Second interlude: The brown hand clenches into a fist.

The opportunity was ripe. Princep Siklovic only had to wait until the small, ragged, shit-sucking servant had turned the corner, then the way to the world liberation bomb was clear. The goatherd knew little about terms like saltpeter, sulfur, and gunpowder, but he did know where things sometimes hissed, crackled, and smoked in the middle of the city: at the pharmacist's.

Siklovic had a rather vague idea of what a pharmacist might be: well-read perhaps, certainly rich, but probably not particularly militant. Siklovic carried a thick club concealed in his robes, which would likely suffice. The only problem was getting into this pharmacy thingamajig.

The resistance fighter knocked on the oak door after "the Handsome One" had disappeared with his paper bags. Siklovic had overheard his conversation with the pharmacist, hidden in a nearby doorway. The pharmacist, it was clear, kept many things from the East. From the East, it was also certain, came the world revolution. Siklovic intended to take a piece of the pie.

So perhaps the knife was preferable to the club. Siklovic had a fine knife. He kept it sharp at all times, which is why it was so different from his intellect. He drew it from the leather sheath, which he had knotted with the hemp cord that held his trousers around his hips. Ever since he had become the leader of the People's Liberation Movement, he had mentally referred to the knife as "the blade of the crowd."

With his other hand, Sicovic used the club to rap the door, emphasizing his demand for entry while carefully looking around. The alley was empty. Behind the heavy oak door of the pharmacy, there was a scraping sound, as well as a grinding and heaving. The hatch in the door swung open.

Siklovic peered into a black funnel that the pharmacist had pushed into the viewing window. From it—though Siklovic couldn't identify the contents—came the smell of saltpeter, sulfur, and gunpowder. To him, it smelled as if he wasn't welcome.

Quite rightly so. The glorious story of Siklovic's world liberation project could have come to an abrupt end right here. The pharmacist, who had been able to observe the goatherd's hostile intentions through a peephole to the side of the hatch (which the goatherd had missed), didn't want to waste time with lengthy discussions and immediately pulled the trigger. The shot misfired, but it backfired on its originator. Siklovic only suffered a few gunshot wounds.

And so, by a twist of fate favorable to the rebel and liberator of the people, the pharmacist and his oak door fell, and access to an arsenal for world revolution was opened. God, that much was clear by now, was on the side of the proletariat.

I'm all fired up for the maître d'

We're eating soon, but Roman isn't. He can't eat yet, but he'll pull through, thanks to the pharmacist!

We're sitting at the table, Roman's seat next to me is empty. Nevertheless, his bowl is there, with a piece of bread in front of it. The others at the table are watching it hungrily.

We must wait. The maître d' hasn't yet taken his place at the head of the table. We can hear his carriage arriving. Prayers are about to be said. We'll stand up.

The prayer formula is always the same. Le Maitre recites it; we only need to nod reverently and repeat the last sentences: “Unworthy we stand before you, O Lord, imploring your favor. Bless what you have given us today, even though we do not deserve it. Test us and let us not fail, in humility, honesty, and purity. Amen.”

“Amen,” we say. We’ve done it thousands of times. You can wake us in the middle of the night, and we’ll repeat it. We’d love to do it right now, because our stomachs are empty and growling. We long for the maître d’s footsteps on the cellar stairs. They come. The door opens.

Le Maitre is in good spirits. Actually, that doesn't mean anything, because even when he's in a bad mood—and that happens!—he doesn't hit us. Antoinette jumps up and takes his coat. It's a beautiful, furry, thick, warm coat; you could live in it.

It's always drafty down here in the cellar; no one knows where it's coming from, since there's no cellar window. There are candles on the table. They flicker. After dinner, they're extinguished, because then it's bedtime. Before we lie down, we have to pull small birch twigs over and between our teeth. No one knows what it's for, but the maître d' makes it happen.

He smiles at Antoinette, leans his walking stick against the table—the stick with that perfectly white knob adorned with patterns I'd love to examine more closely. But of course, that's out of the question. Le Maitre sits down. We clasp our hands and await his prayer. Then something extraordinary happens. "My children," says the maître, "today is a special day. There will be meat in the broth, even though it's not Sunday."

A trickle of saliva runs from the corner of Antoinette's mouth; I can see it clearly because she's standing right in front of me. It's strange how someone can think about nothing but food and still stay so thin.

Except for the maître d', we're still standing here, unsure what to do. The maid brings in the soup bowl; it smells wonderfully of fat, bay leaves, pepper, and leeks. Floating in the bowl are gifts the master usually only bestows upon us on Sundays, and yet today there are an especially large number of them. Is it horse or mutton? In any case, it smells delicious. We shuffle our feet.

“My children,” the maître d' repeats, clasping his hands. For such a nobleman, these are quite worn hands—spotted, cracked, with furrowed fingers. They must have had to grip hard in the past. Perhaps for a piece of bread. Possibly around a throat.

The hands of the maître d', who is so kind to me, seem to say: I should kiss them. He says, "Today I would like someone from your group to thank the Lord for our gifts before we receive them." Immediately, everyone lowers their gaze to the empty bowls before them. "Prettier," my maître d' says, smiling at me. "Would you be so kind?"

My thoughts race like hunger in my stomach. I gather my courage. "Lord," I begin, my voice weak, "Have mercy on us. We stand before you, yet should kneel." Le Maitre nods, which encourages me. I continue praying, now with a firmer voice. "Give and forgive us. Please let Roman get well. Thank you for the meat. Thank you for Le Maitre." I can think of nothing more. But then! "Amen."

The maître d' spreads his arms and gestures for us to sit. We eat in silence. He doesn't; there's no bowl in front of him. When we've finished, we ask for permission. The maître d' allows everyone to get up and prepare for bed, but points his index finger at me.

"You, my son, follow me upstairs." My son! To the maître d's chambers! Has anyone ever heard of such a thing? The gaunt Antoinette devours me with her gaze as she throws her blanket over herself. Her feet peek out from underneath, and she parts her thighs, pressing a hollow into the blanket with her hands beneath her lap. She winks at me.

I stumble after the maître d', upstairs. He takes the stairs nimbly, without needing to use his walking stick. But he's breathing a little heavily.

The house has two floors and a cellar. We never enter through the main entrance door, but always from the back, through the servants' entrance, from which the stairs lead down to the cellar.

I'm standing in the drawing-room for the first time, where the maître d' usually only receives his own kind. He's sat by the window in a wingback chair, with a footstool in front of it. I'm allowed to perch on it. The maid brings hot chocolate. Hot chocolate! I've heard of it, but I've never tasted it. It's thick and brown and sweet. You always want more, just like with cake. And with the ladies in Madame d'Izère's house.

The whole thing is making me uneasy. The maître d' is silent and studies me. I try hard not to gulp down the delicious cocoa, but instead to savor it in elegant little sips. I clutch the delicate cup—it has blue patterns; if you look closely, you can see windmills and cows—and am terrified of breaking it through a careless mistake.

We remain silent. This takes a while. A long while.

Le Maitre scrutinizes me. He examines me like a preserved butterfly on the point of a pin, turning it this way and that, unsure where to place it in his collection.

Outside, the city is noisy. First, the rolling of beer barrels drowns everything out; they're being delivered to the tavern across the street. This takes a while, then: A passerby vomits on the sidewalk in front of the house and wheezes away. A bird sings, I don't know what kind. Someone else walks past the house, dragging one foot.

The salon remains silent. The maître d' leans forward, reaches into his waistcoat, and produces a pipe. I only see this out of the corner of my eye, because I'm looking at the tips of his shoes. The maître d' is wearing beautiful black shoes, all leather. I'd bet they're lined.

“Well, all of this seems strange to you,” he says now, leaning back again and reaching for the tobacco pouch on the small table beside him. “Please pack my pipe, son.” I put the cocoa cup down on the table and take the pouch and pipe.

"Have you ever smoked before?" he asks. I shake my head.

The maître d' nods and examines my attempt at stuffing the sausage, which I've handed him. "Now we need a light, don't we?" I nod, but don't know what to do.

“Fire,” Le Maitre repeats. “We’ll need a lot of fire soon. Fire for the whole city.” He holds the pipe up to my nose, demanding. “Do you have a fire for me, my boy? Enough fire for the city? Enough fire in you?”

He frightens me, and he knows it. It's a test. Behind his armchair, a fire is burning in the fireplace, but I don't see a single splinter I could hold in it. I stand up and take a whole blazing log in my hand. I grip it at the back, where it's not yet lit but damn hot, hold it to the pipe, and groan, "Is that enough fire, maître?"

The maître d' calmly puffs his pipe, while the skin on my hand is already blistering and falling sparks are burning holes in the expensive carpet.

"That will be enough for now. Now throw the log back into the fireplace before you set the house on fire."

I do as I'm told; the maître d' reaches into his waistcoat again and hands me a silk handkerchief. He rings for the maid, who brings a bowl of ice water in which I can cool my battered hand.

Le Maitre smokes. He says: “You are grateful and loyal. You make sacrifices. You have potential. I always knew that. I have a task for you.”