#Tiit Härm

[madhousedarry]

The Omen: Legacy of Lunacy | Chapter 08

At this time, in the city of Sex-Etienne, in Flance, the following was happening. Under the shade of an old oak tree on the lawn near house number thirty-four, a young girl of about twenty-five was sitting - she was dressed in a white blouse and a black knee-length skirt.

Her long hair was pulled back like a ponytail, and her face was shadowed by a wide-brimmed white felt hat with an ostrich feather. The beauty sat with her back to an oak tree and read a book about the life of Joan of Arc.

"Joan… She wasn't afraid of anyone…" the girl said the words out loud, looking closely at the lines of the book.

Suddenly a quiet male voice was heard nearby:

"Did I disturb you?"

The girl looked up from her book. A tall, pleasant-looking young man stood before her. He had shoulder-length blond hair, blue eyes under long eyelashes, and a thin, straight nose over thin lips.

He was dressed simply but well - a blue shirt with an open collar and tight jeans, and his neck was wrapped in a thin red scarf, not thick enough to keep him warm, but thin enough to emphasize the masculinity of its owner.

In general, outwardly he was the spitting image of Tiit Härm in the role of Olaf Andvarafors from the Soviet-Estonian film adaptation of "Dead Mountaineer's Inn". But no one could have known about this, not even the man himself, since he had never been interested in Soviet culture in Flance.

Be that as it may, the appearance of this young man made a strong impression on the girl, who immediately put down her book about Joan of Arc and stood up to meet him, to allow the young man to embrace her and kiss her right there under the oak tree.

The young man happily fulfilled her wish and, having finished this ritual of love between two young people, he moved away from the girl and with a dazzling smile turned his back to her to go away.

But he couldn't leave because the girl immediately grabbed his hand.

"Wait!" she said in a determined tone.

The young man stopped, and the girl, coming close to him, asked:

"Where did you get that scarf and that shirt with the collar unbuttoned? I'm seeing them for the first time - it's something new for me! I want to know everything in the world: who are Tiit Härm and Olaf Andvarafors and what Inn are they from? Speak!!! Don't be silent!!!! Please!"

The guy smiled even wider and said:

"Don't step out of your role as a Flench simpleton, okay?" and, without waiting for an answer to his question, his face immediately changed. "Oh, my dear Markesse!" he exclaimed. "I didn't recognize you! You've changed so much!"

"Oh, my beloved Pierre!" the girl responded in the same theatrical tone. "Don't you recognize me? Don't you recognize your cousin?"

"I recognize you, I recognize my cousin!" the young man replied, clearly overacting his role as a hot Flench cavalier. "I couldn't forget you!"

"You mixed up the word order, idiot," the girl muttered quietly and then exclaimed, "Oh, how could you, oh, how could you allow yourself to do this!"

The guy pretended not to hear her first words and immediately fell on one knee in front of her, grabbing her hand with his hot palms just above the wrist.

The girl tried to free her hand, but the guy held it tightly…

"Stop-stop-stop!" a voice amplified by a megaphone suddenly rang out throughout the yard. "It's no good! You can't play like this! Stop it immediately!"

As soon as the last sounds of this speech died away, the young man stood up and began to shake off the crushed caterpillar that had stuck to his jeans from his right knee.

And the girl, turning her face towards the courtyard in the direction of the invisible announcer's voice, began to straighten a loose lock of hair the color of ripe ears of wheat.

"Okay, now come to me," the voice thundered again and added more quietly: "And in the future, if you want to look like real Flenchmen, stop spouting words from cheap novels for housewives!"

"Okay, old fart," muttered the young man to himself, having finally finished his procedure of cleaning the caterpillar from his jeans. "I'll settle up with you when it's time for dress rehearsals."

"It's not worth it, Pierre, it's not worth it," said the girl, who had just tidied up her hair. "He'll never forgive you for this."

"What a problem!" Pierre muttered. "So what if he throws me out? Hang myself after that?"

"Whether he hangs himself or not, he will definitely take your portfolio back along with all your photos from festivals!" the girl noted.

"What do I need these photos for, my dear silly slut! And what will he do with them? Eat them for breakfast, spreading them with mustard?"

"Of course not, but then there will be a scandal…"

"Don't worry about such things ahead of time," the guy remarked philosophically.

Then he took a deep breath and was about to leave, but suddenly the same voice shouted at them, but this time it was not amplified by a megaphone:

"Wait, wait guys!"

The young people turned around and saw a short, fat man in a red jacket and bow tie running towards them, jumping amusingly.

He looked like a famous actor from some old Soviet film, only without a moustache, which he probably simply hadn't had time to grow during his stay in Flance.

Having reached almost the middle of the lawn, he stopped and gesticulated wildly:

"Hey, wait a minute! This is very important! Pierre!" he addressed the guy. "I really need you to follow me right now!"

"What, already?" the young man made a sad face.

"What "already"?" the fatso didn't understand.

"Am I in line to be fired?" Pierre explained.

"There will be no dismissal today!" the fatso answered in an excited voice. "It's something else! A very important matter awaits you!"

"Ah," the guy waved his hand, "the most important thing for me is my cousin. By the way…" he looked at the girl and, after a pause, continued: - She is already in her fourth month.

"Have you been inbreeding your entire vacation?" the fatso raised an eyebrow.

"I don't know," answered Pierre, who was clearly embarrassed and confused. "Maybe yes, maybe no."

"What do you mean "maybe yes, maybe no"?" the fatso suddenly raised his voice. "What, you don't even remember sleeping with her?"

"That's the point, I don't remember," the young man answered confidently. "I remember anything, but not sleeping with her!"

"Are you kidding me?" the fatso stamped his foot. "Or are you trying to tell me that your cousin got pregnant by someone else?"

"Oh, here it is!" Pierre clapped his hands. "That's where the dog is buried!"

The fatso shook his head in disbelief and exchanged glances with the girl, who had been standing motionless under the oak tree the whole time, holding a book about Joan of Arc in her hands.

Then he turned back to Pierre and took him by the elbow.

"No matter how things are between you and Markesse, you must come with me now," and with these words the fatso dragged the young man along with him across the courtyard to house number 34.

On the way they argued with each other in whispers for a few minutes, each trying to convince his interlocutor of everything at once; then they went up to the porch and the fatso, pushing the door, entered the building after Pierre, whom he had previously sent ahead of him.

They found themselves in a long corridor with many open doors on the sides - apparently there were a surprising number of rooms in this small-looking building. the fatso stopped in front of one of the few doors that was locked and rapped on it with his knuckles, then pushed it with his foot - fortunately, it was unlocked, and they were able to enter.

Pierre saw a spacious room with a high ceiling: oil paintings hung on the walls, and a thick carpet lay on the floor. In the corner of the room stood a large table, at which at that very moment sat two men in black suits and white shirts - one of them looked a lot like the school principal, and the other looked like a professor.

The latter sat with an open book in his hands and at the same time carefully peered at the large monitor standing on the table. Pierre did not immediately understand the meaning of what was happening in this room, but then he guessed that this was probably the work of the fatso who brought him here.

The young man came closer to the table and asked:

"Did you call me?"

The two men sitting at the table immediately stared at him, and the one who looked like a professor said:

"Yes, yes, please sit down."

The second one, who looked like the school principal, only muttered something inarticulately.

Pierre did not understand a word of his speech, but assumed that he meant the same thing as the "professor", and sat down on a chair standing against the wall.

"You remember, you all, of course, remember, how I stood, approaching the wall," he suddenly said, out of the blue, unexpectedly for himself.

The "school principal" and the "professor" exchanged glances, and the latter twirled his finger at his temple, as if letting his interlocutor know that their guest was clearly crazy.

The fatso who brought Pierre smiled at some thoughts of his own and also sat down on the chair next to Pierre.

"You were walking around the room excitedly and throwing something harsh in my face," he suddenly said in the same tone in which Pierre had spoken before.

Now the one who looked like the director twirled his finger at his temple. And the "professor" only made a strange sound, either "Nya" or "Meow", while waving his hand somewhere to the side.

Pierre was already beginning to get on his nerves about the strange thing hanging in this room, but he tried to control himself. He even tried to smile to let the "professor" know that he appreciated his joke, but, thinking that the sound "Nya" or "Meow" could hardly contain a meaningful joke, he decided to ignore it.

And then suddenly there was a sound that was hard to imagine in the company of such serious people - one of the two, either the "school principal" or the "professor", farted loudly. Pierre, jumping up in his chair in surprise, opened his eyes wide and stared at both of them.

At the same time, he managed to notice out of the corner of his eye that the fatso sitting on his right hand turned terribly red, looked around briefly and raised his hand to his face.

"He got busted," was all Pierre could whisper, tearing his gaze away from the people sitting at the table and looking at his neighbor.

At this moment the "school principal" pulled a handkerchief out of the desk drawer and demonstratively pressed it to his nose, and the "professor" did the same. At the same time, both had such stern eyes that it was quite obvious: both of them hated the unfortunate fat man.

Pierre decided to come to the aid of the latter and, rising from his chair, addressed the two:

"Perhaps you would finally deign to explain to me why you invited me here?" and for greater confidence he crossed his arms over his chest.

It seemed that his interlocutors did not expect such behavior from him, because he noticed how the anger in their eyes was replaced by confusion, and soon the one who looked like the director took the handkerchief from his face and, sighing, said, turning to the "professor" sitting to his right:

"Listen, are you sure this is the one you need?" he said, pointing at Pierre.

"Yes, yes! It's him!" the "professor" screamed shrilly. "I recognized him the second I heard his steps in the corridor!"

"Okay," the "school principal" agreed with him after a short pause. "But what evidence is there that… Uh-uh-uh… That this person really is the one we need?"

"He himself!" the "professor" cut him off shortly.

Pierre did not understand a word of this dialogue; however, he had no choice but to wait patiently for these two to address him directly.

He had already realized that these two clearly had designs on him, but what kind of designs he had no idea yet. He decided that it would be best to just wait.

And indeed, after a few seconds the "professor" spoke:

"Well, young man, tell me please, what is your name?"

Pierre thought that this conversation starter would be appropriate for some cheap horror movie, but then he realized that it was just a polite way to start a conversation.

So he didn't hide and answered honestly:

"Pierre, Pierre Terlouze."

"A lie!" the "professor" suddenly shouted. "You are not Pierre! And certainly not Terlouze!"

"Oh, really!" Pierre was seriously surprised. "And who am I then?"

"You are Peter Thurlow!" the "school principal" suddenly blurted out in one breath.

Pierre realized that he was either being played or simply being misled. But he decided not to give in to the provocation and did not argue.

Instead, he pretended to listen attentively.

"Your father, may he rest in peace," the "professor" began, "left Pornland when you were just born and moved here with your mother to Sex-Etienne. You were born in Pornland, do you hear? You're The Omen Ican, not a Flenchman! You're Peter Thurlow, not Pierre Terlouze!"

"Interesting," Pierre chuckled, continuing to keep his arms crossed over his chest. "Then why do I have a Flench first and last name?"

"Because your birth certificate was already issued in Sex-Etienne, you idiot!" the "school principal" intervened in the conversation. "Your dad was a smart guy, and if it weren't for that, you would never be sitting here in front of us and listening to what we want to tell you!"

"Well then," said Pierre, "I'm ready to listen to your explanations, but I would ask you to speak more quietly, otherwise I might not be able to stand it and hit someone on the head," and at the last words he playfully shook his fist at the "director."

"Don't you raise your hands here!" the fatso suddenly spoke up. "Otherwise you'll definitely fly out of my theater this very minute!

"Okay, okay, I won't hit anyone on the head," Pierre answered peacefully, "I was just joking."

"Don't joke like that again, do you understand me?" the fatso persisted.

"Now, to business!" the "professor" interrupted their squabble. "So, Pierre - I will call you that, since you yourself are more accustomed to it than Peter - so, Pierre, I want to inform you of the reason why we have gathered our little council in this place. The matter is this - having learned of the secret of your birth from one person, we followed the members of your family and found out the following… Generally speaking, my dear, you have an uncle in Pornland, the brother of your dear mother. No one can pronounce his real name properly, but I will take the liberty of telling it to you."

"Well, go ahead, I'm listening," Pierre yawned lazily.

"So, your uncle's name is," the "professor" began, but then the "school principal" interrupted him:

"Jordan Thurlow! JORDAN THURLOW!" he screamed so loudly that the glass in the windows rattled.

"And there's no need to shout like that," Pierre said reasonably. "I already understood what you want to tell me."

"You don't understand anything, you stupid asshole!" the "school principal" interrupted him angrily. "You don't understand that your uncle is in complete ass right now!"

"So what?" asked Pierre in a thug tone. "I don't give a damn about him, I'm hearing about him for the first time!"

"It's not nice to talk about your own uncle like that," the "professor" shook his head.

"Bad, bad nephew!" the fatso echoed.

"Why are you bothering me with some uncle?" said Pierre. "An uncle is just an uncle, what do I care about him?"

"The most direct!" the "professor" raised his finger. "You are his only heir. And therefore, if you want to live in peace and harmony with the people around you…"

He suddenly paused, and Pierre realized that he was about to begin a lecture on how to be polite and tactful with people, but instead the "professor" continued:

"You must fly to The Omen Ica immediately and visit Pornland. This is very important. If you do not do this, a curse will fall on you. And not only on you, but also on your unborn sonnie."

"Uh-uh, how do you know about…" Pierre began, but the "professor" raised his hand, calling him to silence.

"As if we were all blind and didn't see you flirting with your own cousin," the fatso put in.

"Gentlemen," he said to those sitting at the table, "look, before you is a follower of the Habsburg cause! What a mess he's leading his glorious and proud family into!"

Pierre was bitter to hear these words, but he did not argue. He already saw that these people really knew everything about his relationship with the beautiful Markesse, and he decided that it was better not to run into anger and just listen to all their speeches about his life without any comments on his part.

"In any case, Pierre," the one who looked like a professor took up the conversation again, "you must get to Lev Trotsky Airport this afternoon, from where you will take a direct flight to the Chicks-de-Gal, Airport in Pussyris, and from there to Pornland Airport. Is everything clear to you?"

"You've already planned my route, but you still haven't explained why the hell I should fly along it!" Pierre boiled over.

"What's there to explain?" the "school principal" intervened. "Your uncle just disappeared from all radars a year ago! We don't know what happened to him, and that's why we're sending you to find out everything on the spot!"

"You should be ashamed that complete strangers are more concerned about your relative than you are!" the fatso thought it necessary to put in his two cents. "Ungrateful little pig!"

"What do I care about some guy in the middle of nowhere!" Pierre couldn't stand it. "I'm building my theatrical career here, and you want me to drop everything and run to some Pornland? I wouldn't even come within eight thousand kilometers of a town with such a name, let alone set foot on its streets!"

"You're right, boy! Well done!" the fatso croaked. "But just think about that question carefully; why did our special services suddenly show interest in your uncle right now? After all, before no one knew that you had a relative in The Omen Ica!"

"Maybe it all happened after that incident during the carnival?" Pierre suggested.

"What carnival?" the "school principal" asked.

"That was when our red-haired clown dressed up as Analdian beauty queen Asia Vieira in one of his numbers. Remember that silly slut? And our red-haired idiot himself? He did such things there! It was just hilarious! All the newspapers wrote about that circus act for a whole week! Only later did one thing come to light about that very Asia Vieira and her boyfriend Ryan Donowho - they say she fired the latter - after which she was forgotten immediately and forever!"

While telling this story, Pierre did not forget to glance now at the "school principal", now at the "professor". It did not escape his attention that they were both visibly nervous or even frightened by what he was telling.

Apparently this story was well known to them, and so Pierre's story was a knife in their hearts. However, Pierre was driven by a sense of duty that forced him to tell the truth regardless of the consequences of what he said. Therefore, he had to continue his story further under the crossfire of the gazes of these two gentlemen from the Flench secret services.

When he got to the point where Asia Vieira gave birth to her new boyfriend's child, who received the outlandish double surname Vieira-Skovorodnikoff, the "school principal" couldn't take it anymore and slammed his fist on the table, thereby forcing him to stop this excursion into the history of some bitch.

"Enough!" he said at this. "Do you take us for complete idiots? We tell you about your uncle, and you tell us about some Analdian whore with her fuckers! And at the same time you try to convince me of all this nonsense that you are spouting! I ask you: where is your uncle Jordan Thurlow now?!"

"I don't know!" Pierre snapped angrily.

"Then find out!" the "school principal" snapped, getting up from his seat. "Go immediately to Lev Trotsky Airport and fly to Pussyris, from where you can board a plane to Pornland! And if in two days I don't hear from you… However, no," he suddenly changed his mind, "that would be too cruel! I am against extreme measures in general… But that doesn't mean that I like your behavior! And now get out of here!!! I don't want to see your spirit here again!"

Listening to this speech full of insults, Pierre felt as disgusted as he had felt four months ago when he had been caught with his cousin in the toilet of a hotel restaurant after yet another party on the occasion of the successful premiere of a play in which they both played leading roles.

Only if back then everything was limited to a few bruises and a couple of knocked-out teeth for one male spectator, today things could have ended much worse.

With this thought, Pierre decided not to go where he was persistently sent, but to stay here until the end and try to find out at least some details about what the hell he should do!

"Okay, gentlemen, I'm ready to fly out right now, but I need to know what money and what tickets," he began with a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

"With these tickets!" the "school principal" barked and threw three multi-colored pieces of paper on the table in front of him.

"And as for the dough, we've already taken care of everything in advance and put a couple of million bucks into your bank account! Just don't think that you're free to spend it on your own needs, got it? And besides, after the operation is completed, you'll be obliged to transfer back to us the rest of the amount that we transferred to you! What, are you down, asshole? Nothing personal, just business!" the "school principal" added, smiling conciliatorily.

Pierre silently took the tickets and put them in the pocket of his jeans, after which he was about to finally leave the room, but he was stopped by the imperious shout of the "professor":

"Just a minute, young man!"

The young man turned around and stared in surprise at the barrel of the gun he was holding in his right hand, aimed at his face.

Trying not to panic, Pierre tried to look calm; however, the gun continued to point right between the young man's eyes, making the situation completely unbearable.

To lighten the mood a little, Pierre decided to ask a question to the man who looked like a professor.

"What kind of joke is this?"

Instead of answering, the professor pressed his finger on the trigger. Pierre instinctively covered his face with his hands and froze, preparing for death. However, the gun did not fire.

Instead, Pierre heard the fatso's barely suppressed laughter. After holding his hands to his face for a while, Pierre finally decided to take them away and saw the "professor" taking a drag on his cigarette.

"Uh-uh…" was all the young man could squeeze out.

The man who looked like a professor grinned and, raising his hand with the pistol to the ceiling, pulled the trigger again.

Pierre saw a thin tongue of flame burst from the barrel, which went out only when the "professor" removed his finger from the trigger.

"A lighter!" Pierre finally realized.

"Exactly!" the "professor" confirmed his guess with some strange solemnity.

After these words he suddenly threw pistol to the Pierre. The young man managed to catch the weapon in the air and, turning it over in his hands, after a short hesitation pressed the trigger with his finger.

There was a soft click and a tongue of flame burst from the barrel again.

"Not a bad toy," he appreciated the lighter. "But why did you give it to me?"

"So that you wouldn't feel completely defenseless in the enemy camp," the "professor" explained to him. "We were afraid to give you a real weapon, otherwise you might try to kill us with it, and the customs officers would never let you through with it, but with this harmless toy you can at least feel like a human being!"

"Well, thank you, thank you," Pierre said ironically, putting the "pistol" in his jeans pocket.

"Well, with the Antichrist!" said the "professor" in parting.

Pierre, succumbing to the atmosphere of the office, saluted him and turned on his heels, after which he leisurely walked to the exit.

Already with his hand on the handle of the front door, he turned around for a moment and saw on the faces of the fatso, the "professor" and the "school principal" an expression of such genuine sympathy that he even felt ashamed in front of them for suspecting them of wanting to do something bad to him.

Stepping outside into the scorching sun, Pierre felt weak throughout his body: the nervous tension of the last few minutes was taking its toll…

[moviemosaics]

Dead Mountaineer’s Hotel

directed by Grigori Kromanov, 1979

[unofficial-estonia]

ESTONIAN MOVIE MONTH

     ↳ “Hukkunud alpinisti hotell” 1979 (Dead Mountaineer's Hotel)

“Hukkunud alpinisti hotell” is an Estonian science fiction movie based on a novel of the same name. Police are called out to a lonely hotel in the Alps. When an officer arrives, everything seems to be alright. But strange things start to happen when an avalanche cuts them out from the rest of the world. 

The movie got over 44 000 viewers in Estonia and over 17 million over the Soviet union.

Actors in the movie were Uldis Pūcītis (as Insp. Peter Glebsky), Jüri Järvet (as Alex Snewahr), Lembit Peterson (as Simonet), Mikk Mikiver (as Hinckus), Kārlis Sebris (as Mr. Moses), Irena Kriauzaitė (as Mrs. Moses), Sulev Luik (as Luarvik), Tiit Härm (as Olaf Andvarafors), Nijolė Oželytė (as Brun) and Kaarin Raid (as Kaisa).