It was obvious, when I was stopped by the Russian, that no good would
come of our encounter. For what good has ever come from a Russian stopping a
person on the street, especially one of Polish descent? The person that is, not
the street. But the Russian did stop me, and a conversation did take place. For
I was not expecting anything out of the ordinary. Alas! At that time I knew
nothing about Harry Stephen Keeler, nor the Dutchman, nor the mysterious Ramble
House and the strange goings-on in the blogosphere.
“Ah, Patreek! Hit eess yew!” the Russian exclaimed. “Haff yew a meenit?”
I knew the Russian. Sergey, I believe his name was, and an informant he
had become for everyone over the last several years. For he seemed to know
everything. All one had to do was to stop him and ask him a question, and
answer it he would. And over time, as these things tend to happen, people began
to call him "the Russian" or "the Gogol." I knew not the
reason for this nickname, but it seemed to fit him.
“Well,” I replied, “I suppose I could spare some time. For I wasn’t
doing anything in particular. As a matter of fact, I was heading back home to
read my brand-new book, The Purple Parrot by Clyde B. Clason. But if you
want something, I suppose my literary endeavours can wait.” And with that, I
tucked Mr. Book back under my coat.
