Colonel Borcan's Umbrella — Two weeks before he died, Colonel Borcan took me with him to survey one of the barren peaks in Dobrin's forest region. He asked that I keep an eye out mainly along the roadside sorbthickets: has the bonefeathered bird arrived yet? It was the middle of autumn, the scrub brush buzzed with strange noises...Now, however, he cut across barely travelled pathways, following markers left by the mountain rangers and headed directly to his secret out-look. Allegedly the bonefeathered ones have arrived, bringing to the forest region a winter fever, which, in the Sinistra zone, who knows why, they called Tungusian fever.
The resting place that awaited Colonel Borcan at the top was stacked with stone and lined with moss; nearing it he dropped his ice-resistant leather mountain-ranger's umbrella into the grass, undid his overcoat, and promptly made himself comfortable. He also took his hat off, and to weigh it down he tossed on it a few lichen-mottled stones, then, bareheaded, hair gusting in the wind, earlobes a flutter, eyes glued to this binoculars for hours, he scanned the eastern horizon...
It never came to light if he'd caught a glimpse of what he was looking for on the neighboring slopes, the bonefeathered one of the any other sign of the Tungusian fever lurking behind the bushes, or for that matter why it had to be me, a simple fruit collector in these parts, he took with him that day to the Ukrainian border...
Once we neared the barracks, he dropped his umbrella into the grass again—he was, by the way the only mountain ranger who beat around the dank woods winter and summer with an umbrella under his arm—and again took his binoculars out of its case. On the other side of the creek, on the fellow autumn grass, the stranger they called the Red Rooster happened along. His feet barely touching the ground, he strutted airily among the unplowed stalks, which seperated the forest from the hay field, his red hair, beard flaming out here and there under the black pines. Colonel Borcan followed him with his binoculars until he disappeared among a swarm of yellow shimmering poplar leaves. then he turned to me quietly, almost in confidence: "Tell me, Andrej. By any chance did anyone leave a little package with you lately?" After he saw I didn't appear to understand and stared at him stupidly, he added, " I mean some little trifle. For me. Lets say a freshly caught fish".
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"A sinister cabal of superior writers."
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