“They need,” Kostolec said, articulating each word with contemplated accuracy, as though pointing and terminating them at Beheim, “to know my insider facts.” He constrained the man’s face near his and kissed him on the lips. Seeing the two appearances squeezed together, the smooth skin of one being cuddled and sucked by a pale, wrinkled monster in a fanatic of bronzed light amidst a gigantic haziness, reproduced a peculiar distance in Beheim, as though he were peering into a measurement wherein each steady had been revamped, where creatures strolled about in men’s structures, and genuine men were taken care of like sheep, where the actual world was a cavern loaded up with plated images and residue, and life was evil, squandered worth, demise a magnified objective.
Kostolec severed the kiss, considered the man hanging flaccidly from his hand. “Reveal to Marko that if this at any point happens once more, I will visit him.” He gave off an impression of being pondering something over; his owlish eyebrows pivoted in the center, his lips pressed together. “Actually,” he said, “I’ll reveal to him myself.” And gazing directly toward Beheim, with a relaxed flick of his wrist he threw the man over the railing. He appeared to curve at the focal point of the well for a moment, his mouth agape, eyes white with dread, as though held overtop by the beams of lamplight that contacted him redly, then, at that point—as Beheim made a worthless rush toward the railing — he tumbled down overwhelmed with passion into the obscurity, following an unwanted, throat-tearing shout. Beheim watched him fall, watched him evaporate, the sight conjuring a nauseous chill in his tummy. He spun about, prepared with a savage inquiry, yet his shock was suppressed by seeing Alexandra and Kostolec standing up close and personal, tense and angry, the tall, excellent lady in her nightdress and the ruthless elderly person—like extraordinary raptors. He anticipated that they should run at one another, to tear and punch and nibble. In any case, rather they lose from their forceful stances, and Alexandra, in a quiet voice, said, “That was bravely done!” “Seriously done!” Beheim brought his clenched hand down against the railing, breaking it. “You may very well also consider it a blunder! What’s next? Will you consider decimation an inconsiderateness?
Child murder a demonstration of underhandedness?” She didn’t take a gander at him, proceeding to address herself to Kostolec. “If you should show a thing or two,” she said, “there are more powerful ways.” “Is that what it was?” said Beheim. “An exercise? Also, what would it be advisable for me to have gained from it? Regard for my elderly folks?” “Alert, I should trust,” Kostolec said. “Without it, you won’t belong among us.” When Beheim began to react, Kostolec yelled, “No more! Attempt me no more!” He dismissed, confronting outward into the well, the lamplight terminating his wisps of white hair, painting a sparkle along with the backboard of his silk shirt. “I’ve done no murder,” he said in a steely voice. “Plastered delights of the blood hold no fascination for me. I’m inside and out the Patriarch’s man and could never disregard his practices. In any case, accept as you will.” There was a quivering vibration recently noticeable all around, the kind of unsettling influence that may get from the faraway activity of a powerful motor, and Beheim couldn’t free himself of the idea, anyway unreasonable, that Kostolec was the wellspring of this vibration. He felt that if Kostolec somehow happened to turn, he would be quite changed, his eyes ablaze, his wrinkled face changed into a savage cover of bronze, his tongue a dark viper. However, when he talked, it’s anything but a ruminative and not an undermining tone. “These are troublesome occasions,” he said. “We each should have our influence in them overall quite well. Nonetheless, you would do well to recall that my part in this steers clear of the world as far as you might be concerned. I bear you no hostility, yet I won’t allow further interruptions.” He hurled a murmur.
“Try not to inconvenience me once more.” Alexandra put a hand on Beheim’s shoulder; she gestured toward the passage a few levels above, and Beheim, his temper cooled by an abrupt tension, let himself be drawn away. Yet, as they climbed the step driving to the next level, moved by some feeling of misleading quality, he stopped and stooped and looked down through the railing. The beams of lamplight had developed strongly characterized, cutting edges of brilliance that spread to contact the positions of books and folios on the contrary divider, and as they lit up additional Kostolec himself started to obscure, his tissue and his dress losing subtlety and shading as though he had fallen under a profound shadow until finally, the light diminished to its ordinary splendor, and what remained by the railing underneath it had itself gotten close to a shadow, a figure of the total, unfractionated dark.