The Good Mother 1988

Mark Tempe stood on the deck of the steamship Alexander York, leaning against the wooden railing. His gaze was fixed on the vast distance where the waters of the Charles River shimmered. Golden rays of the sun fell on the surface, reflecting in elusive sparks, and the river, as always, moved forward unhurriedly, unhurriedly, as if not noticing the time. The wind played with his hair, and the air was rich with the smell of water and salt, bringing with it the promise of travel and adventure.

The Alexander York, despite its name, was not a young ship, not at all - its hull, painted dark green with white stripes, looked like a relic from the early twentieth century, an era when steamships were still the most important mode of transportation on the waterways. With its tall funnels, somewhat lost in the white haze rising above them, and its massive, slightly lopsided rudders, it seemed to be steeped in the past, but with each passing day, more and more enveloped in modernity. Its wooden decks creaked underfoot, and on board you could hear the constant growl of the steam engine, accompanied by white clouds of steam rising into the air.

As the steamer moved slowly along the shore, the ancient clockwork mechanisms adjusted its speed with a characteristic grinding sound, and Mark again plunged into contemplation. The water of the river was calm, but even in its calm there was hidden power, creating the impression that the Charles River could at any moment come to life, filling everything around. The stone banks washed by time looked as if they were washed away, like those who had long since disappeared into the shadows of history.

Mark looked around the ship again: the ancient wooden railings, the shabby cabin on the lower deck, the rust streaks barely visible on the metal parts. It didn't seem like much, but it all created an atmosphere of some kind of journey through time - as if the Alexander York itself were a bridge between eras.

The whistle of the steam engine was clearly audible, and Mark Tempe, a little tired of thinking, slowly glanced at the city, hidden in the distance behind a curtain of morning fog. Boston, with its narrow streets and stately buildings, gradually disappeared over the horizon, leaving only barely discernible outlines against the gray sky. He felt a light wind blowing around his face, and for a moment his thoughts rushed to what awaited him further, already outside the city, on the open sea. He squeezed his fingers on the rail, but soon turned his gaze downwards and, with a light sigh, decided to go down to the cabins.

As he descended the ancient staircase, he heard the hum of the steam engine again, the muffled noise of conversations, and the quiet footsteps of other passengers, whom he could barely see in the dim light. Halfway down, he heard the disgruntled voice of an old man coming from the wardroom. It was the voice of one of the crew, breaking into a shout:

"Only first class passengers are allowed into the wardroom!"

Mark slowed his pace, listening. The old man's voice was sharp and stern, almost irritated, as if the habit of commanding and seeing subordinates was in his blood. He looked around and noticed that he was addressing a short, bearded man. The man stood a little further away, looking a little confused. His gaze was uncertain, as if he did not know how to deal with this sudden resistance. His strong shoulders and thick beard could not hide the confusion in his eyes, and he tried to say something, but the words did not form.

"I… I thought that…" the man tried to answer, but his voice trembled, and the old man continued to look down at him, as if confident that his words were not subject to discussion.

Mark walked past the two and suddenly stopped. The soft rustle of footsteps on the wooden stairs turned to silence, and as if by instinct, he turned, deciding to intervene. The crew member, who had not yet noticed Mark, continued to lecture the bearded man in a reserved, commanding tone, as if he were a naughty child.

"I beg you," he said, "to observe decorum and not to create disturbances. This is no place for discontent. Obey the rules, otherwise it will be unpleasant."

Mark couldn't help but feel the old man's tone offended him. He knew what power was, but her arrogance always irritated him, especially in situations where it was clearly out of place. He exhaled, looked at the couple, and interrupted sharply:

"Who knows," he said, "sometimes a scandal is the only way to bring back the flavor of life. Without it, everything becomes simply bland."

The crew member froze, his words cut off mid-sentence, and the bearded man, although clearly embarrassed, could not help but notice how the old man's reaction changed from confidence to uncertainty. The old man immediately stopped short, noticeably bending over, and, almost losing his steadfastness, hurried to justify himself:

"I beg your pardon, sir," he said, lowering his head. "I did not mean to cause inconvenience. It is all official duty, you understand..."

Mark, feeling the air around him fill with tension again, took a step back and could not resist continuing his attack. His gaze became increasingly cold, and his words became hot, full of the kind of force he usually did not allow himself to use. He turned again to the crew member, who was clearly losing confidence and looking increasingly embarrassed.

"Oh, you're on duty?" said Mark with obvious contempt. "All the more so! Do you think your place here is justified? Class privileges are, sir, the most shameful pages of American reality," he added, waving a finger in front of his face, as if he were just a child who had forgotten his duties.

The crew member tried to straighten up again, but Mark's gaze literally penetrated his soul, making him blush even more. He opened his mouth, trying to say something in his defense, but the words did not come, and instead of answering, he lowered his gaze again, modestly pursing his lips.

Mark felt his reaction deepen. People like him always considered themselves superior to others, but in this tyranny of power, in his opinion, there was nothing respectable. He was not prepared to allow anyone, even a man with a tie and badges, to bully others. With a grin that was more disappointment than aggression, he spoke again:

The crew member spread his hands in confusion, as if Mark's words were completely incomprehensible to him. His face expressed complete bewilderment.

"I don't understand," he said, as if he was unable to digest such harsh criticism directed at him.

Mark, not noticing how his irritation was growing, did not answer in his usual calm tone. In one hand he held his bag tightly, and with the other, sharply raising his finger upward, as if indicating the importance of his words, he said with the expression of a lecturer who was accustomed to preaching to students:

"All people on Earth should have equal rights," he said, choosing the intonation that was appropriate for an audience that was accustomed to perceiving his words as indisputable.

These words literally threw the crew member into a panic. His shoulders trembled tensely, and his face turned pale, as if the spirit of rebellion itself had appeared before him.

"That's strictly forbidden!" he literally screamed, almost stuttering from fear, and began to look around nervously, as if he himself could be punished for such insolence.

Mark noticed his confusion and knew that this was exactly what he wanted. But his irritation did not stop there, and he, charging from the reaction of this faceless representative of the system, continued:

"Do you know why I came on board your ship?" he said, almost shouting the words with a growing cry, as if he was no longer impatient to get his point across. "I came here to abolish all these established regulations! To question all this obscurantism that you call a system!"

His words echoed off the walls of the cabin, and the crew members passing by glanced at him several times in bewilderment, but no one dared to interfere. Mark, feeling his energy taking shape and literally being absorbed by the hot words, did not immediately notice how the bearded man, whom he stood up to protect, began to move towards the exit. He clearly decided to leave this conversation, but Mark, still seething with indignation, could not allow him to leave without finishing what he had started. He instantly put his hand on his shoulder, stopping his step.

"Wait," Mark said, turning to the crew member, but his voice was even more confident now. "Go and report this to the captain. Let him decide for himself what to do with such 'established regulations.'" His words sounded with such force that even the tough guards in the wardroom clearly sensed an atmosphere of threat.

The crew member froze in place, looking at Mark a little confusedly, and then, apparently deciding not to enter into a conflict, said embarrassedly:

"Sorry, sir. I... didn't know it was that serious." He chuckled nervously and hurried away, muttering something unintelligible until he disappeared through the door.

Mark finally turned to the bearded man, who obviously hadn't expected such a reaction. Seeing his confused look, Mark relaxed, grinning.

"Well then," he said with an inviting gesture, "please, let us enter the wardroom. I am sure you will be comfortable."

He took a step forward, confidently heading towards the door. The bearded man, a little hesitantly, followed him. Mark felt relieved, as if he had just taken an important step in breaking down this absurd barrier between "rights" and "responsibilities" on board. With this feeling, he entered the wardroom, which was majestic, but with a touch of former luxury.

Its low, carved vaulted ceiling, topped with gilded cornices, softly reflected the warm light that emanated from lamps with dim lampshades. In one of the corners, by the high window, stood a piano - an old instrument, a little worn by time, but still leaving a feeling of pride of the wardroom. The walls were covered with heavy wallpaper, and in the corners there were dusty rugs with patterns that clearly went out of fashion several decades ago. Along the walls were placed tables with high chairs, and behind them - many gray-haired gentlemen in luxurious suits, lazily sorting through glasses with drinks and conducting conversations in the manner of true aristocrats.

But at that moment all their eyes were fixed on the figure of the man sitting at the piano. It was a gendarme, in uniform, with dull, faded eyes, who with obvious immodesty looked up from the keys and in a sharp tone continually voiced his fierce criticism. He fingered the keys with an intensity that sounded almost aggressive, playing a reworking of Mahler's sixth symphony. A grimace played on his face, and from his lips came barbs directed at the composer.

"Oh, what a pathetic buffoon this Mahler is!" he said with obvious irritation, almost interrupting the sounds of the music. "This drawn-out tirade in the first movement - it could have been cut in half! The emotions are passionate, of course, but this senseless drag... it's simply impossible!"

His voice rang out in the silence of the wardroom, while the old gentlemen, busy with casual conversations, sitting at the tables in their chairs, clearly felt the need to focus their attention on the dispute. One of them, with a grey moustache, barely suppressed a chuckle and shook his head. The gendarme continued, not paying attention to them, or, on the contrary, feeling the need to speak out:

"Just listen to what his hard-of-hearing admirers say about the second movement... They call this strange, delirious mixture of tragedy and clumsy irony the pearl of symphonic art! Did this German not even know how to create balance in music? It reminds one of, well, a comic tragedy, not a serious symphony!" His fingers moved tirelessly over the keys, and each chord echoed in the air with an insistent and piercing sound, as if the gendarme himself were personifying his criticism.

The crowd at the tables behaved differently: some continued their boring conversations, raising their glasses and chuckling in response to his statements, others tried to understand his words, but their eyes were lost in thought, and their ears - in anticipation of the end of the melody. One of the old men even showed slight discontent, which he tried to hide behind a soft cough. The gendarme continued at this time, and his voice became louder and louder, although it was already losing its confidence in tone:

"Listen, gentlemen, how can you develop this theme so absurdly? All the internal dynamics are lost! Why couldn't this bespectacled cuckold simply make the music more compressed instead of this far-fetched pathos? And in the midst of all this thinking we remain on the same wavelength. Disgusting!" He hit the keys, almost maliciously, to emphasize his point. "I don't understand how Mahler can be considered great at all!"

One of the grey-haired gentlemen at the table looked at him with mild surprise, but did not object. He simply shrugged, swirled a silver spoon in his glass of whiskey and continued his conversation with his neighbours, leaving the gendarme the right to his own opinion.

By this time, Mark and the bearded man had managed to settle down at a table by the window, and although their gazes were directed at the gendarme sitting at the piano, their perceptions of what was happening were completely different. The bearded man, who had managed to get into this privileged zone with difficulty, sat with a slight sadness, not so much from the music, but from the awareness of his situation. He sat in his black suit, with his hands nervously intertwined on the table, as if all this luxury and surroundings were something distant, almost inaccessible to him. His gaze was lowered, and his lips were slightly compressed when he glanced at the scenes around him - from the window there was a view of a world that seemed alien to him.

Mark was completely different. His face was tense, his eyes full of fury. He could not stand the way the gendarme was translating the greatest work of all in such an unsightly way, and his words were hurting him more and more with each passing second, as if they were a personal insult. He sat up straight, his clenched fists slightly white, as if he was ready to stand up and react at any moment. The gendarme's words, which sounded with such self-confident cruelty, penetrated him, causing hostility and a desire to change something.

"Are there really idiots who buy discs with recordings of Mahler's symphonies?" the gendarme roared loudly. "Does anyone really pay for this nonsense?"

These words were the last straw that broke Mark's patience. He stood up abruptly and, without looking at his neighbor, intervened in the conversation. His voice was even, but there was a rage in it that he was barely holding back.

"Gentlemen, allow me to intervene," he interrupted the gendarme, standing up and hiding his fingers in the pockets of his coat. "For the information of all present, Mahler did not receive much money for his symphonies even in his lifetime. In fact, he received pennies for his work, for his contemporaries were exactly the same as the gentleman who had just criticized him." Mark glanced around at those present, ignoring the stunned gendarme's gaze. "And even if he had been surrounded by such mediocrities as you, his music would still have survived."

The pause Mark created with his words was short but powerful. Silence fell over the wardroom, and then a chuckle broke out, which quickly turned into loud laughter. The gray-haired gentlemen sitting at the tables could not contain themselves. One of them laughed so hard that tears came to his eyes, and another, squatting, brought a handkerchief to his nose.

The gendarme, turning purple but not raising his voice, made an unpleasant face, as if something disgusting had been thrust under his nose. His left hand leaned heavily on the back of the chair at which he had just been sitting, and the tone of his voice became even more vile than before.

"So you would pay a million for a single symphony by this German?" he asked, drawing out the words as if he wanted to imprint them on the air.

Mark, whose face immediately became serious, paused and, slightly bowing his head, answered as if he was weighing every word.

"Alas, I think that music cannot be valued in money at all," he said firmly. "Art does not belong to the market or to wallets. It is something that goes beyond market relations."

With these words, Mark suddenly rose from the table, taking his suitcase with him. His voice became louder, and he suddenly attracted the attention of the entire wardroom.

"Gentlemen!" he addressed those present with such passion, as if he were lecturing to hundreds of students. "If mister Mahler is not worth a dime to anyone here, then I, on the contrary, am ready to prove that art is not only music, but also the unity that it creates! Therefore, I propose to raise funds in support of the work of Gustav Mahler! Let everyone contribute as much as they think necessary, so that we can show the world that true art is valued above all else!"

The room suddenly froze, as if he had just suggested something absurd. The noise of voices that had just filled the room died down, and those sitting at the tables looked at Mark with expressions of bewilderment. One of the gray-haired gentlemen, who had been smiling at the argument until then, frowned, as if trying to figure out whether Mark was serious. The gendarme froze, his gaze became even more hostile, and his hand remained on the back of his chair.

Mark glanced around the quiet wardroom, his heart beating faster. A tense silence hung heavily in the air, as if everyone present was weighing how to react to his words. He felt uneasy, but forcing himself to maintain an outward calm, he parted his lips, smiled slightly, and, raising his hand in a conciliatory gesture, said:

"Gentlemen, I apologize if my words confused you. It was a joke! Just a joke."

A forced smile played across his face, but he felt the nervous tension rolling through his body like a wave. Mark shook his head, as if apologizing for his own wit, and continued:

"I confess that I sometimes forget that, like any premature discovery, mister Mahler's music is inaccessible to the provincial perception... of most Americans."

He said these words with a barely noticeable bitterness in his voice, emphasizing them with a slight bow. There was no smile on anyone's faces, but several people glanced quickly at each other, as if trying to figure out whether this should be taken as a joke or an insult.

Mark, without waiting for a reaction, turned around and, casually throwing his bag over his shoulder, resolutely walked out of the wardroom. His footsteps echoed in the corridor as he walked away. He felt the gazes still hanging heavily behind him, even through the closed door. Once in the corridor, Mark took a deep breath, trying to relieve the nervous tension.

"Oh God, why did I say that?" he whispered, looking at his feet.

Suddenly, there was a quiet creak behind him. He started, turned around, and saw a bearded man coming out of the hall. The man had apparently been sitting silently all this time, but now his gaze was directed straight at Mark, expressing something between approval and cautious interest.

"Ah, it's you!" Mark was delighted, recognizing at least one acquaintance in this oppressive environment. His face softened, and his step became more confident. "Well, how do you like it? Not a bad performance, huh?"

The bearded man didn't answer, he just nodded slightly, as if confirming or giving a sign to continue. This was enough for Mark to turn the flow of his thoughts.

"You know, I was thinking..." he began, quickening his pace and gesturing for the bearded man to walk alongside him. "When a crowd of idiots gathers, it's not a disaster, as it might seem. No, it's even a gift from fate! A real opportunity to test yourself, your nerves, your endurance, and, in the end, your words!"

The bearded man listened silently, but seemed to listen attentively. He walked next to Mark, slightly bowing his head, as if trying to catch the subtle thread of his reasoning. Mark, not noticing or ignoring the silence of his companion, continued with the same enthusiasm:

"Think about it: who are we without this? Without the crowd, without the pressure, without this feeling when every glance in your direction is a challenge. We are nothing. Just shadows wandering in our own confidence. And there, behind the door, is the real test, the battlefield, where either you are them, or they are you."

His voice grew louder, bouncing off the wooden walls of the corridor as they walked toward his cabin. The bearded man slowed his pace slightly when Mark suddenly stopped at his door and, turning to him, concluded:

"So thank fate for these pompous idiots. As they say, my enemy is my teacher. Isn't that right?"

The bearded man finally smiled with the corner of his mouth, but said nothing, as if he had taken a vow of silence.

"Well, welcome to my humble corner!" said Mark, opening the cabin door and gesturing for the bearded man to come in.

Mark, entering the cramped cabin, closed the door behind him with a restrained movement and quickly surveyed the situation. The modest room, with one bunk against the wall and a second one opposite, looked tiny even against the backdrop of the old steamer. Having put the bag on the bunk, he took off his jacket, carefully laid it on top of the bag, as if this could protect his property.

"Make yourself comfortable," he said, turning to the bearded man.

He sat down on the opposite bunk, folding his hands on his knees. His face expressed slight confusion, but there was something unexpectedly sincere in his voice when he spoke:

"You know, I keep thinking... You were right. I would really like to support some composer. Not Mahler, of course, he is no longer with us, but at least another one who could write something truly worthwhile, - he said with sincere regret, shrugging his shoulders."

Mark turned to him, squinting, but said nothing. The bearded man hesitated, rubbed his knee with his palm, and then, looking at Mark with some strange, slightly stupid expression on his face, added more quietly:

"Excuse me, but what is your name? We seemed to have become friends, but I don't even know what to call you."

Mark froze for a moment. The thought of blurting out his real name, Mark Tempe, almost slipped from his lips, but he stopped himself in time. Suppressing the impulse, he nodded slightly and, forcing a slight smile onto his face, answered calmly:

"Angus. Angus Parvis. Railway engineer."

Smiling in a way that made it seem natural, he added:

"And you? How should we address you?"

But the bearded man, as if he had not heard the question, began to tell, making an indefinite gesture with his hand, as if making excuses:

"I'm returning from places... how can I put it... not so distant, you know." He shrugged guiltily at these words. "I'm sailing to Cambridge."

He looked at Mark with slight relief, obviously taking his fictitious name at face value. Mark felt increasingly uncomfortable under the bearded man's gaze. The desire to be alone in the cabin grew stronger with each passing second. Having collected his thoughts, he said in a voice in which there was a slight reproach:

"Sorry, but I am not authorized to accept any money. If you want to support the arts, I'm afraid you'll have to find someone else."

The bearded man, hearing this, seemed to suddenly understand something. He rose from the bed, looked at Mark, and then extended his hand.

Mark froze, his gaze falling on the outstretched palm, as if it were not a hand, but something dangerous, almost poisonous. But after a moment's hesitation, he shook it anyway, holding back his irritation.

"Well then, consider me your debtor, mister Parvis!" said the bearded man, smiling as if he was trying to win his interlocutor over.

Mark, who by this point could no longer hide his displeasure, nodded briefly and gestured towards the door, trying not to be too rude, but insistent enough:

"I think it's time for you to go. I still have a few things to put in order before arriving at my place of work."

The bearded man froze for a moment, as if not expecting such a turn of events, but quickly pulled himself together.

"Of course, of course. Thank you for the opportunity to visit the wardroom," he said with a slight bow.

As soon as the door closed behind the bearded man, Mark breathed a sigh of relief. He glanced at the bunk where his suitcase lay and finally felt that he was the master of his space again. He froze for a moment, as if listening to the sounds behind the door, and then made sure that there was no one in the corridor and turned sharply towards the bunk. The jacket that had been thrown over the suitcase was instantly taken and immediately found itself on his shoulders. Having dressed, Mark sat down on the bunk and, bending over the suitcase, slowly opened it.

From that moment on, his movements became careful, almost ritualistic. He pulled a large snow-white towel out of his bag and laid it out on the bunk in front of him. Then his gaze darted to the door, as if he expected to see the bearded man's strange eye in the keyhole. A suspicion flashed through his mind that this annoying guy was capable of even worse things. Mark grimaced with displeasure, but realizing that he was not in any danger for now, he began to take the revolvers out of his bag one by one, their black metal barrels glittering in the dim light of the cabin.

Each movement was accompanied by a sense of triumph, which grew with each new weapon laid on the towel. One, two, three... ten... fourteen. When the last, fifteenth, revolver took its place, Mark leaned back on the bed and, crossing his arms, looked at his baggage of weapons. A bright fire flared in his eyes - a mixture of pride, determination, and even a kind of grim satisfaction. These revolvers were his weapons in the secret mission he was about to carry out at the behest of the Party.

Having admired his arsenal to his heart's content, Mark reached into his satchel and pulled out a thick sheet of paper folded several times. He unfolded it, and a map of the Cambridge political prison appeared before him. A grid of fine lines traced the strict outlines of buildings, towers, and a courtyard, surrounded by a massive wall.

His gaze was fixed on the rectangle of the yard, marked in thin, almost imperceptible letters: "Common Walking Area." At that moment, everything around him disappeared - neither the hum of the steamer's engine nor the distant voices from the corridor existed any more. Before his inner gaze, the scene suddenly came to life: a harsh, cold yard covered with gravel, enclosed by blank walls.

In that dark space he saw the figure of Harey Dunlop. She walked slowly, almost dragging her feet, followed by two gendarmes. Her dark hair was pulled back into a careless bun, her shoulders were slumped, and her face looked as grey and haggard as the prison walls. Mark thought he saw her lips whisper a name - not his, no - the name of their daughter, Molly.

His heart sank in a painful spasm. He clutched the map tighter, almost tearing it. The pain of his soul overwhelmed him, and a cry almost escaped his lips, but he covered his mouth with his hand in time. Her shadow, this appearance that he had drawn in his imagination, became an oath for him. He swore - more to himself than to anyone else - that he would restore Harey's freedom, pull her out of this stone hell for the sake of their daughter.