The Good Mother 1988

In a clearing near the forest, surrounded by tall trees, stood Baselard. His outfit, clearly inappropriate for his age, was more reminiscent of a rock musician's outfit: a black leather jacket with studs, ripped jeans, and an acoustic guitar slung over his shoulder. He seemed both out of place and confident, like a man who had long ago decided to live in a different world from the one everyone else lived in.

Mark stood next to him. In grey trousers and a waistcoat, with a white shirt open at the chest, he looked more sophisticated than serious. In his hands was a parabellum, a weapon that now seemed part of his everyday life, but at this moment, without his pince-nez and with a slightly worried expression on his face, he still looked confused. His gaze was directed somewhere into the void, trying to focus on what was in front of him, but his thoughts kept flying away.

Baselard looked at him calmly, his head slightly tilted, as if waiting. He didn't say a word, just stood there, his steel-stringed guitar swinging slightly on his shoulder. The wind rustled the leaves of the trees softly, creating an odd contrast to the tense moment that seemed to hang in the air.

"Well," Baselard finally broke the silence, tugging the guitar slightly on his shoulder. "Are you ready?"

Mark sighed, looking at the parabellum, then at the old man, and shook his head, as if realizing that the question would still haunt him.

"I'm ready. But the question is, are you ready? You're a bit old to be cutting crosses," he smiled at these words.

"We'll find out about that," Baselard chuckled, narrowing his eyes.

Mark looked in the direction the old man was looking, but saw nothing but trees hiding in the shadows. Suddenly, as if out of nowhere, a voice was heard. A long-haired brunette, sitting on a tall tree, in a bright yellow sleeveless dress, hanging her head down, shouted:

"Guys! They're coming!"

Mark and Baselard turned around at once. On the road, far away but already quite close, appeared an old black car - a sedan, as if torn from a caricature of the cars in which important officials of that time rode. The car moved slowly, as if it was in no hurry, and its very shape and slightly shabby appearance seemed to emphasize that it belonged to less important people than it seemed.

Mark and Baselard, without saying a word, hurried to the road and stopped at the low fence, getting ready.

"Well then," said Baselard, watching the car closely. "Get ready, we're about to expropriate the expropriators."

Mark chuckled, cleverly using sarcasm:

"Everyone except me is a scientist..." and, after thinking for a moment, he suddenly continued in a dashing tone: "Let's formulate this moment as a blow to democracy!" He pronounced the last word with noticeable relish.

The old man answered in a short but confident tone, in which one could hear the excitement of the hunt:

"We're going to blow it now!"

Without further ado, Baselard climbed over the fence, and Mark, without wasting time, quickly climbed a tree, hiding in its shadow, and carefully watched what was happening from there. The old man, meanwhile, as if not noticing his age, ran right into the middle of the road. In the blink of an eye, he took out his guitar with metal strings and, without any embarrassment, began to play a furious, almost frantic melody. The strings rang in the air, reflecting some kind of mad passion with which he was filled. The wind played with his long gray mustache, and his eyes sparkled with some strange, almost sinister fire.

The driver of the car that pulled up to their position shouted with barely concealed laughter:

"Get out of the way, clown!"

He continued moving, without slowing down, not paying attention to the old man, as if he was used to such eccentricities. But at that moment, Mark, taking advantage of the opportunity, jumped from the tree, without making any unnecessary noise, and rushed to the car. He saw that the passenger window was not only open, but as if specially prepared for this. Without hesitation, Mark, sliding along the body, went to him and began to climb inside.

The car kept moving, the driver making no attempt to stop. He seemed oblivious to the intrusion. But in the passenger seat sat the same bald man with the goatee who had been with Baselard at the meeting. His face at that moment did not express surprise - rather, it was one of anticipation, as if he had known that something like this was going to happen.

Mark, gritting his teeth, began to fight him. The struggle was intense, like in some nightmare. The bald man, despite his appearance, was agile and strong. Mark, instinctively looking for ways to gain the upper hand, crossed his arms with his, feeling his body tense with each jerk and attempt to seize control.

Despite his best efforts, he soon began to feel his strength slowly leaving him. The bald man with the goatee was far more skilled in the fight than he had expected. When he grabbed Mark by the neck and pinned him to the seat, Mark felt the cold metal object - before he could even understand what had happened, the bald man had shoved a strange pink gag into his mouth. With undisguised sarcasm that Mark could not help but notice, the man said quietly:

"Sorry, fool."

And, with a grin, he opened the car door and pushed Mark out. From the surprise and force of the push, Mark flew out of the car, landing on the soft grass. He could not immediately understand what was happening, so suddenly and sharply he was thrown. For a moment he lay stunned, feeling the ground slipping out from under his feet. But then, with fury in his eyes, he jumped up and, spitting out the gag, which turned out to be not as funny as he could have imagined, he glared at the air.

His face was like that of an offended child who had just lost a toy. He still couldn't believe how everything had happened so quickly and so unceremoniously. Anger and humiliation were boiling in his chest, but Mark couldn't allow himself to lose face, even if this entire absurd moment was against him.

The driver, grinning and realizing that Mark was clearly at a loss, stopped the car abruptly. He stuck his head out of the window, looking at Mark with obvious interest, as if this was all part of some strange performance.

Mark, standing in the grass and feeling his embarrassed face, said, trying to put into his voice the resentment and indignation of a young man, but one who was battered by experience (although he was already well over forty):

"What kind of masquerade is this? Am I a little boy to you?" he said, but with a light intonation, as if he was upset by everything that was happening.

It was that very theatrical insult, when a person is not just offended, but feels that everyone is looking at him as if he is funny and pathetic. Turning around, Mark began to walk away from the car, deciding not to respond to this absurd attack, hoping that all this would end now. He walked confidently, as if he had decided to leave everyone behind him for another minute.

But then the bald man with the beard jumped out of the car and, laughing like a madman, caught up with him. His laughter was somehow infectious, and there was not so much joy in it as madness and undisguised mockery:

"Stop, stop, you idiot!" he shouted, as if forgetting between fits of laughter that he had only been standing a few steps behind, and was now literally jumping, trying to catch Mark.

Mark, trying his best to ignore the scene, still glanced over his shoulder, and only then realized how ridiculous he looked. He moved with an expression that might have been assumed by a capricious child who had decided that adults did not deserve his attention. As he walked, without stopping, he threw over his shoulder:

"They slipped me a Parabellum without any cartridges!" he said, giving in to the insult, as if naively and offended. Then, without waiting for an answer, he abruptly turned away and continued walking to the side, leaving his pursuer behind.

The bald man with the beard, not expecting such a turn of events, ran ahead and, blocking his path, said in a calmer tone:

"Don't be offended, you worked it out well," he said, lowering his tone a little to smooth things over. "And about the gun... We have another one, it definitely has bullets."

Mark, not even having time to realize that his interlocutor had come so close, abruptly changed direction. His steps became faster, and with some kind of alienation, almost defiant, he shouted:

"I don't need your gun!" he said with such defiance that even the bald man with the beard paused for a moment, wondering whether he should continue his game.

Mark had already decided that no amount of persuasion would be able to bring him back to this absurd world when he suddenly heard the familiar voice of Baselard, who, despite his age and his strange manner of dress, was standing next to him. The old man said with a teacher's accent:

"Who falls from a tree onto the roof of a car like that? Are you crazy? You could get hurt," he said, sounding as if he were a mentor pointing out the mistakes of an unlucky student.

Mark, without stopping his steps, ignored his comments and with his usual arrogance glanced over his shoulder at the bald man with the beard, who was still standing by the car.

"I'd rather break you," he said with emphasis, as if he was saying this not to prove anything, but simply to answer the challenge.

The bald man with the beard immediately smiled and, twirling his finger at his temple, said mockingly:

"You fool!" His laughter was sincere, but more malicious than good-natured.

Mark, irritated and resentfully pointing his hand towards the car, from which they had already moved several steps, said:

"Yes, I would have smashed you both! And even before I got off the roof of your car and into the passenger compartment!"

The bald man with the beard was silent for a moment, and then, with some strange tone - a mixture of confidence and mockery - he answered:

"From there, from the roof of the car, you wouldn't have defeated me."

Mark turned sharply at these words and suppressed a smile. He did not know what angered him more - the fact that the bald man with the beard did not think about his capabilities, or the fact that the old man seemed to have already given in to this impudent challenge.

Mark, theatrically placing his hand on his heart and leaning towards the bald man with the beard, said with complete seriousness and in a heartfelt tone:

"You, yes, yes, I would defeat you at any distance!"

The bald man with the beard, unable to hold back a smile, asked with a fair amount of mockery:

"How, by remote control or something?"

But Mark, having missed the joke, did not pay any attention to it. He simply continued to look at him with an expression of complete self-confidence, as if he had not heard anything, and did not even notice how the old man laughed at this theatrical moment. Then the driver approached them, still with a barely suppressed smile, and Mark, deciding that the situation required action, turned to him and, with an expression that clearly did not bode well, said:

"Load my parabellum, and not with blanks, but with live ones!"

The driver nodded and took the pistol from Mark's hands with restraint. He glanced at the weapon, as if appraising it, and with a slight glint of respect in his eyes, began loading it. Mark watched this process with a displeased expression, his gaze focused but not tense, rather as if he knew that the next steps would now be decisive.

Then the four of them-Mark, Baselard, the bald man with the goatee, and the driver-walked toward the edge of the woods, away from the road, where they were no longer visible from the main highway. Their steps were measured, but each of them moved as if preparing for something greater. Baselard, with his guitar on his back, walked with the confident air of an old man who had long been accustomed to being in the center of things, although his movements remained light and graceful. The bald man with the goatee kept up, his steps were quick, almost energetic, and he did not hide his carefree smile, as if this whole situation were just another game for him.

The driver walked a little ahead, holding a pistol in his hand, and it was clear that he was by no means a newcomer to such matters; his steps were confident, but at the same time restrained, which indicated his readiness for any turn of events.

Mark moved behind them, feeling his gaze skim the ground, focused and wary. He stayed behind everyone, as if he was wondering what would happen next, and perhaps trying to figure out how much control he still had over the situation. His gaze was dark, he would occasionally raise it, looking around the group, but he didn't say a word, just walked quietly, unhurriedly.

Soon the bald man with the beard stopped by the tree, his steps slow and confident, like a man who was used to his role. With a slight movement of his hand, he took from behind his back a tall top hat that seemed to materialize out of nowhere. With his usual grace, he placed it on his bald head, and, wearing this strange accessory, immediately assumed a pose, as if expecting applause. He crossed his arms over his chest, and his look became slightly more arrogant, like a circus performer who knows that the audience is already delighted.

Baselard, without saying a word, stood next to him with a slight grin and, as if on cue, raised his hand. In his palm was a red apple, which he deftly placed on top of the bald man with the beard. The apple looked bright and juicy, contrasting with the black top hat, and the whole scene seemed to acquire a theatrical tone. Baselard, standing next to him, looked no less confident, but his gaze was focused, as if he were waiting for something else to happen in this strange situation.

Mark stood a little to the side, keeping his distance from everyone, holding a pistol which he pointed with suspicious confidence at the apple standing on top of the cylinder. He squinted and said, without taking his eyes off the target:

"Even without pince-nez and without any magic, I hit the mark!"

The bald man with the beard, barely holding back a smile, turned to him, continuing to carelessly twirl the top hat in his hands:

"Aha-ha-ha, you're lying! You can't see a damn thing without your pince-nez, how are you even supposed to hit the apple?"

Mark narrowed his eyes even more and threw back his shoulder, as if preparing for the decisive shot.

"No, holy true cross," he answered confidently, "I'm not lying, and I'll prove it to you!"

The bald man with the beard seemed to be just waiting for this. He took an apple from his top hat and, with a smirk on his face, began to eat it slowly, continuing to look at Mark. His gaze was almost mocking, but at the same time calm and confident.

"Well, if you're so sure," he said with a sarcastic grin, still chewing on a tasty apple, "then why argue?"

Mark stood there, completely absorbed in the moment, but feeling a strange emptiness as his target suddenly disappeared. He lowered his pistol, feeling like a child deprived of a long-awaited toy. His face darkened slightly, but he couldn't help but feel the embarrassment beginning to overcome him.

Baselard, standing nearby, watched this with a slight ironic smile, but did not intervene. At this moment, all his confidence began to look precarious, like some rash impulse.

Mark, hiding the pistol in his belt, slowly approached the others, feeling his heart beat dully in his chest. He did not know what to feel: irritation or relief. The thought that all this was just a game was floating in his head, but before he could come to a final decision, Baselard, noticing his approach, spoke animatedly.

"Do you know why your second attempt will definitely succeed?" the old man asked, bowing his head and watching Mark closely, as if he were his student.

Mark thought for a moment, lost in his own thoughts, but quickly returned to reality.

"Why?" he said, looking into Baselard's eyes, completely serious.

The old man grinned and, after a dramatic pause, replied as if it were a revelation:

"Because it will be carried out by smart, desperate, brave, and most importantly, young people."

Mark's mouth dropped open as if he had just heard a truth that put everything in its place. He stood silently, digesting what he had heard, and a spark appeared in his eyes, as if a new fire had suddenly ignited in them.

"Young…" he whispered, clearly impressed. "It matters, doesn't it?"

Baselard nodded, but his gaze was full of hidden meaning, as if he was waiting for Mark to understand all the nuances himself. Mark, slightly raising his eyebrows and with a slight sarcasm in his voice, turned to Baselard:

"And you, gaffer, where will you go? Or will you also go for a second try side by side with the youth?" His words were full of provoking irony, but underneath they hid a sincere interest.

The old man looked slowly at the forest, his eyes slightly misty, as if he were back in his memories, in those distant days when he had to make a choice. Then, as if from the depths of his soul, he turned to Mark, and his voice became the tone of a mentor sending a student on a long journey.

"As an older comrade, I will educate you," he said calmly, but with some invisible heaviness, as if he had said these words more than once. "I will teach you not only to value this Gu... Gur...

"Gustav Mahler," Mark suggested.

"Yes," the old man continued, "not only to worship Gustav Mahler, but also to consider Plekhanov a man. And Marx... well, I won't even mention him. He's definitely not up to you, pianist," he said with some disdain and immediately added: "Although you are practically namesakes, with a difference of one letter, but to you, I'm sure, any letter of his work is like Chinese literacy!"

Mark felt the old man's words go deep into his soul, as if they were touching those strings that he usually carefully guarded in his life. He did not immediately answer, looking at his face, distorted by life, but in which one could guess the features of great experience and deep knowledge.

"So you're offering me a whole program here?" he chuckled, trying to hide the worry that had crept into his voice. "Aren't you afraid that I'll forget all this? Or, worse, that I won't understand?"

Baselard didn't answer right away, he looked towards the forest again, as if weighing all his words before giving an answer.

"I think you'll understand. Time doesn't just pass. Too many people like you hide behind words and titles, thinking that's enough. But real power isn't in playing the piano correctly," his eyes sparkled, as if he knew something Mark didn't yet understand, "it's in understanding that behind every piece there's an idea, and behind every person there's a struggle.