Fiasco

Leaving the park, Mark headed straight down the street towards the fairground, which had been built by workers from the railway depot where he had once worked as a track engineer. The sunny afternoon was brightly lit up Cambridge, and the city seemed as alive and active as ever. People were hurrying about their business, children were playing in the streets, and the familiar noise of city life was everywhere. All this was still going on, but to Mark the whole world now seemed alien, as if it were separated from him by an invisible wall. The sounds and movements that had once seemed an integral part of his everyday life now only irritated him and made him feel alienated.

Mark walked toward the fair, but his thoughts were far from what was happening around him. He was still thinking about his recent conversation with Baselard, and how his life had taken such a strange and painful turn. Baselard, in his usual manner, had not offered him a choice. He had simply forced him to return to Boston, to leave the arena, to hide from all his problems, as if Mark could forget everything and start over. But how could you start over if you knew you could never actually get anything back?

At that moment, he realized that he had asked Baselard for that extra hour for a reason. He knew that he was risking so much, that his life was already in ruins, but he needed to touch, at least for a moment, something that might not be worth it. The fairgrounds by the railroad tracks seemed to him to be more than just a gray and modest gathering of workers and their families. It was his creation, his little revolution, which almost no one knew about, but in which he had invested so much effort and hope. And even if this project did not become what he had imagined at the beginning, it was still important to him. It was a place where he tried to believe that change was possible, that it was possible, at least for a moment, to feel part of something significant.

And now, when Baselard was urging him to leave it all behind, Mark could not let go of this piece of his past, this small victory. If the fair had not been for him just an empty entertainment, not attracting the interest of the public, he would not have felt such a need to go there again, even for a short time. Having asked Baselard for permission, he felt that he was not yet ready to make a decision. This hour was more than just an opportunity to shirk his duties. It was a moment when he could at least look one last time at what he had created, one last time feel like he was who he was.

Mark walked down the street, and every step brought him closer to the fair, but inside he increasingly felt how this connection with this place, with what he had once considered important, was slipping away from him. Scenes from the time when he had distributed weapons to the workers, inspired them to fight, emerged in his memory. He had been full of determination then, confident in the correctness of his path, and the fair had become a symbol of this path. But now it seemed empty and unnecessary, a symbol of failure, that he had not been able to develop his idea to the scale he had dreamed of.

The fair was nearby, but Mark's steps were becoming heavier. It seemed to him that every step he took towards this place was a step towards the final farewell. But despite the internal pain and disappointment, he needed to go back there, to see with his own eyes how everything looked now that he was no longer the same person he had been before. Everything had changed, and he knew that this might be his last look at this project, at this place that had once given him hope, but now brought neither success nor understanding.

Mark walked down the street, looking at the people who walked past, not paying attention to him. Their faces were alien to him, they continued to live their lives, while he felt his world crumbling. When he finally approached the entrance to the fair, he suddenly smelled a strange, heavy smell of smoke. He instantly became wary, his heart began to beat faster. A piercing alarm pierced his chest, and without thinking, he rushed forward, ready to find out what was happening. He did not even think about the fact that it could be connected with something dangerous - his instincts told him that something was wrong before his eyes.

But as he took a step forward, several workers standing nearby instantly jumped up and grabbed his arms. He felt their strong fingers gripping his wrists and tried to break free, not understanding what was happening. At first he did not recognize their faces in his haste, but quickly noticed young Galbraith among them, a 17-year-old boy who was nervously looking around.

"What?" Mark asked sharply, trying to free his hands, but the workers wouldn't let him go.

Receiving no answer, he continued to struggle, but Galbraith, like the others, was relentless. He tried to look at the faces of each of them, but instead his gaze fell on the group of people who were approaching.

At first he saw a few gendarmes, their dark uniforms standing out against the sunny sky, but a moment later their silhouettes disappeared into the shadows of the huge trees nearby. Behind them, with a slow, confident step, came Jordan Thurlow, the same loyalist leader Mark had encountered in the past. His face remained stony, his gaze cold and indifferent as he measured Mark with his eyes, but he did not even pause, continuing his walk towards the fair.

Mark felt a surge of rage, but at that moment the workers holding him tightened their grip, as if predicting his reaction. And one of them finally spoke:

"Now you can."

This was said with such calm that it sobered Mark. He felt the grip loosen, and the workers let go of him, but did not remove their hands. They quickly rushed forward, and Mark, somewhat astonished, followed them, not understanding what was happening.

His thoughts were overflowing: What did it mean, "now is possible"? Why had they waited for this moment, remaining completely calm? And why had the leader of the loyalists not paid attention to him? Mark continued to follow his comrades, feeling his pulse quicken. It all seemed so strange that he could not shake the feeling that something new was about to begin in his life, something important that would change everything.