The Courageous Ones
The success of Grand Duke Mikhail’s anti-drug policy was remarkable. At least, among the common folk. The tragedy depicted in the novel The Metamorphosis and the horrifying research findings published by the empire’s leading intellectuals had driven a wedge of caution deep into their lives. But the world of nobles and wealthy merchants, overflowing with both money and idle time, unfolded in an entirely different manner.
Imperial high society split cleanly in half. One half of the salons and clubs acknowledged the dangers of narcotics and banned all substances from their premises. They styled themselves the “wise ones” and pursued wholesome exchanges. The other half openly sneered at them. “Scared?” That single word said everything. They insisted that being swayed by something as trivial as a novel and trembling at the convulsions of a few rats was proof of weakness. True “courageous ones,” they argued, did not fear pleasure—they mastered it completely.
Those who called themselves the “courageous ones” ostentatiously opened new social clubs. Among them, Club Ortolan quickly earned the most vicious and secretive notoriety.
The air inside Club Ortolan was heavy. Thick opium smoke and the sweet scent of hashish mingled with the smell of expensive liquor and sweat, turning the room a hazy gray. Johnson was one of them. He had not been born the son of a farmer who got lucky in business. He was a man who deserved his wealth—or so he believed. And so he drank, smoked, and swallowed. He wet his throat with coca wine, drew deep from an opium-filled silver pipe, and downed potent spirits laced with cannabis tincture in a single gulp.
He used drugs conspicuously. Conscious of the eyes around him, he chased pleasure with deliberately exaggerated gestures. His eyes were bloodshot, his pupils dilated. Yet he believed he controlled every pleasure. At least, until “the incident” occurred at Club Ortolan.
The brawl that day began with a simple shoulder bump. A young baron, heavily intoxicated on cocaine, staggered into a viscount seated at another table. A crystal glass of red wine toppled, spreading across the white tablecloth like blood. “Watch where you’re going. Or are your eyes just for decoration?” the viscount drawled, his voice lazy yet sharp, his pronunciation slightly slurred by the drugs.
“What… did you just say, you…?” The baron turned unsteadily, his face flushed not with anger but with chemically induced excitement. Words did not last long. The baron threw the first punch. A dull thud sent the viscount’s head snapping sideways. The club’s languid atmosphere instantly tightened. Scattered chuckles erupted from the tables. Watching a fight was as stimulating as the drugs themselves—especially when everyone was high.
The viscount wiped his lip. Blood stained the back of his hand. He smiled—an empty, reasonless grin. Rising, he grabbed the baron by the collar. Fists flew. Their movements were clumsy and ridiculous; bodies numbed by alcohol and narcotics could barely stay upright. Johnson merely watched, sipping his wine with a sneer. Joining such a petty squabble would be beneath him. Baron or viscount, they had simply been born with the right bloodline. He, a self-made man, was different.
The fight spread like contagion. The viscount’s friends joined in; the baron’s companions answered. Tables overturned, glass shattered. Shouts and curses tangled together. What began as a minor scuffle in one corner swallowed the entire club. Someone shoved Johnson from behind. A reeling man collapsed across his table, sending a bottle of expensive coca wine crashing to the floor.
“You son of a bitch…” The curse burst from Johnson’s mouth. Before he knew it, his fist was swinging. Blood erupted from the fallen man’s nose. In that instant, the last thread of reason in Johnson’s mind snapped. He swung wildly, striking anyone in reach without distinguishing friend from foe. He simply hit and broke everything in front of him.
Someone screamed—a short, sharp cry. Amid the dull thud of fists, something metallic flashed. A fruit knife that had been lying on a table. One man snatched it up and drove it into his opponent’s side. Blood sprayed. That was the signal. Numbed reason chose madness over fear. Men seized whatever they could—broken wine bottles, chairs, the small knives and forks at every table. Club Ortolan descended into chaos.
Johnson grabbed a knife too. He found a silver one beneath an overturned table and plunged it into the shoulder of a man charging at him. The man screamed and fell. A moment later, a broken bottle sliced across Johnson’s forearm. Hot pain tore through flesh. He staggered. The drugs dulled the agony; there was only the heat of flowing blood. Roaring, he lunged at his attacker. Blades cut through air. Flesh tore, bone cracked. Men fell; others rushed in. The scent of opium and cannabis was slowly overtaken by the metallic tang of blood. Priceless carpets turned crimson.
The fight ended as abruptly as it had begun. When no one remained standing, the madness burned itself out. Only groans and ragged breathing filled the club. Blood pooled between sprawled bodies. Men who had once called themselves gentlemen of the empire now writhed in blood and vomit. Johnson was among them. He lay on the floor, deep wounds in his forearm, shoulder, and stomach. With every breath, blood bubbled from his side. His vision blurred. Beyond the haze of smoke, the club’s ornate chandelier swam faintly. He could not tell whether he had won or lost. He only sensed, dimly, that everything was over.
In the heavy air of Club Ortolan, only the smells of opium, cannabis, and thick blood remained.
The air in the hospital room was heavy. The sharp scent of disinfectant mixed with the musty smell of bedding and the oppressive odor of approaching death. The windows were shut tight; only thin afternoon sunlight slipped through the cracks, faintly illuminating the floating dust. Johnson lay in bed. The sturdy frame he had once possessed as a farmer’s son and later as a businessman was gone, leaving only a skeletal body sprawled across yellowed sheets. He suffered from phantom pain in his left arm, which had been amputated after necrosis. To forget that pain—and to escape the reality that he had become a cripple—he turned to opium. Thanks to it, he was now little more than a living corpse.
Creak. The door opened carefully, and two people entered. Hans, dressed in a well-tailored suit, and beside him a haggard woman—Johnson’s wife, Matilda. “I’m back again, old friend,” Hans said quietly. He pulled up a chair and sat beside the bed as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Matilda leaned against the wall in silence.
Hans began chatting in his usual easy manner, as though nothing had happened. “Remember that dancer you liked—Catherine? She retired recently. Became some old count’s mistress. Tch, what a waste of talent.” Johnson’s eyes remained fixed on empty space, unmoving.
“Ah, and that horse we were watching? It won the Derby. We would have made a fortune if we’d bet on it. Don’t you think?” Hans paused and took Johnson’s bony hand, wrapping his own warm, thick fingers around his friend’s cold, limp ones.
“Johnson… my friend. Don’t worry.” His voice dropped lower, filled with comfort and pity. “I hired the best lawyers. Your business has been safely passed to your sons. After all, it’s the company you built with your own hands. What right do your siblings have to inherit anything?” He glanced briefly at Matilda, still leaning against the wall. “And… I’ll take good care of your wife and daughter. Don’t worry about a thing. Just trust me.”
Hans stood. He walked over to Matilda and gently placed a hand on her shoulder. “Let’s go now, sister-in-law. Staying too long will only tire the patient.” Matilda nodded wordlessly and turned, supported by Hans. She leaned into him; his arm naturally encircled her waist. Johnson stared blankly at their retreating backs as they reached the door.
Just as they stepped out, a single tear rolled down Johnson’s cheek. It was not an expression of sorrow, anger, or despair. It was merely a common physiological reaction from a body that had lost all control to drugs. The timing was simply coincidental.
Creak. Thud. The door closed.
“Hans…” Matilda’s voice drifted in from the corridor, small and hesitant.
“It’s all right, sister-in-law. Everything will be fine.” Hans’s low, gentle voice cut her off.