Part 10 (1/2)
”What's so funny?”
The translator was wiping tears from his eyes. It took him a moment to gain enough composure to speak.
”It's funny, because Mongols f.u.c.k their horses!”
My face went red.
”Oy, are you taking a p.i.s.s!?”
The translator said something and the table's laughter renewed. I was not amused. Not in the slightest. I was reaching for one of the ashtrays, heavy f.u.c.k-all bludgeoning types, when a man tapped my shoulder.
”Don't listen to these frauds. That's the third time I've heard that Mongol story today.”
I turned to find a bearded and disheveled Irishman.
”You mind if I have a look?”
”Go to it, man.”
The Irishman s.n.a.t.c.hed the rubbings out of Rasputin's grasp and gave them a good look. The Russian rumbled but made no move to retrieve the doc.u.ments.
”Come on with me, mate. Leave these buffoons to their carousing.” I got up and left the Russian drinking party. The Irishman wasn't done with them.
”Mark my words, Grigori. You keep on with your stories you're going to come to a horrible, b.l.o.o.d.y end!”
The Russian answered with a finger gesture. I'm not sure what it meant, but I could guess.
”Where did you get these?” The Irishman asked.
”Long story. The short version is... cogs.”
”Someone wrote these on machine cogs?”
”Yeah.”
”That makes no sense.”
”Tell me what you know, mate. Maybe I can make sense of it.”
The Irishman shook his head.
”I don't think you can. This is Sumerian cuneiform.”
”How do you know that?”
”Because I'm a writer. I research this sort of thing.” He presented a hand. ”Abraham Stoker. My friends call me Bram.” I shook his hand.
”Jacob Fellows.”
”Good to know. This isn't just regular cuneiform, mate. This is some pretty common stuff.”
”Common Sumerian?”
”Sure, pal. Look, this one says, 'If a man put out the eye of another man, his eye shall be put out.'”
”Eye for an eye?”
”Right. And this one says, 'If a slave denies owners.h.i.+p of his master, the master shall gain the right to cut off the slave's ear.' These are laws. Specifically, these are the laws of King Hammurabi of Babylonia.”
”I'm not familiar.”
”You should be. King Hammurabi was the sixth king of Babylon and one of the first true rulers of man. He presented the first written laws of man, two-hundred and eighty two statutes covering crime, marriage, contracts, owners.h.i.+p. You could say he was the father of civilization. You mind stepping out with me?”
”Pardon?”
”I don't like the prospect of curious ears.”
I followed Stoker out of the h.e.l.lfax, and thankfully so. The stench of dishonest Russian was too much to bear and I was tempted to get my five pounds back by force.
We absconded to a cafe across the street and sat for a kettle of Royal Blend.
”You mind handing those back.”
I slid Stoker the etchings. He gave them a bit more scrutiny.
”You've got two laws of two-hundred eighty two. At least, two-eighty-two are a.s.sumed. The original carvings are numbered, but sixty-six through ninety-nine are missing.”
”What does it mean? Why etch it into metal work?”
”Why not? Cuneiform was an etched writing used primarily in stone, clay, and wood. If the Babylonians had a better mastery of metalwork, I'm sure they would have etched their words on disks.”
I sipped my tea. Stoker sipped his. Something wasn't right about the situation, about my chance meeting with an informative stranger.
”Why would a modern engineer take the time to etch these in his cogs?” I asked.
”I can think of two reasons. One, he was a mad man and the etchings bore some irrational meaning, personal to him but unfathomable to the sane world. Such is the nature of insanity in that it is deeply personal, and intensely lonesome.”
”You sound like a man who speaks from experience.”
”I've made a study of the insane for one of my books. I once met a man who eats spiders. He would bait them by catching flies and leaving them on thewindow sill. When I asked him why he ate spiders, he told me that he had yet to figure out how to catch rats, but when he did, he would drink their blood. There was a logic that made sense to him: flies, spiders, rats. But it was a personal, subjective logic, not meant for the world outside his mind.”
Stoker took another sip of his tea.
”But I'm moving away from the topic at hand. The second explanation is that the maker of these cogs attached some kind of greater meaning to his machinery and was leaving a note to the world. Do you believe in G.o.d, Mr. Fellows?”
I leaned forward in my chair. The Irishman regarded me with intense unblinking eyes.