dirty face. Unrelated to anything, Robert thought that since he had arrived at this place, he had never looked at the sky.

"How's your head?" asked the prick.

The smell of his mouth made him a worthy son of the stench from the wagons. Robert was glad that he hadn't brushed his teeth in the morning and that he could return at least a little of the effluvium that had poured over him.

"It's the size of a penny," he said, although he didn't quite know what a penny was.

There were many expressions that he used correctly, but without knowing what the words that made them up actually meant. "Through thick and thin." "To walk with a swagger". "To go round". There was also "colac over doll", which made absolutely no sense.

- You won't be putting too much corn in the butter. The man dipped his juicy fingers into a clay cup and sprinkled it on his face, then drank thirstily.

- Where am I? asked Robert, somewhat refreshed by the splash bath.

- Where do you think? In a respectable place in Cavadia.

"And what am I doing here?" why did you hit me

The man grinned.

— Unde-i Gopin?

In response, the man turned his back. He had a long, ragged coat that had been in the mud for a long time, but also near a strong fire.

"What am I doing here?" Robert repeated, then realized he couldn't answer that question either. What do you want from me? he shouted. I am a stranger, I have nothing. I give you my phone! It's not who knows what, but it's solid and takes pictures ok! And the motorcycle jacket! he added when he saw that he was getting no answer. I'm Romanian like you, my friend, he said pathetically, but his voice was covered by an unsettling sound of a hammer.

From his position he couldn't see where it came from. When he tried to move his neck, the headache returned. He decided to try a different approach.

"Are you going to kill me?"

— Ntzz.

Robert breathed a sigh of relief.

"What's your name?"

"Zor de Zeama," chuckled the man, continuing to drive nails into the four boards.

Resigned, Robert fixed his gaze on the sausages. At dinner, Antonia had made pasta with tuna. If they hadn't poured a jar of mayonnaise on them, they would have been really good. At this point he would have given away his iPod and all the original cds with Lake of Tears for some leftover cold pasta smeared with mayonnaise.

"Friend, won't you give me some potol too?" Robert ventured, trying to make friend sound like "friend."

— Romniceanu will give it to you.

— Who is Romniceanu?

"Master who's going to take care of your pickaxes," said the man, dragging a crate over to Robert. Roses!

Two minutes later, a burly fellow came mumbling into the room, wearing an apron that had probably once been white, but was now stained with scarlet and brown. He had a huge knife in his hand, which he left on a barrel.

"That's it," said Zori de Zeama. It's just a good thing.

Rose picked up a rich cloth, smelling appetizingly of mouse, folded it carelessly, then shoved it into Robert's mouth. They turned him over on his stomach and, with some care, climbed him into the crate that was ready. Robert felt a shower of grains cover his body, then heard the sound of a lid not quite coming on. If he kept the grains out of his nostrils, he could breathe fairly well.

Plocon was a word that sounded familiar to him. He wasn't sure, but it meant some kind of gift.

- You must meet my colleague, Antonia had told him.

- Must? Robert grimaced. Why?

Daria had the same insufferable habit. He would say, “You have to listen to this band. You'll love it for sure." Sometimes he liked it, sometimes he didn't. Or, “You have to read this. We have to go to that bar. You have to wear this.” It was just wording, but it was annoying.

- Ok, you don't have to, Antonia had knocked back. But I think you will find it interesting.

Antonia was one of Robert's recent girlfriends. They had met at a mutual friend's party, had talked more than anyone else, and naturally arranged to meet for coffee. By the time they'd met again, the chemistry from the first time had kind of worn off, but they'd felt good together, so neither of them had labeled the date a failure. They had seen each other once before, and from the moment they started talking about people they liked, it was clear that they would remain just friends.

- Well, he is the weakest being in Romania. His middle is the size of my fist.

- Do not tell! Robert had said ironically.

- Just listen! We've been together for almost a year and I've never seen her eat. In the fridge and in the pantry he only has bottles of drink. You don't see her at home anymore. He wakes up very early and comes in the evening late at night. He takes long baths, stays in the tub for more than an hour. At 5 in the morning he's out the door, God knows where! He told me he works at a law office, but I've never heard of a law office with 6am-10pm hours.

"Since when did you say you were staying together?"

- Wait a minute... Antonia thought a little in her mind. For ten months. And during this time, we didn't meet even once in the city. No one ever visits her. Oh, yes, a guy who had been a classmate of hers from high school once came and brought her something for her father, an old thing for wool, ah, my dear.

They were in a pub near Cișmigiu. Alternative rock was played here, which represented a compromise for both of their musical tastes.

"And don't you also talk like girls in the evening?"

- Not really, Antonia shook her head. I looked once in the address book in her phone, she had left it on the kitchen table. It had exactly 12 numbers. I tell you: she's something!

Robert had muttered something.

- Interesting what you say. Maybe I'd like to meet her. In case it's not an excuse to invite me to your house.

- Ha, ha, the girl snorted. You could follow her, see what she's doing for the day. You would also clarify a great curiosity for me. I'm sure he's doing some exciting things.

"He probably works in a restaurant and that's why he doesn't eat at home." Or KFC is ashamed to say that it lives by marketing spicy wings.

- You have no way of knowing... Antonia had said in a mysterious tone. Maybe if you follow it, you will discover some extraordinary things and you will feel like writing about them. You will leave the fascinating world of computers and become a writer.

- Sure, Robert had snorted, I'm going to start writing a novel about your anorexic colleague. How come I never thought of this before?

"You say it now, but after you meet Ruxi, you're going to buy some plaid pants, a cool tote bag, thick-rimmed glasses, and move to Starbucks to write the new Harry Potter." Don't worry, you won't have to thank me for changing your career.

— What was the title of that article you wrote: "HR Can Save Lives?" I have never heard anything more pathetic in my life. Who wouldn't want to read something like that?

Antonia worked at an economic magazine.

Since Trandafil was shorter, the tilt of the crate caused Robert to ride upside down. It wasn't all that unpleasant, and soon he felt a pleasant numbness that made it relatively easy to ignore the fact that instead of being at his desk checking for network bugs, he was traveling in a box of wood, bound by the hands and feet, to be made into a log. Judging by the regular swing, they were on smooth ground, maybe even a cobblestone street. The disturbing smell of meat had been replaced by that of grain which, while not nearly as appetizing, sent shivers down his stomach. He wondered what had happened to the merdeneau, if it had ended up in the stomach of some jealous nehalite.

Around them, the crowd crowded, gossiped, shouted, cursed, enjoyed life.

Suddenly there was a whistle and Robert found himself lowered to the ground. Rose sighed in relief.

- What a burden, you brat...

"Let me see your bracelets!" asked the ferentar.

The two raised their right hands. They wore bracelets of tattered leather which, though originally yellow, had been turned almost black by the dirt. Then they turned their backs, showing their wretched heads, marked with the seal of the Citadel.

"What are you looking for in Rohmani?"

"We have some chives to give," said the unshaven one, scratching at the wound on his knee. And master Jurj to take. He has run out of supplies and has nothing to put on the table at the sacrifices.

- Remove the lid! thundered the ferentar. As you pretend, you have burdened yourselves with lead, not chives.

- As your lordship commands, said Zor de Zamă humbly and bent down to lift the lid. If you move, I'll tear you apart like a rat, he hissed at the prisoner.

"Next time use bags, like all Romanians," said the farmer after taking a cursory look inside the crate. He took a handful of chives, brought it to his nose, then put it in his mouth. He threw another punch that almost hit Robert, who was frozen with his nose in the dust.

- You are right, your lordship. We appreciate you stopping us, we've been there before.

"Move, scumbags!" And wash those bracelets too, because you're not chubby. That the Citadel did not run out of water!

An individual with a face like a mask approaches Robert with a knife in his hand. She watched him struggle with cold, gray eyes, and with a short gesture, bent down and cut the bonds from his legs. After doing the same to his wrists, he removed the cloth from his mouth and helped him to his feet. Robert shook off the chives and was about to swallow a few, but the man stopped his hand with a firm motion. Without saying a word, he gestured for her to undress. His gestures, however banal, exuded distinction. Except for the white lace collar, he was dressed entirely in black. Without protesting, Robert removed his boots, Gopin's shirt, jeans, remaining in his panties. He was in a room crammed with hulking bodies of smoky wood, trunks covered with painted leather covers, tall, blackened mirrors, candelabras with tall lights, screens with oriental engravings. It looked like an antique shop into which the contents of a palace had been crammed. On the floor were spread thick carpets whose softness he tried. He sat down on a low bed covered with a soft and cool tufted coverlet. The man approaches with a bowl in his hand, one of those used in the old days for shaving. He had soaked a sponge in water which he began to walk over her body. She cleaned his hair with a bone comb, then anointed it with scented oil from a gilt-stoppered bottle. At the end she covered him with a white woolen blanket. Without realizing it, before falling asleep, Robert brought his thumb to his mouth and left it there. Because of this unfortunate position, the relationship with Daria had reached a dead end. One night, while he was sleeping, the girl had taken a picture of him with her phone and instead of keeping it for herself, she had sent it to a friend who had posted it on Facebook. Robert had gone mad, yelled at Daria, throwing all kinds of heavy things at her that she couldn't pull back. The friend had removed the picture, but the damage was done.

This time he had not dreamed anything, or if he had, he had forgotten what it had been about. The room smelled maddeningly of steak, and Robert thought it was finally time for his stomach to come to terms with the world, whatever it was. He stands up to his bones and is almost startled by the presence of a fat man, dressed like an old-time nobleman in a loose caftan made of drapery material. He was sprawled on large, embroidered cushions, distinctly holding in his hand a skewer on which were stuck several pieces of well-charred meat. He wore black shoes with the laces tied into large bows. Before him was a low table covered with cloth, on which were spread silver platters and bowls filled with all kinds of food. Robert ran his tongue over his lips.

"What do you think of the gooseberry sauce?" asked the fat man, whose name was Romniceanu, although some mistakenly called him Râmniceanu.

Robert nodded, unable to utter a word.

"It should not be absent from any feast," agreed the boyar with delight, dipping a piece of meat into a bowl and then tossing it into his mouth in a short movement.

— Dar chitrele?

Robert nodded again and got up from the couch. He tangled in the long shirt, which he didn't remember when he had put on. The man aimed the skewer at him. The end was sharp, but Robert was too hungry to care about an iron toothpick. Realizing that he hadn't been very convincing, the fat man rummaged through the pillows and pulled out an imposing sword which, with unexpected agility, he propped at his throat.

- Sit down!

It was the first sword Robert had ever seen. It was bright and looked very dangerous. With a pitiful sigh, he sat back on the sofa.

"I'm hungry, sir." Have mercy. I haven't eaten anything since I've been here. I don't even know how long I've been here. Don't treat me like an animal.

"If I had my way, I'd pour gooseberry sauce over the sauerkraut as well," the man continued, still holding his sword pointed at Robert's slayer. On the other hand, after the gogons I never gave in to the wind. With pickled melons, yes, another story, I swallow them like raisins.

He looked at Robert intently.

"Thank God, I didn't even have to go to the market today to find what I needed." What's your name, Mr. Insignificant?

"Robert," the boy hummed sadly.

"What brings you to our lands?" Straight day.

He had finished nibbling on the skewer and quickly grabbed another, spitting a piece of bone onto the carpet. A spiky creature appeared from under the sofa and rushed to grab him. The speechwriter placed a wide sole between himself and the remains.

- Oh, I don't give to the Turks! The hedgehog looked puzzled into the fat man's eyes until the fat man smiled and raised his leg. He seized the ossuary with some dignity and retreated the way he had come.

"So what brings you to our lands?" Straight day.

"I'm hungry," Robert said in a small voice. He wiped away his tears of frustration with a corner of his shirt. He felt like he was going to pass out.

"Actually, it doesn't even matter anymore." Do you want to drink something? asked the boyar in a sympathetic tone.

"Yes," said Robert, lost.

"Have you ever kidnapped anyone?"

Robert opened his eyes.

"No, sir, what question is that?"

"It's easier than it sounds," said Romniceanu, nibbling on a wing. And it's nice. Now, if you are as clever as I imagine you are, you know what is expected of you.

Robert had learned English by listening to death-metal and black-metal. Few songs by bands that fell into this category did not deal with death, torture, or massacres. He had a vast vocabulary of words related to suffering and pain. He had spent many pleasant hours slaughtering monsters in Doom, Quake and the shooters that followed. He liked horror movies. Collect figures of Jason, Leatherface and Hellboy. But none of these passions had ever been reflected in his way of being. Back in high school, when newspapers ran all kinds of dark stories about Satanists, anyone with long hair was seen as a potential grave desecrator. At parties there were always two camps: the rockers and the others. Sometimes he went out with a bang. But even when some imbecile cockerel was waving his big fists in front of him, swearing at his mother, he couldn't imagine what it would be like to kill someone.

— I would do it, I swear, with my own hand, for my anger is boundless, but it is not possible. Because of archeology, no citizen can carry a dagger on the streets of the Citadel. If the ferentaries can be dismissed as simple fraud, only a true Insignificant can sanctify the pillars.

Romniceanu spits another bone, quite small, at Robert.

— Tu.

Robert felt himself pass out on the spot.

"Are you still hungry?"

- Today.

- You will eat as much as you can at home. If you want to hide in your bed at night.

The boyar rose heavily, leaning on his sword, still snarling. A piece of meat had fallen from his mouth and Robert thought, embarrassed, that he might have been able to eat it. From a cabinet inlaid with bronze, he took out a box of precious wood, with shiny locks that looked like gold. A hiss, Robert told himself. In the box, among necklaces, rings, chains and other jewelry, were several cell phones, including a Nokia 3310 that Robert looked at fondly. It was the first truly familiar thing he had seen since he had stepped out of the wagon. The glutton fished Robert's iPod out of the box.

- What is that? Still a phone?

"It's for the music," Robert explained. You put those wires in your ears and music comes out of it.

- Aha, approved the fat man unconvinced. I didn't deviate from it. I was surprised that it doesn't have sloves to press. You Outsiders are always changing your toys. From year to year it looks different. If that were the point here too, everything would go to the water of Saturday. How much life does he have left?

Robert did not rush to answer. A fat man dressed as a groom from Ludovic's court or Mircea the Elder, wielding an Ipod, was too much for Robert. Suspecting that she asked him how long the bacteria lasts, he answered cautiously:

- I think about 6 hours.

"Then don't do three pins," sighed the man. We don't have electricity there.

"Don't mind me asking, but have you ever been…?" Robert asked, unintentionally pointing his finger at the ceiling.

The director snorted.

- That he just wouldn't have all the tiles on the house. Up? You now think that you are under Bucharest, right? Romniceanu laughed derisively. I could spare ten minutes and enlighten you. Yes, I don't think we'll ever see each other again, better not. Do you like it? he asked pointing at the player.

"No," said Robert dignified.

If the fat man thought he was going to kill someone for a fried chicken or to get his iPod back, he was sorely mistaken.

As if reading his thoughts, the man raised his sword again and waved it menacingly.

— If you don't do what I command you, you'll surely leave your picks there. And not hastily, but in cases you can't even imagine. Baga de sama, to remove the gnats from your head: in our Citadel, everything Romanian, from head to toe, is Signified. Because if it is not, it is not ours and if it is not ours, it does not want our good. When an ins is revealed to be unsealed, any prostovan can yoke him, and the ferentaries kill him on the spot. Fate you should thank and kiss my rings that you got me. Carson! he screamed.

The man in black enters the room.

"Prepare yours," ordered the boyar. In two hours you climb it in the butt.

"As his lordship commands," Carson spoke for the first time.

He had a white, inflectionless voice, as if his vocal cords were made of paper.

Floating as if among the furniture, the servant rummaged in a chest, from which he brought to light a pair of black velvet trousers, a shirt similar to that of the logotype, but much smaller, and a long, mustard-colored coat. During this time, Robert, with the air of a beaten dog, watched as Romniceanu prepared everything on the table.

Carson disappeared for a few seconds, returning with a wooden tray on which were several boxes and utensils. After urging Robert to take off his shirt, he laid him face down on the couch again. With precise movements, he drove thin steel needles into the boy's spine, like flags on a war map. Although he felt no pain, Robert moaned with each thrust. Before long, he looked like a hedgehog. The state of weakness he had been in since stepping into this unfriendly place had given way to a pleasant feeling of relaxation. She doesn't protest at all when the servant lifts her hair to apply a fake seal to the back of her head. After rubbing the spot with a mentholated solution, he left it alone for a while.

Half an hour later, when Carson removed the pins, his confidence in life was completely restored. Robert looked at the bowls of leftover food and no longer felt any appetite. It is true that they looked as if a herd of pigs had eaten them. While whistling the intro from To Blossom Blue, he dressed again in the clothes of a doctor. The pants, which fit him well enough, were fastened with a thick cord in the middle and another thin one near the calves. Fortunately for him, after examining his boots, Carson nodded his approval. He attached a red bracelet to her instead of the white one received at the entrance to the Citadel. He looked him over from head to toe. A trace of contentment appeared on his face, which vanished like a wind blade. From a pocket he brought to light a thimble clogged with wax. She poked holes in the lid with her little finger nail, which was much longer than the others. He placed it on a black marble slab, adjusting it so that a white powder oozed from it. He opened a deck of playing cards, drew one, and split the dust into two lines with it. Logofatul Romniceanu fitted a hollow stick to his nose and drew a wider line across his nostrils. He urges Robert to do the same. Although he had not been threatened with the sword, Robert obeyed at once.

From that moment, you feel that anything can happen to him, that he can do anything. He could have fought with ten cockatiels, he could have sung flawlessly Master of Puppets without ever picking up a guitar, he could have created an app that would revolutionize file sharing. If there was a mirror in the room, he would have gone to show off his muscles.

Romniceanu looked at him smiling, with an almost paternal air. He pulled out a ring from the bag and put it on her finger.

"Thank you, your lordship," said Robert solemnly.

— This is how I want you, son. You could have been a gardener in my yard. That if my friends and comrades hadn't left me in the lurch! And the pillars, ah, the pillars!

Frowning, he raised his pointer, threatening in an unspecified direction.

"My time will come!"

"I doubt not," said Robert, bowing.

It was impossible not to act ceremonious wearing such clothing.

"Perhaps the fates will bring us together again someday," said the speechwriter, handing him a thin, bone-mining knife, its blade sheathed in a fine leather sheath.

"Keep it and use it wisely!" Carson will explain in detail what you have to do with this one.

Before he went out, Robert turned his head to see the old man slumped on a ledge, staring blankly, his bloated belly spilling out onto the floor. He almost felt sorry for him, even though he had threatened him with the sword some time ago.

When they came out into the street, his old friend, the pestilential spirit that had greeted him on his arrival, again gave him kindness. This time, Robert was less impressed. A bull was harnessed to the carriage, like the one he had seen at Nicoara, which bolted at a slap of Casone's tongue. The carriage had solid, black wooden wheels with no gaps between the spokes, which began to grind whenever they encountered boulders.

Before leaping briskly onto the goat, Robert gracefully answered the taunts of two peasants who nearly bumped into him. He looked and felt good in his new clothes, in complete harmony with the world he was in. It seemed to him that he could see through the thin walls of the houses they passed, that he understood all the languages ​​that were being spoken around because, unlike Cavadia, all the nations of the earth seemed to walk and speak in the streets. A face of a girl in the crowd seemed familiar to him, and Daria appeared in his mind, whom he knew he would call as soon as he arrived in Bucharest, even if he no longer had a phone, which meant, even better, that will take you directly to her home. He didn't mind Zor de Zeama either, because he had helped him fulfill his dream. His hidden dream, now revealed, was about to come true. He forgot about him when his eyes were drawn to a large sign that read "Spitzerie", where Robert recognized the unmistakable style of Master Lipann. He looked up and realized that while what was above wasn't quite a sky, it wasn't far from one either. He lay down on the goat to stroke the animal's fur. Electric currents shot through his body, like a bath of lightning. An idea came to him that, if he had implemented it, would have changed the lives of the inhabitants of the Citadel. He remembered the wrinkled, aristocratic face of the block administrator, an old-fashioned woman who had once served him green walnut jam in a dainty saucer. From another room could be heard the cough of her husband, who had been ill for years and never left the house. Carson's hand pulled him back just as he was about to act out his desire to ride into the theater like the great gentleman that he was.

- Sit nicely, stranger, scolded the servant. Listen there!

As he learned what he had to do, Robert's eyes shone more intensely. Despite the lack of concentration from earlier, he could now feel every word he heard being drilled into his brain. In fact, he did not feel, but saw how a sculptor, who looked like Brâncusi pictured in the Paris workshop, carved words on the bronze plates that his brain had turned into.

The sound of hooves on stone slabs echoed as one beat of music made in Abletone. He'd better have his iPod with him, Robert thought. It was like he hadn't listened to music in years. What music were these people listening to? What it would have been like if he had put them on Moonspell?

In the middle of the square was a complex of monuments, which from a distance looked like a granite forest. As they approached, Robert noticed with astonishment that the trunks were actually columns decorated with designs and inscriptions, topped with single slab platforms. On each of them were skeletal individuals, clad only with a cloth bandage around their hips. Most of them were deep in meditation, others were lying down, resting or conversing with each other.

"What is this… Who are they?" asked Robert anxiously, overcome by an inexplicable feeling of piety.

"The pillars," replied Carson, without adding anything else, as if one word were enough.

He pulled hard on the lines to the right and the animal snorted thinly, more of a meow than a whine.

By the time they reached the front of the theater, a massive, round building with small windows, the dust had worn off. Despair gripped Robert.

— I'm just an IT guy! he shouted, refusing to come down. I have a boring job! I didn't hurt anyone! I never killed anyone!

He turned excitedly to Carson.

— A few years ago, I was with some friends at the beach and I came across a cat. One had the idea to pour gasoline on her and set her on fire. We were drunk and we agreed. The poor thing caught fire. We were drunk, then I felt sorry for everything. But I never killed anyone...

"I know," Carson said softly. It's too late now. People are under the weather, not above it. If you don't kill the steward, you'll be the one who ends up killed. It would be a pity for your youth to do something foolish.

He fumbled in his pocket, where a leather pouch appeared. In it were ribbed leaves, similar to those of ficus, but smaller. He handed one to Robert.

- Chew! You will come to your senses immediately.

Although he had never set foot in a church in his life, Robert made the sign of the cross and put a leaf in his mouth. He immediately felt how the bitterness gripped him, but also how the words engraved earlier in the tablets of the mind began to shine again.

After passing the marble archway at the entrance, a stout woman appeared in front of them wearing the same uniform as the individuals at the trolley station. Instead of a fur hat, he had a red bonnet. He carefully examined their bracelets and headbands, as well as the two thin brass plates on which the map of the theater was engraved. Robert's place was marked with a scarlet flame. The artist's signature could be deciphered on the back of the plate: Gologan.

Behind them was a merry crowd, whose clamor did not go unnoticed. With one exception, a petite brunette wearing Roman sandals, all the girls were wearing colorful rubber boots. One of them, dressed in a sort of breeches, fastened with a buckle the size of a coffee saucer, giggled at every remark the others made. A buckle with oversized buttons, elongated like bullets, completed his outfit. Two other girls, who seemed inseparable, had hidden their hair under pink wigs. The tallest one wore a dress printed with carpentry tools, planes, chisels, saws, chisels. Red marten fur encircled his slender neck. The other, who had an arched forehead and almond-shaped eyes, dressed in a red shirt with a turned collar, over which hung two strings of black wooden rosaries, said to the first, after glancing into the foyer:

- How boring!

- This place is ruined too! a guy in shorts and suspenders confirmed disgustedly.

In his beard he wore the feathers of a small bird coquettishly, suggesting that he had slept in a barn. The boys gravitating around them boasted varying degrees of facial hair, ranging from two-day-old unshaven to serious, tarpaulin beards, but neatly trimmed and brushed. Perhaps to compensate for his frail stature, a boy whose black leather pants showed off his pelvic bones held the tips of his mustache up with oils. Another, who was no more than twenty-five, Robert's age, had donned a uniform that was meant to be ironic about the farriers. Instead of hunter green, his coat and hat were a lilac shade. Two others wore over their shirts embroidered waistcoats with false buttons made of tufts of red fur. Without exception, both girls and boys had cloth or leather bags hanging from their necks, the strap of which was crossed over their chests. On the blouse of one was written: "6 Saxons in 9 bags". The sixes and nines were much larger than the letters, so it looked like he was wearing some sort of rugby jersey. Although he had imagined them to be somewhat older, they were certainly the hipjders Gopin had told him about. Perhaps one of them was Lipann himself.

The other people gathered in the hall of the theater seemed to be recreating a royal court. Powdered wigs, but also sable coats, puffy trousers, but also black tights, leather boots, silks, topazes, cords, lace ruffles, satin shirts, velvet waistcoats. The older ones wore knee-length caftans that hung like heavy curtains. Perhaps from the combination of white dust with the magical leaves, or perhaps simply, Robert was getting more and more comfortable in his new clothes. Except on days when he had meetings with important people, when he struggled to wear his only suit, his daily outfit for years consisted of boots, black jeans, metallic T-shirts and a motorcycle jacket. Although at first they had regarded him circumspectly, the office people had grown accustomed to the monotonous style of clothing. For his birthday, as a sign of full acceptance, they had given him a sweatshirt with So Fell Autumn Rain.

In addition to the hipjders and nobles, in the foyer there were also ordinary people, dressed in white coats and long, clean shirts, gathered in a chemise. They wore opinci and husks, and in their hands they gathered astrakhan flakes. A chubby little boy with bowl-cut hair walked among the crowd with a box tied around his neck with a red string containing small bottles of lemonade and basil leaves. Robert wanted to buy himself a drink, but Carson, whose drab clothes made him look like a crow in a cage of exotic birds, waved him back. From the hall was heard the serious beat of a gong, signal for the crowd that immediately spread out on the three high gates.

"Strength and courage," Carson wished, before mingling among the crowd, giving him the same dull look from their first meeting.

As instructed in the carriage, Robert made his way to the stone steps, surrounded by the gang of hipjders. They remained on the first floor, and the boy, together with several boyars, went up to the second. Here was a wide hall covered with clapboards, on the walls of which torches smoked. The nobles trotted into their lodges, so that Robert was left alone. He couldn't figure out where he belonged. As the hall was circular, he found himself again by the stairs.

In one of the boxes, with his eyes closed and his hands folded across his chest, was a thin man covered in what looked like a white cloak. When it reached him, Robert felt the stiletto heat up.

Without turning around, the pillar opened his eyes for a moment, snapped his fingers, then snapped them back together. Robert wiped it away as if someone had run him over.

Two tall men with ponytails had appeared in the corridor, chatting in a language that closely resembled Romanian, but of which Robert only understood disparate words. He watched them look at the door frames. After they disappeared, he discovered that the wooden beams were carved with drawings that corresponded to the marks on the plate.

In the lodge, which was no larger than the carriage in which he had come, were two chairs of carved wood. Red velvet cushions made them more comfortable. With a sigh of relief, Robert slammed into the one closest to the door. Before long, the other place was occupied by a tall man with a dark face covered by a gray beard. He looked at Robert with some surprise, then nodded ceremoniously. Robert also answered with a tilt of his chin and, trying to hide his trembling, nestled better into the softness of the pillow.

Certainly, seats at the theater were given according to social status. Downstairs, the audience sat as if on a lawn, standing, too close to the stage to have a wide perspective. The middle class, including the hipjders, whose furs sparkled in the crowd, were on the first floor. The nobles boasted at the second. Robert looked proudly at his status ring, then looked up. The theater had no ceiling. A diffuse blue-gray light descended to the middle of the hall, where the round stage, made of light wood, was located. On it was only a long table, surrounded by a small moat, and at a distance of a meter was the railing that separated it from the audience.

A new gong chimed in the theater building. In front of the audience appeared two figures dressed in robes, one black and one red. They bowed briefly and waited, arms crossed over their chests, until the crowd gradually died down. When there was complete silence in the hall, the two left. They returned shortly, carrying a stretcher in which, judging by the effort they were making, there was a heavy body. They placed it on the table and, after a dramatic pause, tossed aside the white cloth.

The crowd started cheering loudly. Robert's roommate turned to him and made a dismissive gesture to the audience below. Only now did Robert notice the mole like a coffee stain stretching across his left wrist. Without a doubt, it was Licarete. The dagger hung heavy in his pocket, waiting for the right moment when he would have to use it.

The body on the table did not belong to any known race. It was undoubtedly humanoid, for it was endowed with a head, a trunk, and four limbs, distributed in much the same way as in humans. However, the arms, which seemed boneless as they hung, were much closer to the so-called legs. The face contained breathing holes and eyeballs, devoid of eyelids, but nothing that could be considered a mouth. Instead, he had a sharp, bony chin, tipped with rough, gray bristles.

The black-robed man pulled out a metal box from under the table. In it were sharp metal instruments, which they presented to the crowd. The red robe called each one, but Robert didn't understand a word. Then, in a grave voice, he announces that the body comes from beyond the Blajin islands. As the black robe picked up a scalpel and, with a firm, smooth movement, dissected the body starting at what looked like a chin and ending at the split of the lower limbs, Robert realized that what was happening before his eyes had just as much in common. with theater like a car accident. Everyone present, including the pistachio-clad youths, gathered there to watch two maniacs dissect a beast's corpse. He turned his head in disgust, a movement that did not escape his neighbor.

- First time? ask.

"Yes," whispered Robert.

Carson had ordered him not to say a word in Licarete's presence, because his accent would give him away.

The man nodded in understanding.

— A fine dissection, my lord, must answer the four essential questions: How does it feed, how does the creature breed, how did it die, what was its last dream? Master Vitican is the best anatomist the Citadel has, he added before turning back to the stage.

Because of the incision, the body was split in two to reveal a fatty, spongy tissue criss-crossed by canals. The steward Licarete put a lornion on his eyes. With a dramatic gesture, Master Vitican indicates to his assistant which instrument to use for the next stage of the operation. It was a pair of steel tongs, which he used to pull the creature's skin, pinning it to the surface of the table.

If he had something in his stomach, Robert would probably throw up. Short gasp. Her nipples were gurgling like a toilet flush. Despite his repulsion, what lay before his eyes was fascinating. Antonia had been right. If he escaped from here, he would have something to write or at least something to tell. Of course, he would have been considered crazy if he hadn't said it was fiction.

The black robed figure lifts his hood a bit to wipe the sweat from his face. Robert found that she was a girl, indeed one with very pretty features.

The master let out a sound like a short bark and the scalpel she wielded descended deep into the chest, sliding through the thin bones arranged like a curved comb. A viscous liquid, yellow as gall, began to flow into the trench around the table.

As much as the inhabitants of the Citadel were used to the smells, those in the first row held their noses. Even those who had inserted into their nostrils the basil leaves they had bought earlier did not seem happier.

The master poked a shovel inside the creature, but quickly withdrew it. He appeared to be preparing a dish while reciting a poem in a baritone voice. Robert didn't know anything, but the audience stopped stirring.

The girl had begun to move the ribcage bones apart. Inside, like a cage, were hidden the creature's organs, larger livers of distinct colors, throbbing like sleeping woodpeckers. Vitican ends the incantation in the unknown language and explains the next stage, where the internal organs will be removed and analyzed separately.

After shaking it, the black robe removed the lid of a glass container. Inside was a clear liquid that she poured over the organs with the delicacy of a geisha pouring tea into cups.

That's how the madness began.

The cubs began to fray and detach from each other. The girl took a step back just as one of them, the color of leeks, jumped right into the master's face. He fell to his knees, flailing his arms and trying in vain to free him. The one the color of rotten cherries clung with an ominous thud to the neck of a spectator who fell over the railing. The people downstairs began to scream and rush for the exit. Carson's black clothes had disappeared into the crowd. Those above watched the commotion with interest. The mustachioed hipjder had taken out a sheet of paper, trying to capture in a sketch what was happening downstairs. He stopped only when, projected by one of the tentacles, the third organ, brown as the fur of a brown bear, jumped into a girl's pink wig. Her scream sent panic through the entire first floor. People started rushing up the stairs. The last creature, the duck egg color, had remained at the bottom of the cage, making a sort of trilling sound, though it did not seem to have any hole.

With his hand clenched on the poisoned stiletto, Robert looked intently at Licarete, who was watching with unperturbed interest what was happening on the stage. The lyrics of a song came to mind Lake of Tears: The hour late, outside it’s dark, you better stay inside now, or you may get caught in my wrath, and I will send the demons, you’ll run but you cannot hide, and I will send all my minions, to haunt you. He slipped out of the lodge as he hummed to them. According to Carson's directions, a few meters to the right, on the opposite wall, there should have been a door. You discover a wooden board embedded in the white wall. He touched her. She was light as cardboard. He pushed it aside. He was in what could be called the service staircase, narrow and plunged into darkness.

The thick walls muffled the commotion so, careful not to break his neck on the narrow steps, Robert gave no thought to what was going on inside. To avoid running into Carson, he didn't stop at the ground floor and continued down, looking for another exit. As far as he knew, the theaters had separate entrances for the actors and the employees of the institution. It was no ordinary theater, but that monster had not entered through the main gate. His bones ached, a dull ache not precisely localized that slowed his momentum. Hunger tormented him like a fever. Bitterness had taken over his mouth again, it felt like he had crushed aspirin between his teeth. When he reached the last step, he thrust the torch into a crack in the wall. He needed to pull himself together a bit. It was the first moment of solitude since he had woken up in the damn carriage. It smelled like a cellar, moldy wood and damp stone. He knew he had to find a way back. What had brought him here could bring him back.

From the darkness came a rustling. The screeching repeats, louder this time, accompanied by the sound of footsteps. Without realizing what he was doing, he grabbed a piece of wood from below and threw it in the direction where the sounds had come from. Someone let out a scream. By the high-pitched tone, the voice belonged to a girl. With emotion, he thought that he might be the aid of Master Vitican, who had sought refuge in the same place as himself. At the same time, absurdly, he imagines that he could be the monster on the dissecting table. Cautiously, he reaches for his stiletto. With the torch in his other hand, he advanced until he could make out a frail figure.

Pale, slightly gloomy, Ruxandra's figure appeared behind the flame. Unexpectedly, the sight of her triggered a sudden wave of anger in Robert. Because of her he now held a poisoned knife between his fingers, the sting of which would later take a man's life. Because of her he had become caught in a web of uncontrollable events that were far from over. Because of her, he had lost his iPod. Because of her and Antonia. And his. Sighing, he pocketed the stiletto.

— What the fuck! exclaimed the girl. What's up with that sword?

Robert took a deep breath. He hadn't thought he'd ever miss hearing an English swear word so much. He looked at the girl's frightened face and his anger passed as it had come. He remembered the subway chase. From the night before when, perched in the comfortable bed, he and Antonia had watched an old film with journalists, in which all the characters spoke one after the other, without pauses, giving only memorable lines. He had spent the rest of the night in the living room, startling at every noise coming from Ruxandra's room and somewhat longing to be in Antonia's room.

- It's a long story.

"What are you doing here?"

"What are you doing here?"

"This is where I live," said Ruxandra in a low voice. I mean here too. Well, it's a long story.

"I don't understand," said the boy. How do you mean here?

"Didn't you follow me?" answered the girl with a question.

Robert was silent.

- Really?

"Yes," said Robert flatly.

- Why?

Robert was silent again.

For a while no one said anything.

— And the room in Bucharest? asked the boy.

"What about her?"

Ruxandra suddenly panicked.

"Tell me, have you eaten anything yet?"

The girl's question had the impact of a punch in the stomach. Crouching, Robert pressed against the wall. Some traces of saliva softened the bitterness in the mouth.

"Do you have anything to eat?" Tell me you have. I haven't eaten in years.

- Thank God, Ruxandra breathed a sigh of relief. Then you escaped. Let's cut it out of here. In a quarter of an hour we are at Enciu.

Robert looked at her questioningly.

"If you had eaten something, anything, you wouldn't have been able to eat anything else," explained the girl. And you would have been forced to stay here forever…

"I don't understand," Robert shook his head. What are you talking about?

- Do you have an iPod?

"I had," sighed Robert. It's in a pinch now.

— So you know how it is: if you set it on a PC, you can't use it on a Mac and vice versa. It's the same with food. Once your body receives food from the Citadel, it cannot process any other type of food. It's a process, as far as I know, irreversible, set up by the pillars, so that no one in the Cetate would ever imagine that they could leave here. Are you sure you didn't eat anything? did you drink water

Robert ran his tongue over his dry lips.

- I do not believe. I shot some… he hesitated. Nothing…

- Terrible! Come on!

With a tender gesture, the girl took Robert by the arm and directed him to a corridor that opened from a hole. They walked through the darkness for more than ten minutes. How ironic, thought Robert, to walk through the underground of an underground city. At one point, a stream could be heard from behind the walls, as if the tunnel had crossed a body of water. When the torch was about to go out, they surfaced through a wooden gate which the girl opened with a key. They were in a warehouse. Hundreds of sacks were stacked on top of each other like ramparts. Robert was heartbroken.

"Let's take a break," he said.

The effect of Carson's dust was long gone. His legs were soft and he had a terrible headache, as if he had the flu and was hungover at the same time.

"It's not long," said the girl.

After reaching a wide, cobbled street, they stopped in front of a fountain similar to the one he had seen at the entrance to the Citadel. His old companion, the pestilential spirit, was there, but he no longer cared for him. A square woman, with two bottles slung over her shoulder, patiently waited for her children, a girl and a boy, to finish drinking. Although they were done, they were playing with the water jets. Watching the children, Robert became very thirsty. His tongue felt swollen and soft. He wanted to go towards the fountain fish, but the girl tugged at his sleeve. He swallowed hard and continued walking through houses and sheds to a large gate. On the arch above the entrance it was written: Enciu. Robert knew they had reached the station. He looked at Ruxandra. Melancholy could be seen on her face.

- And you? Stay here?

- I have no choice, said the girl. I work here. Sometimes..., she added and stopped. When I'm going to find…, he started again, I'm going to find a way to stay… It's a complicated history. Maybe I'll tell you about it sometime.

- Then let's meet in Bucharest.

"See you in Bucharest," repeated the girl, handing him two cards. Sixth tunnel on the right, he said and left.

At the entrance was another strong lad. Robert now knew he was a ferentar. She handed him the coins and he took them without saying a word. It was a hall like the other, with the walls hollowed out in the ground, like a cesspit. Although it was almost deserted, it didn't seem any bigger. A few people were lying on empty couches. A young man with a lump on his ear was trying to play the leaf. He wasn't very good at it, and his companion motioned for him to stop. Robert walked to the indicated spot and sat down in front of it. Out of habit, he fumbled for his iPod, but the coat had no pockets.