...he didn't find the right sign right away, wandering for almost an hour through the narrow streets where the cart was barely squeezing. Similar doors, equally murky windows - he had been to the area before, and each time to search for the abyss of time. With his eyes closed in the labyrinths of the underground corridors, the Phantom of the Opera knew each time with surprise that he was unable to remember the road in the neighborhood. It was time to think that the local shops grow out of the ground, then hide underground, and then in breaks - travel. At the same time, hardly one in ten people were involved in legitimate business, and that, only covering the illegal ones, maybe that was the point. But the Ghost's tedious search led to a white calming.
Finally, he almost slipped his nose into the darkened and once lacquered board with the inscription "Madame O's Magic Salon" and did not hold his breath of relief.
Inside it was dark: the sunlight almost penetrated through the years not washed windows, but floating in what was probably considered the air here, the clubs of "fragrant" smoke made the view even more difficult. The ghost of the Opera thought it would soak up this nasty smell and tried to breathe as little as possible.
- Seeking the advice of the stars, come in!
There were two rooms - or rooms - here, the entrance to the second was lost behind the remains of a once-bright curtain with images of birds and flowers of paradise. When the Ghost of the Opera almost bumped his forehead against a door jamb, the local ceilings did not count on its considerable height. Almost the entire room was occupied by a round table under a motley tablecloth, on a bronze stand in its center stood a crystal ball surrounded by many shiny little trinkets. At the table sat a woman in an oriental garment with her face covered with a veil - one could only see the densely summed up black eyes and so many jewelries that they must have sounded no worse than the Opera orchestra when moving.
- Who are you, a wanderer? - A well-delivered contralto with an oriental reprimand sang languidly, and the hand with bracelets and rings waved easily. - Sit down and say your name! What torments your soul? Tell me - and you will find the answers here.
- Stop breaking the comedy, Clo," said the Ghost, moving the chair and sitting across the hall. - You'd think you didn't recognize me.
- A critic! - A woman snorted with contempt and crossed her arms on her chest. This time there was no hint of an accent in her voice.
The owner of the "Magic Salon" was engaged in fortune-telling, covering with them the second lesson of the fence of stolen goods. Or vice versa - depending on what the client came for.
- I need information," said the Ghost.
- They haven't tried to sell anything stolen from the opera lately," the woman said. - If you have thieves again, look elsewhere.
- Other information.
- Another one? - The fortune-teller got up, looked attentively, and suddenly her eyes were rounded by amazement, and she whistled and sat down, or rather, fell back into the chair. She shook her head and pulled off her veil, opening her face, dark, brightly painted, with barely visible wrinkles in the corners of her eyes. - Buddy, your business is bad.
- I know," the Phantom of the Opera agreed. - Eyelid or curse?
- It doesn't look like it.
- A noisy spirit?
- Closer, but wrong again. We should check...
- Well, check it out! - the Ghost barked.
- As you know, as soon as you come to Madame Oh for magical help, it's not free or cheap.
- I saw it coming," a man filtered through his teeth. - How much?
Having smiled sweetly, the fortune-teller named the price, anticipating how the guest would be beaten in powerless fury, but he did not give her pleasure, having silently slapped money on a tabletop - they disappeared instantly.
- Wait here," the woman said, standing up and hiding behind the curtain.
She came back very soon, put a crystal ball on the floor, raked down the "magic" trinkets to the side, and put an old copper-coated chest on the table. Inside there was something mystical - judging by the rustles, clutches, ringing, or deaf knocking, which the mistress made, digging through his bowels. Finally, on the table was a shabby leather bag with a tightened neck cord, from which the fortune-teller has shaken out a handful of polished wooden knuckles of bizarre shape. From under the table, she took out a wooden bowl with a lid, poured knuckles into it, closed it and handed it to the Ghost:
- Ask a question.
The ghost chuckled, but took the bowl, shook it, and opened the lid abruptly and poured out the bones on the table. Immediately the mistress hung over the pattern, almost hiding her nose in it.
- I can't believe it," she whispered. - You have a pest in your theater! It's not easy, but with a special gift for survival.
- Survival where?
- Wrong question - playfully pogrozlya fingertipped woman.
- So explain - the Ghost gave the fortune-teller a skeptical look.
- He survives not where, but whom. He survives the Ghosts of the Opera from their theatres. It makes their existence unbearable, calls for bad luck on their heads, destroys plans. - She has lowered her voice in confidence. - I have not seen it myself, but I have heard from reliable people that your two brothers were left without the theatres because of the Pest.
The ghost drummed his fingers across the table. Yeah, he knew that, and the bad luck of the last few weeks couldn't have just accumulated in anticipation of his hour.
- And where did he come from?
- Remember who showed up just before your troubles began. Your theater, you know better.
The ghost of the Opera House thought about it, then jumped on his feet and shook his fists.
- Of course, he did! - he exclaimed. - A cocky little snot sniffing his nose into everything! This patron saint! Red!
to be continued...