The Stranger's Woes Read Online Free PDF Page B

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    I took care of the empty rooms in record time. You get a real power surge when you’re armed with a wet rag.
    My bedroom looked fairly decent. That’s where I spent most of my free time, after all, so the malignant mess hadn’t been able to take hold there. I find that a small degree of disorder in my surroundings adds to the coziness. I just had to give the dusty windowsill a swipe and open the window to let in the fresh breeze . . . along with a million tiny particles of dust. It’s a vicious circle.
    I looked at the bed longingly, sighed, then told myself sternly, No you don’t, buddy. There’s still one more room in your palace. Have you forgotten?
    Shocked by my own cruelty, I headed downstairs to the living room, which was the initial cause of all this madness. Along the way, it occurred to me that a small but amply packed tray of delicacies from the Fat Turkey would provide sustenance for a weary hero, and I sent a call to the tavern. Strictly speaking, the Fat Turkey was still closed at this hour. What people won’t do for a regular patron, though, particularly if that patron had a habit of staggering down the street in the Mantle of Death.
    Speaking of my Mantle, it finally dawned on me that it wasn’t a bad idea to change my clothes if I was cleaning my house, so I had to go back upstairs. A thin everyday skaba decreased my discomfort considerably.
    In the living room, I was greeted by the forlorn spectacle of the traveling bag I had taken to Kettari. It was planted in the middle of the room, just where I had left it when I returned home from the trip. Armstrong was merrily chasing after my magic pillow, without the least concern for the powerful spells of Maba Kalox. Ella was intent upon shredding the edges of the valuable Kettarian rug (which, to my shame, was still rolled up in a corner of the room). This, of course, did not exhaust the list of my domestic misfortunes.
    The harsh working conditions at the Ministry had turned me into a real hero of labor. A few years ago I would have shuddered at the sight of this disorder and averted my eyes. Now I just swore under my breath a few times and got down to work. A half hour later, the table was as clean as a desert sky. This was a good start. Only minutes before, the surface had been evenly covered with a thick layer of debris. Since I lacked the courage simply to throw all the useless junk away, I had had to sort through it.
    There was a knock at the door. It was my breakfast, accompanied by a terrified, sleepy delivery boy from the Fat Turkey . I had the presence of mind to thank him, so he carried out his delivery without completely falling apart. That was a good thing—I’m very lucky to have a Fat Turkey as my only neighbor.
    After snacking a bit, I succumbed to another cruel onslaught of laziness. Then I gritted my teeth and started brandishing the rag again. I was waging the Battle for Cleanliness. Two hours later, when my work really was about done and I felt as though I had spent the past millennium voluntarily breaking rocks, there was another knock on the door.
    “Come in! It’s unlocked,” I shouted. “I’m not your doorman.”
    Physical labor had never been known to improve my character. Besides, what’s the use of being sweet and kind when the whole population of Echo takes you for an undead monster? The instructive chat with Captain Shixola had left an indelible impression on the tender surface of my soul. I heard the door slam, then the rapid clip of footsteps in the hall. In the doorway stood a strange creature. Even the heavy folds of an unseasonably warm looxi couldn’t conceal its penguinesque rotundity. A rather pleasant face looked out from under a dark blue turban. I had seen that face somewhere before . . . Yes, of course! The stranger bore a striking resemblance to the poet Apollinaire, whom no one in this World had ever heard of. I wonder whether he’s also a poet, I thought. Well, we’ll soon find out. The last