[ September 5, 1959, British Museum. ]
In a room crammed ceiling-high with all sorts of historical artifacts and museum antiquities, a man of about thirty was at work. His handsome face was marred only by a long aquiline nose and rather thin lips. His short light-brown hair was slicked back and fixed with hairspray—when working in the British Museum's archive, it was best not to scatter hair everywhere; who knew what restorer might have left a painting out to dry uncovered.
His thick eyebrows would furrow whenever a sentence was difficult to understand and translate correctly, then relax when he found a solution. He was studying an ancient Sumerian clay tablet inscribed with cuneiform, which turned out to be... the accounts of a merchant named Brahim. Yes, bureaucracy truly is eternal—the tablet was about five thousand years old, if radiocarbon dating was to be believed.
This man in white cotton gloves, a green tweed jacket, and brown trousers was the leading specialist in Sumerian script at the British Archaeological Museum—Viktor Orlov. He had inherited that name from ancestors who had fled the Russian Empire to Britain during the revolution. Truth be told, they hadn't had much choice—as members of a noble family, it was unlikely anything good awaited them under Soviet rule. [Image]
"Viktor,"—after a knock at the door and permission to enter, a very young man stepped into the archive, working as general help—courier, assistant, and general errand boy. Still, the lad didn't mind being called that. For a history student intern from the University of London, working at the museum was simply a godsend.
"Good evening, you have a visitor. And he's... strange."
"Strange?"
"Yes, he's wearing a robe of some old-fashioned cut, and though he's actually quite good-looking—even handsome—his gaze is frightening," Karl shivered as a herd of goosebumps ran down his body.
"Well then, where's your strange and terribly handsome fellow?" Viktor smiled, teasing the boy as he removed his gloves. "By the way, why did he come to me? And how does he know about me?"
"He didn't exactly come to you," the embarrassed young man hesitated. "He asked for our best Sumerian translator."
"And you just told him? The museum's already closed, why did you even let him in?" Viktor was surprised. No, if the person had been familiar, there would have been nothing unusual about it, even though the rules forbade bringing outsiders in after hours. But to bring in a complete stranger—that was nonsense.
"I... I don't know, I'm sorry," the boy replied, flustered, then rubbed his temples as if suffering from a headache.
"All right, it happens. You didn't think, that's all, nothing terrible. But remember for the future—no visitors after eight o'clock. I don't mind, but Adrian will have your hide if he finds out."
Adrian was the museum director, known for being as fair as he was strict. Leaving the young man to ponder his actions, Orlov stepped out into the museum hall, passing between displays of history.
The history of human civilization, spanning more than five thousand years. In fact, the oldest exhibits were much older than even that immense span, compared to fleeting human life. It was at moments like these, when dusk settled over the earth and there were no other visitors in the museum, that Viktor felt a special atmosphere, as if every object was eager to tell its own unique story. Who knew what the Greek kopis he passed by had witnessed? Or that clay tablet he had been studying? These were not just antiquities, but priceless imprints of the stories of our ancestors. Proof that before us there had been myriads of generations with their own lives, routines, sorrows and joys, wars and reconciliations.
"Good evening, Mr. Orlov. Or should I call you Professor?"—a smooth, captivating voice pulled the polyglot from the depths of his thoughts. Yes, polyglot, for besides Sumerian, Latin, and the basics of Ancient Egyptian, he also knew French, Spanish, Russian, German, Chinese—including Classical Chinese—and Japanese.
"Not yet, but I hope my dissertation will be well received. But how do you know? I haven't exactly advertised it," Viktor was surprised.
"Everyone has their secrets, Mr. Orlov,"—for a moment, the man thought his companion's green eyes elongated and became snake-like. But blinking, he shook off the illusion. "Forgive me for disturbing you at such a late hour, but the matter brooks no delay. If you don't mind, I'll skip the small talk and not waste either your time or mine."
"I don't mind, I'm not fond of that English trait myself."
"That's good to hear. You see, fortune has smiled upon me and, by a twist of fate, I have come into possession of a book... in ancient Sumerian. Unfortunately, despite my many talents, I do not possess that language. And if you could find the time to help me, you would not be left unrewarded, I assure you."
"A book? Not a tablet? I'm afraid you've been deceived, Mr.…"
"Gaunt. Call me Mr. Gaunt."
"Well, the Sumerians kept their records on clay tablets. Yes, cuneiform has been found on papyrus and leather, but those finds are extremely fragmentary. And in ancient times, they used scrolls, not books."
"That doesn't matter to me in the slightest," the man smiled, looking at the translator with a hint of hidden arrogance. As if an experienced adult were looking at an ignorant child. Viktor caught that note, but didn't let it show. If Mr. Gaunt offered the right price, he'd translate even graffiti on a fence for him.
"Your task is to translate the text as accurately as possible, for which I'll pay you two thousand pounds. However, if you can finish within a couple of months without sacrificing quality, I'll double the reward."
Viktor's face nearly stretched in shock at such an offer. He earned three hundred pounds a month, and two thousand was half a year's salary. And four thousand—an entire year's pay at once! Still, the offer seemed too good to be true.
Seeing his doubts, the mysterious client continued:
"Don't worry, this isn't a joke or a scam. If you agree, I'll give you a thousand pounds as an advance right now."
"Well, I'd be an idiot to refuse such a generous offer, and I certainly don't consider myself an idiot."
"I enjoy dealing with smart and reasonable people."
They sealed the deal with a handshake. Viktor noticed another oddity about his companion—his hands were far too cold. Still, the thick wad of bills burning a hole in his trouser pocket made it easy to ignore such a trifle.
...
Mr. Gaunt—also known as Tom Riddle, and in the future far better known as Lord Voldemort, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named—wiped his hand with a handkerchief conjured from thin air, a look of distaste on his face after shaking hands with that filthy Muggle.
Oh, if only anyone knew how much willpower it took not to hit him with an "Imperio" and make him lick his boots.
Alas, he had no desire to test the Muggle's willpower and have to keep checking and recasting the spell.
It was unlikely, but if there was one thing he'd learned in life, it was that sometimes the simplest solution turned out to be the hardest.
So he had to turn on the charm, add a few conjured banknotes, and the Muggle was motivated up to his ears.Which only further convinced the future Dark Lord of the utter worthlessness of these mistakes of nature.
It was even more galling to realize that the priceless treasure would never be truly appreciated.Though perhaps that was for the best—let him think the magical tome is a fake, it's even better that way.
And after the work was done, he'd decide whether to kill him without leaving a trace, or just erase his memory. He didn't yet know what a mistake he'd made, handing the grimoire to an uninitiated wizard.
While Riddle, with his usual elegance, mentally poured scorn on Muggles—including his own father, whom he had killed with his own hands—Viktor unwrapped the gray cloth bundle in which the black book had been carefully packed.
The beautifully tanned leather was adorned with precious stones—rubies, sapphires, and emeralds.
…
The patterns on the cover looked as if they'd been pressed in, which only further confirmed the impossibility of this book being made in ancient times: the imprint was too sharp and vivid.
And the tome itself looked as if it had been made yesterday.
Still, Viktor had one trait—if he took on a job, he did it thoroughly and to the end. No matter how absurd it seemed to him.
So, opening it, he began the slow process of translation, using a multitude of reference materials, most of which he had created himself over the course of his work.
Unfortunately, he didn't have a perfect memory, so this was a necessity, not a luxury.
Another oddity immediately caught his eye—the pages, though made of leather, were very thin, almost like paper.None of the leather-bound tomes Viktor had handled before had such fine craftsmanship.
But one more oddity, one less—what did it matter?
Closer to morning, with eyes red from lack of sleep, Viktor looked at several pages of translated text. There were still about five hundred left, but even what he had was enough to shock anyone.
Not because of the value of the knowledge, but because of the level of forgery.
Someone had gone to the trouble of writing so much Sumerian text—and real Sumerian, not just a meaningless jumble of signs.
If you put it simply, the book was a grimoire of a Sumerian mage, a master of artifact-making from the Guild of Sixty Knowledges, Lerakh.
There was no real system to the entries—recipes for various potions, discoveries of "true sight," and complaints about a strict teacher were all mixed together.
Still, the work fascinated him so much that he lost track of time.
Luckily, it was already Saturday, and he could go home and rest.
Still, his sleepy mind didn't forget to remind him to take the translation and the book with him—he'd had to search for things he'd brought to the archive or left with colleagues more than once.
A week passed, then another, and the translation progressed faster the more he had already translated.
After all, Sumerian dialects, like those of modern languages, sometimes differed.
Not to mention the specific terminology, which he had to leave as a direct translation due to the lack of analogues in English or simply not understanding the meaning of the words.
Viktor's whole life changed, as so often happens, because of one drunken conversation.
"Jack, I'm telling you, it's just nonsense. 'True sight,' 'aether,' 'palms'—it's all utter rubbish. Some specialist like me must have created a pseudo-occult book as a joke and played a prank on my client," Viktor said, taking a sip of dark Irish ale, to his college friend.
"You have no faith in miracles! What if it works? What do you have to lose?" teased the cheerful blond, who was being eyed by two girls at the next table.
"You're too much of a bore, Viktor."
"What do I have to lose? My pride, that's what. How will I look when nothing comes of it?"
"No one will know! And why do you think it won't work?"
"I'll know!" he replied, taking another sip and munching on some peanuts.
"Oh, come on, that's how life will pass you by. Nothing ventured... no threesome!" Jack winked at his friend, got up, and with a dazzling smile headed over to the two pretty girls—a brunette and a redhead—rejoicing that these were not the dark ages of prudes, but the age of space, sex, and drugs.
Finishing his pint, Viktor decided not to lag behind his friend, who was already charming the two girls, and sat down next to the blonde who nodded to him invitingly.
The evening and the following night went splendidly, and besides pleasant memories and a hangover, Jack's words kept echoing in his mind.
And really, what did he have to lose?
***
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