A Not Entirely Conventional Consultation
An artistic adaptation by Aidan Johnstone and Patrick Kurtz for Kurtz Detective Agency Berlin:
“It had been a grey day. Immersed in my somewhat gloomy trains of thought – after all, I was twenty-five years of age, still unmarried and without children, and at times even suffered from mild bouts of depression – I heard, just as sleep was creeping upon me, a trembling knocking at the great oak portal of my Edinburgh apartment at 39 North Castle Street. I registered this disturbance with a certain displeasure, for the small hand of the great grandfather clock a little to the right of the entrance must already long since have begun yet another round.
Without waiting for any reply from me, the intruder swung both doors of the portal open with such considerable force as could only have been produced by an enormously strong pair of arms, revealing a man of truly pompous appearance, faintly fading in the warm glow of the coals. Old he was, so it seemed to me, old as the rock of the monoliths of Callanish, and yet his body possessed far more vitality than mine does today. Alarmingly real this dreamlike figure stood in my not overly spacious yet exceedingly comfortable apartment amidst the dull, flickering glow of the fireplace.
Furrows marked the old man’s face, furrows as deep as the valleys of the Highlands; his thin hair fell in neatly combed white strands upon his shoulders, the flowing beard as impressively grey as only that of a true sage could be – not of the sort belonging to a bent and ancient druid, the stereotype all too present in our imagination through Geoffrey’s Historia, but rather of the kind worn by Victor Hugo, the French man of letters – and, I have no doubt, philosopher – who had died only a few years before the events described here, in 1885.
Livingstones Mahnung
Neither tall nor short, neither broad nor slender, neither ugly nor handsome did the man in the doorway appear, and yet in an inexplicable manner he seemed extraordinary. Had he not leaned heavily upon a walking stick that deprived him of several inches of height, I might even then have noticed his truly exceptional stature. Appearances can deceive even the most perceptive mind, especially when they possess the audacity to ensnare it in circumstances of unclear thinking.
What, despite the absurdity of the apparition, struck the mind most strongly were the eyes – emeralds from the depths of the earth, sparkling green as only a diamond of primordial age could be. These small, piercing and yet graceful eyes had seen much: suffering and pain, power and greed, despair and death.
Deep as the trenches of the oceans they appeared, unfathomable and yet so open as though inviting any bold soul to attempt their exploration, well aware that whoever undertook the effort must inevitably fail. They offered a glimpse into an almost infinite accumulation of knowledge, as though within this immense library one might research the answer to any question, discover within it the solution to every mystery in the history of humankind.
Slowly, bent by age and supported by that walking stick of such graceful beauty as only a master carver could produce, the figure now advanced towards me. The glass of Scotch in my right hand began cautiously to tremble, at first only slightly, then with increasing intensity – from my youth I had always been fond of the delightful burning in the throat, especially a pleasant dram of Bowmore, preferably twelve years old, distilled on the fertile island of Islay, which belongs to the Inner Hebrides, with its smoky, peaty note and its dry sherry flavour, diluted by a single, necessarily tiny cube of ice, never by soda, had brightened many an evening for me. The book in my left hand sank upon my knees; the pipe in my mouth threatened to fall upon the velvet carpet at my feet.
What unrestrained force, what dreadful strength despite the apparent frailty, what captivating presence emanated from the stranger! Darkness and fear settled over my trembling head.
In my own chamber I had become the slave of a complete stranger; whatever he might have demanded of me, in that moment I would not have been capable of resisting his will. He was my master entirely; I his servant, submissive, humiliated, incapable of any objection. His will would have been my command, this I cannot deny, even should one call me a coward.
Fear that he might lead me upon an endless journey through the darkness of the human abyss penetrated my feeble mind.
Directly before my armchair the unknown man suddenly stopped. I did not dare to make the slightest movement or even address a word to him; I could not even muster the courage to continue looking into his eyes, for the authority of his person filled me with dread.
A moment of breathless silence, then a sudden change in his posture – I had not the faintest idea what it was, only perceiving a movement from the corner of my eye. Rigid with fear, I threw myself back into my armchair, letting book, glass and pipe fall, and in a single breath sweated out all the alcohol that had until then made the evening so pleasant. A surge of adrenaline rushed through my body. I shook off my stupor. If ever in my long existence I have truly been possessed of presence of mind, it must have been in those seconds.
Like a dark shadow a certainty spread within my heart: this could only be my end; nothing but terror and death would remain for me. I must have cut a most miserable figure indeed, my eyes tightly closed, whimpering in fear, awaiting my destruction.
Yet what happened – not merely in part, but entirely – was at first something quite the opposite.
Suspiciously I blinked towards the figure, still expecting the cruel blow of an iron fist. Slowly my eyes, which had been squeezed almost shut, widened again, brimming with relief at the unexpected fortune of being permitted once more to behold the face of the world among the living. Yet this sight did nothing to restore my speech, for just as strongly as I had felt fear of what might come, I was now filled with astonishment and shame at my foolish dread.
For in truth there was merely a hand extended towards me in greeting.”
from Aidan Johnstone and Patrick Kurtz: “Livingstone’s Mahnung”, © Patrick Kurtz
Kurtz Detective Agency Berlin
Rykestraße 26
10405 Berlin
Tel.: +49 30 555 786 41-0
Fax: +49 30 555 786 41-9
E-Mail: kontakt@kurtz-detektei-berlin.de
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Kurtz Investigations Berlin
Rykestraße 26
10405 Berlin
Tel.: +49 30 555 786 41-0
Fax: +49 30 555 786 41-9
kontakt@kurtz-detektei-berlin.de
Monday–Friday: 08:00–20:00
Since 2016, Kurtz Investigations has continuously supported the well:fair Neven Subotic Foundation, which provides children in underprivileged regions with access to clean water and education.
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