The Good Mother 1988

Mark came to himself again, and the feeling of returning was sharp, like an electric shock. At first, his consciousness was clouded, and he could not immediately understand what was happening. There was a ringing void in his head, and his body seemed not to have come to its senses yet, as if he had been pulled out of a deep quagmire and thrown into an unimaginably alien reality. Soon, realizing that he was sitting in a car, he began to look around, trying to figure out what was happening.

But the world around him remained unchanged. He was back in the same taxi he had been in not long ago. The taxi… Yes, that was it. He was in that black sedan, with a driver who had never spoken to him. He remembered how before that moment he had been in the house where he had met Jordan Thurlow, that strange, mysterious man who had said unimaginable things, his sinister sermon echoing in his mind like a heavy burden.

Mark looked around again, trying to notice anything that could explain his strange state, but he didn't find the slightest hint of change. Everything around was the same as before. The same road outside the window, the same night silence, the same cold light of street lamps that broke through the glass. Everything was so familiar, so serene - as if he had simply returned to the moment when the nightmare had not yet begun, and did not know what he was about to experience.

But the voice of Molly, his little daughter, was still in his head. It was so clear and close that it seemed as if she were sitting right next to him, in the seat next to him, whispering in his ear.

"Dad, I'm desperate," her voice sounded, and there was such hopelessness in it that Mark felt his heart squeeze. "They tried to kill Mom when she was on a walk in prison, and now they've made it clear that her fate depends only on your decision…"

Mark shuddered, as if a sharp pressure had been applied to his throat, and for a moment he lost his breath. His fingers tightened on his knees, and a wave of anxiety ran through his body again, as if some silent struggle were raging within his skin. Everything that was happening, the words he had just heard, seemed at once terrifyingly real and utterly absurd. He couldn't shake the feeling that his mind could no longer cope with this burden.

Mark glanced at the taxi driver, but he remained silent, his eyes focused on the road. The driver's silence only increased the feeling that he was in some kind of intermediate state - between reality and a nightmare that did not let him go, drawing him deeper and deeper. Outwardly, everything remained unchanged, but inside Mark felt that this reality was alien to him, like an alien world from a dream in which he could not wake up.

"Molly..." Mark suddenly blurted out, as if his daughter's name was connected with some painful weight that wouldn't let go of him.

The same phrase came back to him, as if Molly herself had said it, her voice full of despair: "Her life depends on your choice." But how was that possible? What could he do to change Harey's fate? How could his decisions affect her life when she was imprisoned, a place that was impossible to get into?

Anxiety washed over him again, like a wave squeezing his chest. His hands began to shake, and he felt the pressure inside him becoming unbearable, as if his body could no longer cope with this burden. He tried to pull himself together, but his thoughts continued to rage in his head, like a river that knew no shores. Every moment was threatening, but the path forward remained unclear. He did not know how to get out of this vicious circle, how to make the right choice when everything around him was dissolving into a fog that gave no support.

At that moment, his gaze fell on a building that caught his attention. He didn't think long - he asked the taxi driver to stop, paid, and, getting out of the car, looked around. At first, it didn't seem to him that there was anything unusual in the surroundings, but as soon as he turned towards the building, his gaze immediately caught on a figure that appeared from behind the columns at the entrance. It was Paul Buher.

The old man looked as usual: a little strange, as if his presence in this place was accidental, but he knew exactly how to remain unnoticed. He was bald, with a wrinkled face, and his light blue jacket was a little out of shape, as if it were hanging on him, but not quite right. His white bowler hat was slightly askew, and in his hand, as usual, was an old cane, which swung like a pendulum. He stood motionless, but moved steadily with his step, as if thinking about something, slightly moving his lips, as if talking to himself. At some point, a barely audible, almost childish melody escaped from these lips - strange and restless.

Mark felt the familiar tension again and glanced at Buher. The old man apparently noticed his gaze and quickly disappeared behind a column. This was habitual - he knew that Buher did not appear by chance, that he always appeared at the right moment, as if specially to observe.

But Mark didn't stop. He didn't allow himself to be distracted and, with a firm gait, headed towards the entrance of the building, trying not to think about the old man and to concentrate on what lay ahead.

As soon as he stepped into the lobby, his gaze fell on the reception desk, where a young administrator sat. He was wearing a formal vest, white shirt and tie, which gave his image excessive formality. His face remained neutral, only a slightly raised eyebrow indicated that he had noticed the visitor. In general, his gaze was cold and indifferent, as if he was just another client, unremarkable in any way.

"Is the owner there?" Mark asked in a firm and decisive voice.

The manager glanced at him, and without looking away, slowly shrugged. It was so indifferent that Mark couldn't tell if it was even a form of response. The silence that followed the gesture seemed strangely empty, as if he not only didn't know where the owner was, but didn't feel the need to explain it to the visitor. His silence felt like more than just indifference-it was a barrier, as if Mark meant absolutely nothing in this place.

Mark felt his nerves begin to stretch. His head suddenly became noisy - his thoughts were confused, and the only thing he felt was a desperate desire to stop all these games. He could not wait any longer. Weighing the situation in a split second, he realized that he could not delay any longer. Without further thought, he took a step forward and headed for the door hidden behind the counter, trying to find a way inside, despite all the obstacles.

The administrator, seeing his movement, jumped up. Irritation flashed in his eyes, and he immediately tried to stand in the way. His dark gaze, full of discontent and threat, stopped Mark for a second, but immediately cast aside all doubts. The man did not say a word, but the very fact of his movement, his attempt to block the way only further inflamed Mark's rage.

He couldn't control himself any longer. All the pent-up anger, the irritation from this dead atmosphere, the complete disregard for his presence - all of it spilled out in an instant. Taking full control of the situation, Mark suddenly raised his hand and, pushing the administrator with force, broke through his barrier.

"Get out of my way, lackey!" Mark barked, his voice full of rage and disappointment, not trying to hide his feelings.

The administrator, who had not expected such a reaction, was so taken aback that he staggered back, almost losing his balance. His steps were unsteady, and he barely kept his feet from the force of the impact. Mark, without turning around, grabbed the door handle and turned it with furious determination. With each movement, he felt the tension he had been holding in until that moment being released. He stepped inside without slowing down and, without looking back, disappeared through the door.

Mark walked down the dark corridor, and every step he took echoed in this empty, time-swallowed place. The walls, hidden in the semi-darkness, seemed to compress the space, and the light seemed to disappear around every corner, not having time to illuminate the path. The air was heavy, filled with some invisible pressure that was increasingly felt on his chest. It seemed that every step took him deeper into this labyrinth, as if something invisible but tangible was pulling him into the depths of this strange, alien world.

He stopped at the door, unable to continue walking forward. It was dark inside, and only in one corner an old lamp dimly burned, barely illuminating the space. The light, diffused and subdued, created bizarre shadows that seemed alive. On the table in the center of the room, littered with papers, stood a cup of long-cold coffee. In the very corner, almost merging with the shadow, sat a man absorbed in his work. His hair was gray, and his face was wrinkled and tired, as if he had not known rest for a long time. He concentrated on turning the calculator, his fingers sliding over the keys, not paying attention to the person entering.

Mark felt his heart squeeze in his chest. He couldn't tell where this coldness in his body came from, this restless anxiety, but the words came out of his mouth despite everything:

"My wife was attacked yesterday."

The man at the desk did not look up. His fingers continued to click on the calculator, and the voice that came into the silence was indifferent, as if he were answering a simple question:

"Really?"

Mark stood frozen, stunned. He tried to comprehend what was happening, how it was possible, but his thoughts were all jumbled up, and the world around him was becoming increasingly shaky, unreal. He looked at the man sitting at the table, and his gaze began to focus. The moment stretched, and then he realized it was Jordan Thurlow, the man who was the most important person in the loyalist club, the Union of Gabriel the Archangel. His heart leapt, and his consciousness seemed to slow down.

Mark couldn't take his eyes off his figure. Time stood still in the room. And Jordan, without changing his position, was still sitting at the table, bent over the calculator.

"Well, they didn't kill her, did they?" he suddenly said in a calm, almost monotonous voice.

Mark felt as if the man's words were not touching his consciousness. He stood there, not understanding what was happening. His thoughts were confused, as if stuck together, and his tongue could not find an answer. He did not understand how he had ended up here, why this place, this dark room, this man seemed so alien and familiar at the same time. Everything around him was somehow blurry and absurd, but Jordan's face was so clear that it seemed to displace everything else.

He opened his mouth to say something, but the words wouldn't come out. At that moment, Jordan slowly raised his eyes from the calculator and looked at Mark. His face remained calm, almost indifferent, and there was not the slightest sign of excitement in that look. He said with the same light, almost indifferent intonation as before:

"We warned you then, right on the tracks, in a good way."

Mark felt a painful stirring inside, but his thoughts had not yet had time to form a response. But Jordan's words gave him a second to collect himself. Focusing with difficulty, he spoke with confidence, but with a hint of challenge:

"And I also came to warn you now. In a good way."

Mark did not hesitate. After his bold remark, he quickly pulled a revolver from his pocket, and at the moment when the air in the room became tense with his determination, he fired at the lamp standing on the table. A bright flash of fire illuminated the room, and the glass shattered into a thousand pieces, reflecting the light. Jordan, dumbfounded, jumped up, his face distorted with horror, he somehow awkwardly jumped away from the table and, giving up, leaned his back against the cabinet. From the impact, a box fell from its surface to the floor, and papers flew in all directions, as if they had fallen out of a disorderly scattered archives.

Mark, his expression unchanging, held the revolver in his hands with cold determination, his gaze impenetrable. He did not move, his eyes never leaving Jordan as he trembled and stared in horror at the gun pointed straight at his chest. Sternly, with some kind of silent command, Mark began firing again, the bullets piercing the cabinet, leaving behind them small holes that, like a semicircle, contracted around Jordan's figure.

When the last shot died away and a deafening silence fell over everything, Mark did not remove the revolver from Thurlow's chest. He continued to stare at him, as if trying to squeeze the last drops of fear from his eyes. Jordan, breathing heavily and turning pale, barely keeping his balance, coughed sharply, trying to get air. He came to his senses a little and, with an effort to squeeze out each word, said:

"Next Friday... your silly bitch... along with the rest of those sentenced to life imprisonment... will begin working... on a barge... at the Charles River pier."

The silence was thick, like a heavy cloud, and it seemed to fill the entire world. Mark continued to stare at Jordan Thurlow, keeping his gun pointed at him. There was no confidence in his enemy's eyes, only desperation and fear. Mark could feel the tremors running through his body. He didn't move, didn't take a single step, as if testing Jordan, waiting for him to finally understand the gravity of the moment. Every word he spoke would be weighed, every breath, forgiveness.

Thurlow, still clutching his shoulders, struggled to catch his breath, his breathing hoarse and jerky, as if trying to swallow up all the space around him, but it was not enough to hide his internal struggle. He coughed again, and when it seemed the moment was at its breaking point, he forced out:

"I said... I told you... your wife... she will start working... on the barge, on the pier... Charles... On the bend..."

Mark watched Jordan's lifeless face for a few seconds, then, without saying a word, put the gun away. His eyes were cool and calm, but behind that calm façade was the weight of his decision. He released the trigger and the gun returned to its holster. Jordan, who had been on the verge of panic, relaxed a little, but the tension remained. He wiped his mustache and glanced at Mark with a shadow of contempt.

"You're going the wrong way, mister Parvis," he muttered irritably. "The wrong way," he repeated, meeting his gaze again.

Mark was silent. Only for a moment did a barely noticeable smile touch his lips - not an angry, not mocking smile, but rather a confirmation that his decision was inevitable. There was something affirming in it, as if he knew that everything that was happening was meant to happen.

Ignoring Jordan's words, he turned and walked towards the door without taking a single step back. Jordan fell silent, but his gaze continued to follow his every move, as if he was still hoping for a miracle. However, Mark did not react, moving decisively and calmly, like a man who had long ago accepted his path.

As he walked down the hall and into the lobby, his gaze met the eyes of the receptionist, who was standing by the door, as if waiting for him to appear. Mark stopped. The receptionist, meeting his gaze, instinctively recoiled, cringed, as if preparing for a blow.

Mark said nothing. All that was needed was hidden in his gaze, that cold, furious, determined look that made the man retreat. He walked past the receptionist's desk, ignoring his presence, and wasted no time in leaving the building. The doors slammed behind him with a sharp thud, as if summing up the entire scene.

The clearing adjacent to the station, where construction and bustle had raged just recently, now had a completely different atmosphere - a festive atmosphere. The fair, which workers had been working on for several days, had finally opened its doors. Everything was ready: bright tents, garlands shimmering with all the colors of the rainbow, music softly sounding from the speakers, and the enticing smell of fresh buns and fried pies. Around the square in front of the fair were stalls with toys, cotton candy and all sorts of treats. And in the center was a carousel painted in bright colors, on which children laughed and whirled with delight on multi-colored horses.

Crowds of children, mostly railroad workers, were running around looking for adventure, their faces full of excitement and fun. Boys were chasing kites, and grinning girls were catching each other's tails on an old but sturdy rope that had been stretched between two large pine trees. Near the stage, a group of boys were playing an impromptu game of football, with the ball almost sliding off the field.

Moms and dads, tired after a week of work, happily watched their children, buying them sweets and pointing out games where they could have fun until they dropped. Old people sat on benches, chatting with each other and looking around at the crowd that had come, noticing with interest how their children had grown, and even more so, how the generations were changing.

The workers' comrades, away from the children, found a table with drinks and grilled meat kebabs, chatting cheerfully about the latest construction project. Nearby, in a corner, sheltering from the sun, several people were animatedly discussing the plan for the next week and what else needed to be done to get the new section of road completed on time.

This day, like a forgotten corner of the world, was a moment of rest for all the inhabitants of the fair, a small retreat from the worries of everyday life. And no one, not even the workers who spent this day laughing loudly and fussing, knew that ahead, on the horizon, somewhere lurked an unknown storm.

In the midst of the merriment, amid the laughter and noise of the fair, with children playing with kites and adults interrupting each other and enjoying the treats, the gates swung open with a crunch and a man appeared in their shadow. He was dressed in a brown suit, obviously not new, but cut with a neatness that immediately attracted attention. Paul Buher, the loyalist spy, entered the crowd, and his appearance did not go unnoticed. His steps were confident, but no less alien to the joy of the day. It was as if he had come not to be part of the fun, but with the intention of changing or destroying something.

As soon as he took his first step towards the fair, the workers standing nearby froze, noticing his figure. Someone smiled wryly, someone quietly whispered, but everyone understood: this man was not here by chance. His gaze was heavy and purposeful, as if he was looking for someone or something in this noisy sea of people.

Paul Buher wasted no time in making small talk and, without slowing his pace, took off his jacket, crumpled it and threw it over his shoulder. He moved forward, avoiding the pie stands and wooden toy booths as if he didn't notice them. His goal was clear. He headed for the stand where Mark stood, a young man in a white suit who looked at the workers as if they were his only audience. The white suit contrasted with the motley crowd, and Mark looked not only focused but also a little detached. His face was slightly tilted, listening to one of the workers speak, and his attention was not distracted even by the noise of the fair.

Buher approached the platform where Mark stood. The latter, not noticing his arrival, continued to lecture with concentration, while the workers, attentively listening to him, were not distracted by his words.

"Gustav Mahler," Mark said confidently with shining eyes, "is not just a composer, but a real breakthrough in the world of music, a man who broke through the boundaries of his time and opened up for us the unexplored expanses of the German symphonic tradition!"

The men standing nearby turned to him with curiosity. Every gesture of Mark, every word of his, full of passion and sincere conviction, caught their attention. Even the smell of sweat and the noise of construction work that came from afar seemed to disappear against the background of his words. They involuntarily listened, feeling that Mark was not just talking, but living what he was talking about.

"His music is more than just sounds!" he continued, not noticing that his listeners' attention was already entirely focused on him. "He created on the edge of madness, but it was precisely this madness that was the source of his genius. His works seem to be ahead of their time, they open the way to unknown worlds that have yet to be understood!"

He paused to give his words weight and a chance to settle in the air. The workers were silent, looking at him, trying to catch the meaning of his every movement, every accent in his speech.

"And his legacy can teach us much more than just how to read music!" Mark continued, raising his voice as if everyone around him needed to hear his revelation. "It teaches us how the future can be an integral part of our perception of the present, how events that have not yet happened can already influence our perception of reality."

He looked at the listeners, who were no longer just listening, but were absorbed in his words, in his every gesture, in every moment of his speech. Mark was not going to stop.

"Mahler was a prophet!" Mark said with bitterness in his voice. "Not only for musicians, not only for future American composers, but for all ordinary mortals, for each of us! His symphonies are not just music. They are the key to a completely new understanding of life. He can raise us, ordinary workers, to a revolutionary perception of our everyday life! His works are a mirror in which we can see not only a reflection of our time, but also the future horizons that await us."

As Mark spoke, Paul Buher stood to the side, a vicious expression on his face, watching every move carefully. His gaze was sharp and cold, as if he was analyzing not only Mark's words, but Mark himself as well. Buher did not move, his eyes never leaving Mark, and there was a certainty in them, as if he knew that all this would not go without consequences.

Mark stepped forward, his boots treading heavily on the muddy path, echoing across the platform. He looked at the workers standing before him, their exhausted faces, their hands covered with scars from labor, and there was something more in that look - it was the look of a man who saw not only the present, but the future. His voice, which had sounded from the podium a moment ago, was now soft but full of confidence, as if the words came from the heart, trying to penetrate the soul of each person standing before him.

"Mahler dreamed of a city," he said, raising his hand in the air as if drawing an invisible picture before them. "A city where the streets would be full of people, beautiful, happy and dressed up. People who would walk not along heavy, dirty roads, but along bright avenues, where every step would bring joy and light.

The listeners froze. Their gaze was focused, they stood motionless, as if there was some deep meaning hidden in these words that they were trying to grasp. Their faces, stern and tired, now reflected attentiveness, almost prayerful concentration. Mark continued, and his voice became warmer and warmer, a certain tenderness appeared in it that could not leave even the most tired worker indifferent.

"He dreamed of a city where there would be no place for melancholy and despondency," Mark continued. "Where music would sound at every step, where every home would be filled with joy and harmony. Where songs would fly in the air, and laughter would become a natural part of every day.

Mark paused, letting his words sink in. He stood there, looking into the distance, as if he could see the city he was talking about. He could feel its power, its living, pulsating energy that would fill every corner of the world. Several people looked at each other, their faces softening, something like hope in their eyes. Several women in the back rows whispered quietly, as if hearing something they had been waiting for.

"And you and I are obliged to fulfill the dream of this great German composer, a fellow countryman of Karl Marx himself," said Mark, looking at the people in front of him. "We are the builders of a new city, in which freedom and happiness will become a reality, where our children will live not in the shadows, but under the light of a prosperous future. We must create a world in which our descendants will not know fear and oppression, but will be proud of what we left them as a legacy. All this is possible thanks to Gustav Mahler and his symphonies, to the sound of which we must unite and stand under the banner of the revolution!"

His words had an effect. The workers stepped back a little, exchanging glances. Their faces became serious, as if each of them was considering what they had heard. It seemed as if Mark had awakened something deep within them, something that required reflection.

Paul Buher, standing to the side, watched the proceedings carefully. His face remained grim, but he realized that the moment was not right for conflict. Mark was the center of attention, and his words were captivating the workers. Concealing his anger, Buher took a step back, and then another, until he was at a safe distance. The children's laughter, ringing and carefree, deafened him like an unbearable noise that could not be silenced. The bright balloons, the joyful cries, the adults laughing with the children, seemed not only alien to him, but also wrong.

He looked around as if he were in a terrible nightmare, where everyone around him had lost their minds. The workers, whom he was used to seeing as stern and reserved, now seemed to him pretentiously happy, as if someone had bewitched them. Their children, with cheeks flushed from running and sincere smiles, looked in his eyes more ridiculous than joyful. This festival of simplicity and freedom was an unacceptable, almost painful spectacle for him.

Buher was a supporter of loyalty, an ideology of order and hierarchy in which the worker always knew his place and power remained unshakable. The communist ideas that Mark preached disgusted him. Freedom, equality, dreams of a happy future for everyone - all this, in Buher's opinion, led only to chaos and the destruction of true values.

He stopped at one of the food stalls. A family of three-a man in overalls, his wife in a simple dress, and a little girl with pigtails-were sharing a caramel apple, laughing and exchanging pieces. Buher watched them, feeling irritation growing inside him. This was not just alien to him, it was unnatural.

"How low discipline has fallen," flashed through his mind. "The workers have forgotten their place, forgotten their duty to the president. It's all him, this impudent Parvis with his Marxist ideas!"

Buher turned away abruptly and walked on, avoiding the looks full of joy and carelessness. The scene of the general celebration seemed to him something alien and ominous, like a crowd ready to swallow him up, leaving him alone in the chaos. Anger was growing in his chest, but he held back, hoping to find the right moment to teach Mark a lesson.

Meanwhile, Galbraith stood to the side of the dance floor, leaning against a pole decorated with a garland of brightly colored lights. Cheerful music was playing from an old gramophone, and smart workers in suits and ladies in modest but neat dresses were whirling in the dance. The young people were laughing merrily, and couples, moving smoothly along the creaky boards of the improvised dance floor, filled the space with a festive atmosphere.

The seventeen-year-old worker felt awkward. He wanted to dance, but the lack of a girl left him a spectator. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, watching the dancers swirl around and around in a whirlwind. "I wish I could invite someone," flashed through his mind, but he quickly pushed the thought away, saying, "Not today."

Suddenly, something caught his eye. Off to the side, a little further from the crowd, a figure of a man flashed by. Galbraith tensed, recognizing the bald head and neatly pressed trousers of a brown suit. Paul Buher, a spy for the Union of Gabriel the Archangel, walked slowly, as if he were looking for something. His movements were confident, but his face was tense, almost angry. Galbraith followed his gaze and saw Buher heading purposefully toward the woods, far beyond the fair.

"What is he doing here?" the guy thought, frowning. "This loyalist rarely showed up for no reason. He's probably sniffing out something for his own people again."

Galbraith felt a surge of irritation. Buher's very presence spoiled the atmosphere of the party. But he quickly pulled himself together, pretending not to notice. Why make a scene? The workers were having fun, the children were laughing. Let the spy sniff out something and go away. Was he going to stay here for long?

He looked away from the figure that had disappeared behind the trees and focused on the dancers again. The light from the garlands, barely flickering, illuminated the people who were swirling around with such sincerity, creating an atmosphere that was almost magical. Galbraith, trying not to reveal his inner state, sighed and assumed an air of indifference, although somewhere in the depths of his consciousness he continued to feel an indefinite tension.

Meanwhile, at the other end of the square, Mark came down from the podium with a smile, where he had just finished a speech full of inspiration and promise. The applause was still in the air, but he could not wait to add something more lively, more personal to the atmosphere. In his white suit, a striking contrast to the motley crowd, he seemed almost an integral part of the celebration, and his face was beaming with enthusiasm, ready for new achievements.

He approached a group of workers standing a little to the side and spoke with playful energy:

"Come on, friends, let's not just stand there! Let's dance in a circle! There's enough room for everyone, forward, hands in hands!"

Laughter rippled through the crowd, and people began to gather around. Men took off their hats, ladies adjusted their headscarves. Several children immediately grabbed their parents' hands, and a large human chain began to form around Mark.

"That's it! Come on, hold on to each other tighter!" he commanded, already in the center of the circle. His voice was loud, but friendly, charging everyone with his energy.

When the chain closed, Mark stretched out his arms like a conductor in front of an orchestra. His gestures were broad and expressive, as if he were actually conducting a symphony, where instead of music there were the steps, laughter and joy of the workers.

"Let's start slowly," he said, and the chain moved. The dance began to spin, first in one direction, then in the other. "Now, faster! Let's show everyone that we can not only work, but also have fun properly!"

The circle dance spun faster, people laughed, stumbling awkwardly, but not letting go of their hands. Mark waved his arms, setting the rhythm. He moved as if conducting a complex piece, shouting out commands:

"To the right! More to the right! Now back! That's it!"

His enthusiasm was infectious, and the circle grew larger, with more and more participants joining in. Even a few children, having escaped from their parents' embraces, ran to the center of the circle, clapping their hands.

The workers' faces were shining. They were looking at Mark, who, raising his hands to the sky, seemed to be conjuring them to laugh and rejoice even louder. It seemed as if the entire holiday was concentrated on this round dance, which was becoming larger and faster, filling the air with ecstatic cries and the music of universal joy.