The Good Mother 1988

Mark Tempe stood in the center of the huge hall, dazzlingly illuminated by the soft light of the chandeliers hanging several meters high. The intricate stucco patterns on the ceiling, the gilded cornices and the stained glass windows with bright colors created a feeling of serene luxury, as if the hall itself were not a museum, but a palace. In his black frock coat, with a snow-white shirt and perfectly polished patent leather shoes, he looked like a true dandy. On his nose, a pince-nez constantly sparkled - an element that had become part of his image, not only to add elegance, but also to allow him to take a closer look at the smallest details in the world that was so close to him.

The collection of butterflies displayed in glass cases on both sides of the room was breathtaking. These were not just rare specimens - they were true works of art. Each butterfly, each pair of wings, each stripe of color on their delicate bodies was an embodiment of the subtle beauty of nature that Mark had studied all his life. And although he was a professor of the piano department, loved the art of music and taught it, it was in the world of butterflies that he felt truly free. There was no need for strict theories, there were no obligations. Catching butterflies, collecting them - all this was a real pleasure for him.

How many times, being in Boston, he stole a free minute and, leaving his student lectures for a while, walked through the parks and forests, catching winged creatures with extraordinary grace. He was self-taught in this business, but with each passing year he became an increasingly sophisticated entomologist. Each butterfly for him was not just an insect, but the embodiment of an entire story, a riddle that he wanted to solve.

In this room, where display cases filled with bright wings hung, Mark felt like a fish in water. He stood, lost in thought, looking at the exhibition, as if peering into the mysterious world that was hidden behind every pin and glass wall. His gaze was focused, and even the silent visitors could not distract him from this peaceful state.

At that moment, his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps behind him. He turned slightly, keeping his eyes on the butterflies, expecting to see someone familiar, or perhaps just intuitively sensing the presence of another nature lover who might appreciate his passion. It was a man with a thin moustache and a bald spot, dressed in a gray jacket, black waistcoat, and immaculately ironed shirt. Stopping next to Mark, he spoke to him in a strange, somewhat unctuous tone:

"Interested?" he asked, his gaze gliding over the display cases as if he wasn't sure what exactly had caught the man's attention.

Mark turned his head slightly and, without taking his eyes off the collection, answered with interest:

"Yes, I am interested. The collection is certainly impressive, but in my opinion, it is still not complete. It is missing one important element - Delia Eucharis."

The man froze, and then, with a note of pleasant surprise in his voice, said:

"Ah, you are a great connoisseur! Yes, of course, Delia Eucharis is a real miracle of nature. It appears only once a century! And whoever sees it can consider himself truly the happiest person in the world."

Mark smiled faintly, realizing that this man had just uttered the same words that he himself often used in conversations with colleagues and friends. There was something in the way he spoke that left the impression that the man himself did not quite believe what he was saying, but nevertheless did it with such grace that it was difficult not to admire.

Mark and the man simultaneously returned to contemplating the collection. The man's attention was clearly absorbed by the display cases, where among the various butterflies were rare and exotic species, each of which left an impression of special sophistication. The man, slightly tilting his head toward one of the display cases, spoke with some excitement in his voice:

"I have seen a lot in my time. I see rare specimens, such as Rhapsody Stratosphere, or that very Iridescent Iceberg, and even Noisy Esperanza. But alas, I have never had the chance to meet Delia Eucharis. And what is even sadder, it seems I will never see her again."

He paused, as if his words were heavy and weighty in themselves, and stood still for a moment, concentrating on a display case with particularly bright specimens. Then, slowly, he looked up at Mark, his eyes sparkling with curiosity and a slight slyness.

"But... maybe you'll be lucky," he said, with a slight smile, adding an ironic note to his voice. "Who knows, maybe you'll be the lucky one who one day meets this shy lady and impales her on his sharp pin?"

Mark chuckled slightly, his lips curling into a wide, almost playful smile, as if he had just heard a dirty joke (which he had), but then, almost instantly, his expression changed. His eyebrows rose sharply, and his gaze grew more intense, as if some sudden realization had struck him. He nodded briefly, as if answering himself, and without waiting for the conversation to continue, he said:

"Sorry," he said with the same calm as before, but now there was a shadow of something serious in his voice, as if he suddenly felt uncomfortable in this company.

He stepped away from the display cases and walked away quietly, taking one step at a time until he was at a distance from the man. Without turning around, he continued his way through the room, leaving him alone, among the butterflies, display cases, and luxurious decorations. He walked through the huge doors of the room and found himself in a corridor that was full of people. The atmosphere here was a sharp contrast to the quiet solitude of the room with the butterfly collection.

The corridor was a real aristocratic ball - a multitude of guests had gathered here, each of whom was dressed in magnificent outfits, as if they had all come to a reception with the royal family. Men in elegant tailcoats and tuxedos, women in exquisite dresses, with expensive jewelry, with carefully styled hair and facial expressions full of refined grace. Every glance was directed towards the interlocutor or at the dishes that were scurrying in the hands of the servants, but no one could hide their attention to Mark, who, despite his undoubted elegance, looked among them like someone who had ended up there by some accident.

He took his time, as if he had forgotten the tension he had left behind in the butterfly room. He moved confidently through the crowd, his steps calm and precise, as if he were part of this world, a world where people seemed to enjoy elegant conversations and social games. But inside, his cold, forward gaze betrayed his true state: he was not part of this ball. He was here as an observer, not as a participant, as if he had come for a moment to take it all in and then left, leaving behind only a slight, elusive sense of alienation.

He passed between groups of people, hearing only echoes of conversations about politics, art, the latest society news, until he finally found himself next to a man standing at one of the doors. This gentleman with exquisite features wore a tuxedo exactly like Mark's own, and despite his aristocratic appearance, his gaze was full of calm confidence. His features recalled a figure from old novels, something between Aramis and a noble adventurer, ready for any turn of events, but always maintaining serene dignity. The man with a slight smile, barely noticeable, turned to Mark, and, as if affirming something, said:

"Let's go."

Mark nodded in response, without saying a word. They both began moving forward down the hallway at the same time, with the same smooth, confident steps that were characteristic of those who were used to attention but did not seek it. Silently, with focused gazes, they passed between groups of high-profile guests who were talking about all sorts of things, not paying much attention to those around them.

Luxurious people in tuxedos and evening dresses, with glitter and grandeur, created an atmosphere of refined idleness, but Mark, like his companion, only watched them out of the corner of his eye, assessing their gestures, conversations, their movements. Sometimes, among this general bustle, the white jackets of gendarmes flashed - their presence was almost imperceptible, but always perceptible, creating a contrast with the rest of the public. Their stern faces and silent presence reminded us of the power and order standing behind this social splendor.

Mark and his companion moved with the same silence, as if their steps had been agreed upon in advance. They did not stop, did not turn around, only continued on their way, surveying the scene with dispassionate observation. In both their eyes one could see something similar - a deep understanding that they were only guests here, but their place in this world was much more complex than simply following the flow.

Mark and his companion continued to move forward, enjoying the splendor of the apartment. The interior was simply stunning: luxurious marble floors, gilded picture frames, massive chandeliers emitting a warm light that softly reflected off the shine of precious fabrics and gilding. Every detail spoke of wealth and sophistication, and in this environment, Mark could not help but feel as if he were a participant in some grandiose production, where every step was part of an elaborate game.

But at that moment his companion - doctor Arago, as he was called in the party-turned slightly towards him and, despite his outward restraint, his voice sounded firm but quiet:

"Pretend nothing happened," he said without changing his intonation.

Mark nodded, realizing that this was not just a request, but an order. He tried to hide any excitement, absorbed by the magnificence around him, and continued walking, but his heart still beat strongly in his chest.

Arago, however, continued on his way, in no hurry, but there was a certain hidden determination in his movements. They approached the buffet, and the man, completely oblivious to his surroundings, took a glass of champagne. As if nothing had happened, he raised it to his lips with ease, and then, turning to Mark with the glass in his hand, he said with such severity that Mark almost caught his breath:

"Your wife was sentenced to life imprisonment."

Mark couldn't help himself: his gaze instantly dropped downwards, and his lips trembled slightly as he whispered:

"I..."

But Arago, not paying attention to his reaction, continued to stand before him with an emotionless expression on his face, which most closely resembled the look of an experienced chess player who was making his next move without worrying about the consequences. He raised his glass and, looking at Mark, sternly uttered only one word:

"Be quiet."

His voice was cold, almost stern, and there was neither sympathy nor reproach in his words, only a ruthless factual statement. Mark, trying to regain his former composure, quickly pulled himself together. His gaze became resolute, but the inner tension remained. He raised his head, looking at Arago, and said, restrainedly, but with clear insistence:

"What can I do for her?"

There was no immediate response. Arago seemed not to hear the question, though Mark was sure he had understood it. Instead of speaking, he simply nodded toward the buffet, glancing at the glasses and the variety of drinks. Mark realized that it was more than a simple gesture, an invitation to follow his example, to take time to reflect, perhaps to compose himself. In silence, Mark took his own glass of champagne, his fingers lightly touching the glass, as if it were a small ritual to help cool down before continuing the conversation.

Arago took a leisurely sip from his glass. At that moment his gaze became softer, but with some deep melancholy that Mark could not help but notice. It was not just regret, but rather sadness from the realization that everything was not as simple as one would like.

He put the glass on the table and, shaking his head slightly, said:

"First of all, you should at least grow up. It's good that at least you passed our exam," his words were quiet but firm, as if he was talking not about Mark, but about the whole situation.

Mark, realizing that his interlocutor did not mean direct criticism, felt a heavy lump in his chest. He remained silent, holding back his emotions. The melancholy in Arago's eyes indicated that he saw that Mark had not yet realized the full depth of what was happening, and perhaps this ease with which he succumbed to temptations or hoped for something simpler was only his weakness.

"On behalf of our entire party, I am conveying something important to you," Arago said, his voice firm, without the slightest emotion, as if every word had been written in advance. "You must go to a city that will play a special role in the future workers' movement. And I want you to remember this.

Mark listened attentively, although he felt inside how the fog of misunderstanding was slowly clearing, and something much larger than just a personal tragedy was emerging before him. But Arago continued:

"This city," he paused for a moment, giving Mark time to process, "is entangled in a network of loyalists. Their influence here is strong, and for your mission to be successful, you must become acquainted with their Union of Gabriel the Archangel, who...

Arago, mysteriously stopped mid-sentence, as if conveying the importance of the moment with this technique. He did not finish his sentence, he left it in the air, like an unsolved secret. The silence between them became deafening for a moment. Mark tried to understand what exactly he had missed in these words. And why this task was so important for the entire party.

Mark, confused and clearly amazed by this whole mysterious atmosphere, took a sip from his glass in surprise. His gaze darted back to Arago and he couldn't help asking:

"So… am I supposed to desolate this union?" he asked, with obvious bewilderment in his voice, as if he didn't quite understand what was hidden behind this order.

Arago sighed, and his face went ice cold for a moment. It was a sigh so deep and frustrated that Mark felt like a small child who had failed to understand a simple problem. There was no immediate answer, and when Arago looked at him again, his gaze was filled with disappointment.

Mark kept asking questions, trying to figure out Arago's plan:

"Or maybe I should lead the workers and carry out a coup in this city?" His voice already sounded a little tense, as if he was trying to build a logical chain in this complex plan, but the answer still did not come.

Arago, having listened to him, looked at him with a look in which disappointment was clearly visible. He seemed to expect something more meaningful from Mark, and not simple guesses.

"You would do well to read the works of the founders of the revolutionary movement first," he said with a heavy sigh, as if it were the most obvious thing to do in his position. "I swear you haven't even bothered to pick them up."

These words passed through Mark like a lightning bolt. He immediately looked down, his eyes fell on the floor, and everything inside him shrank from shame. He felt ashamed of his ignorance. He had never read the works of those who stood at the origins of the revolutionary movement, only heard about them in conversations, but never delved into their theory. The sudden awareness of his own insufficient preparation sharply undermined his confidence.

Arago, noticing how Mark lowered his gaze and felt vulnerable, as if weighing everything that was happening, suddenly smiled slightly, as if satisfied with his silence. He continued to look at him, his eyes showing not so much mockery as slight approval - Mark, at last, understood how deep his rudeness was in matters concerning the revolution.

"Well," said Arago, with a slight shade of satisfaction, "now that you have admitted your complete ignorance, I can get to the point."

He paused, and looking at Mark with a semi-serious expression, continued:

"Put aside all those Mahler symphonies and," he couldn't help but laugh, "refrain from shooting at defenseless targets. You're not an action hero, Mark."

Mark was silent, feeling his embarrassment only growing. Arago, continuing to look at him with a slight ironic smile, took a sip from his glass and slowly walked away from the table, continuing to hold the glass in his hands, as if not paying attention to what was happening around him. Mark, realizing that Arago's words were most likely only part of the plan, followed, trying not to waste time. Arago said something almost in a whisper, but it was said in such a way that each word seemed to resonate in the air.

"We literally have seconds," Arago said, looking straight ahead, his tone serious but slightly subdued. Mark realized that time was against them, and it was important to act quickly.

As Mark followed him, trying not to stand out among the guests, Arago suddenly turned around and, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, said:

"Waiting for you at 82 Vieira Street will be a passport in the name of Angus Parvis, a railway engineer. There will also be money, letters and weapons, all packed in a suitcase."

Mark nodded, feeling the tension building. He knew that every move he made now had to be perfect, or else everything would be doomed to failure.

But then, as if by magic, two gendarmes appeared in the corridor. They walked slowly, unhurriedly, as if looking at everyone with their focused gaze. These two were real guardians of order, their attention was focused on ensuring that nothing escaped their field of vision. Mark felt the heavy presence of their extraneous attention pressing down on him.

They seemed to be walking slowly on purpose, as if waiting for one of the guests to give in or make a mistake, so that they could pick up the invisible trail of the criminals. All these small details seemed to be starting to come together into some big picture, but for now everything was still unclear.

Arago continued walking as if he did not notice the gendarmes, but his face became more serious. He still held the glass of champagne, but his gaze was fixed on the distance, and his step was determined. He did not finish his sentence, but Mark knew that in their situation every word was important. Trying to remain calm, he could not tear his eyes away from the gendarmes, who were slowly moving along the corridor. His heart was pounding with excitement, and in a trembling voice, as if trying to find clarity, he asked:

"And which city should I go to?"

Arago, without slowing his pace, answered as if it were the simplest of all possible questions:

"To Cambridge, near Boston."

Mark felt something tense inside him. He knew that in Cambridge, beyond the universities and research centers, there was something much darker - places that people preferred not to talk about out loud. He sensed that something was wrong, but he still couldn't help but ask the next question:

"What about Harey?" he said, his voice shaking with anxiety.

"There is a political prison in Cambridge," Arago said, as if to reassure his interlocutor. "Everyone sentenced to life imprisonment in the last six years goes there," he added with cold precision.

Mark, hearing these words, felt the weight of this answer falling upon him. He knew that every moment, every choice now could be decisive. But no matter how hard he tried to curb his anxiety, the question remained unanswered.

Suddenly Arago interrupted his thoughts unexpectedly, almost abruptly:

"Okay, this is our last conversation," he said, drawing Mark's attention to something much more important than his questions.

Mark could not help but smile wryly, despite his anxiety. He looked at Arago and said in a strained tone:

"Do you really think this is for you?" His words were full of sarcasm, as if he himself did not believe what he had just said.

Arago sighed heavily, his gaze became tired, as if he was trying to find the right words to explain the seriousness of what was happening, but he understood that he would not tell Mark anything more. Mark quietly, almost in a whisper, addressed Arago:

"This is essentially the second floor," he said decisively, but with a hint of tension. "If you jump successfully, there's a good chance you'll catch on a branch of a nearby tree."

He quickly assessed his options before continuing, adding with some exaggeration:

"And if it is necessary, I will stop my enemy, don't worry."

Arago looked at him with obvious distrust, raising one eyebrow as if examining his words.

"Really? I wonder how exactly?" he said, not hiding the doubt in his voice.

Mark hesitated, tried to find a more convincing explanation, but instead came up with something that wasn't quite what he expected:

"Well, I..." he mumbled, looking down at his feet. "I'll just hit him over the head with my butterfly collection. That'll work, I guess."

Arago frowned instantly, his gaze becoming hard and determined. He knew that this approach would definitely not lead to the desired results. His voice, becoming a little stricter, sounded like an instruction.

"If you continue to think in such categories, then our revolution, I'm afraid, will die before it can even be born," he said with a slight reproach, as if trying to convey to Mark that this matter was much more complicated than simple violence or a random blow.

Arago glanced down the corridor, carefully glancing at the gendarmes who were standing nearby, carefully watching everything that was happening, and almost imperceptibly leaned towards Mark.

"Get away from me," he whispered evenly, without malice.

Mark immediately understood the hint. He straightened up, stepped aside, and, so as not to attract unnecessary attention, said loudly and clearly:

"To your health!" and, without wasting any time, he clinked a glass of champagne with Arago.

After taking a sip, he did not linger, but continued to move forward, took a few steps towards the exit, heading for the street. Arago, watching him, nodded, leaving his glass on the table. He continued to watch the gendarmes, and when one of them slowly turned and began to descend the stairs, Arago quietly followed him, as if he was in no hurry. He watched his every move, knowing that this moment could be decisive.

Outside, Mark, hiding around the corner, saw Arago leave the building. He stood there, waiting for him to slowly walk to his car. Suddenly the car door opened, and the surprise on Mark's face became obvious when he saw one of the gendarmes open the door for Arago.

Mark did not immediately understand what was happening, but his attention was drawn precisely by this unexpected sign of respect - respect? - from the gendarme to the insurgent. Mark stood watching as Arago got into the car, and the gendarme, seemingly completely calm, carefully closed the door behind him.

The sight made Mark pause - his initial feeling that Arago was in full view and openly demonstrating his actions was not as simple as he had assumed. And as soon as Arago's car started moving, Mark clenched his teeth and, unable to bear it any longer, punched the air with his fist, as if trying to express his rage. His body tensed, and without thinking, he rushed back into the building as if his entire fate depended on it. His gaze was fixed ahead, and after covering a few steps, he ran up the stairs, rapidly climbing to the second floor.

When he reached the balcony, his feet were literally sliding down the steps, and his heart was beating like crazy. Stopping at the threshold, he quickly took off his pince-nez, putting it in the breast pocket of his black coat. Dozens of thoughts flashed through his head, but there was no time for reflection.

Taking a few steps back, he accelerated and, without thinking, jumped. The moment in the air was like slow motion - everything around him dissolved, and only the thick grass under the tree was getting closer. He landed with a loud rustle, feeling the earth respond under him. The pain in his knees went away in a second, and Mark, without wasting time, quickly got to his feet and ran again quickly to the entrance of the building. He was full of determination, as never before. There was confidence in his movements and even a certain fury, prompting him to move faster than usual.

Soon he was back in front of the door, climbing the stairs again despite the fatigue that was starting to accumulate in his body. Without stopping, he reached the balcony again, now not even thinking about the fact that he could find another exit. He was in some kind of crazy, almost mechanical state. The understanding that time was running out was like an ax hanging over his head.

Looking up at the horizon, he pushed off the balcony with his feet again, and without thinking about the consequences, he jumped down. The air around him was torn by his speed, and, landing on the grass, he immediately rose, as if not feeling tired, after which he shook off the leaves that stuck to his clothes, and stopped for a moment, looking around.

His gaze moved up to the tree that stood closest to the window. He saw its branches hanging just below the balcony, and he knew that was his next step. Without wasting time, Mark rushed towards the building again. He was like a machine, purposeful and determined. He ran inside again, not paying attention to the noise, not trying to hide from unnecessary glances. The stairs were familiar, his movements were fast and confident, and soon he found himself on the balcony, ready for the next jump.

This time he didn't hesitate, didn't slow down - Mark was almost sure that this would be enough to reach his goal. He accelerated as if he was jumping for the last time, and in the blink of an eye he was already hanging on one of the tree branches. His hands instinctively grabbed the strong branches, and he hung, holding on to them with agility that an acrobat could envy.

The wind rustled the leaves, and Mark began to carefully descend the tree trunk, holding on to the branches. He had almost reached the ground when he suddenly turned to face the balcony and noticed something unexpected. A girl with long black hair that seemed to shimmer in the light was looking out of a window located on the floor below. She was wearing a yellow sleeveless dress and was holding a black bowler hat in her hands.

Mark instantly realized that she had been watching him jump the whole time. Excitement instantly overwhelmed him, and a blush appeared on his cheeks. He felt awkward, as if he had been caught in the act of something ridiculous. In response to her gaze, he spread his arms, as if making excuses, and said:

"What can you do, dear Emily, training..."

In response, she winked at him and, smiling cheerfully, made a gesture with her hand, inviting him to come closer. Mark, not yet fully understanding what was happening, approached the tree, trying to look as casual as possible. The girl opened the window, and without wasting a second, threw the pot in his direction.

Mark instinctively held out his hands and caught it in mid-air. Suddenly he was overcome by a strange surge of theatricality, and he felt that the moment called for a special gesture. He began to back away from the window, holding his bowler hat wide apart with one hand and blowing a few kisses in her direction with the other in gratitude. The situation seemed so absurd that he didn't even notice how he stepped awkwardly on a tree root, stumbled, and fell with a quiet cry onto the soft grass.

The girl burst into light, easy laughter as she watched him fall. Mark rose to his feet instantly, feeling the awkwardness wash over him. He waved his arms, trying to get rid of the dandelion fluff that clung to his clothes as if glued. They were white and fluffy, and now that he was standing on the grass, they looked like gentle but unpleasant reminders of his fall. With an annoyed expression on his face, he shook them off, tearing each fluff off as if they were to blame for what had happened.

Mark gave the girl an angry look and felt his patience run out. The laughter behind him grew louder and louder, and his irritation finally turned into a burst of action. He didn't want to stay in this place any longer, under the gaze of the one who made him laugh so easily. There was no room for logic in his head anymore - only the desire to hide.

Mark rushed away from the house without looking back, his steps became faster and faster, and the girl's laughter followed him more and more insistently, like an evil echo. This laughter, although light, but penetrating, did not give him peace, and all he wanted now was to run away far away, so that no one would see how he blushed and worried.