Chapter I.X

The weather was beautiful - as if there had been no rain last night. Only the almost dry puddles served as a reminder of this natural phenomenon. The view was complimented by children running along the sidewalks, ladies strolling, men walking importantly... Galbraith decided, as always, to keep himself busy looking at the signs - for some reason this gave him special pleasure. Maybe it was due to the fact that in the place near Gloucester, where he spent his childhood, he never saw shop windows or advertisements - for the shops he visited there were modest tents standing in the open air. At least that's how it was in the sixties of the twentieth century - what was happening in his homeland now, the inspector could not know due to many factors.

Galbraith was attracted by the sign of a small pastry shop nestled next to The Faux Museum. There was a small sign on the glass that said "Closed" and some kind of telephone number circled in red pencil. But this was not what attracted the attention of the police inspector, but something completely different. There was a pink sign above the door, on which to the right of a beautifully depicted cupcake and a tall glass was written in large block letters "Beverages & Deserts". Galbraith rubbed his eyes - no, he was not mistaken - in the word "Dessert" the third letter for some reason went to the very end.

Apparently, the owner of this pastry shop was an immigrant from behind the Iron Curtain, where is this word actually spelled with one "S", but Galbraith did not have time to finish his thought, because he, not noticing the curb, tripped over it. Another second, and he, having lost his balance, would have flown down onto the sidewalk wet from yesterday's rain. But he was lucky - someone's strong hands managed to catch him. He saw above him an elderly tanned face with a black moustache.

- So, did you bent at such an early hour? - the man asked him with a strange accent.

The mustachioed saviour put him on his feet and busily looked at the inspector.

- No-no, I just was staring at that sign, - Galbraith said embarrassedly.

- I know you Americans, it is the morning, the drinking, - the man answered calmly, stretching.

The inspector wanted to answer that he was from England, but decided not to be offended by trifles.
 
- Well, where are you from? - he asked this man a question.

He wasn't sure if he really wanted to know, but don't really run away from here...

- I? Ich bin Deutscher! - the man proudly blurted out in response.

So that’s what kind of accent he had, Galbraith realized. He raised his head - it turned out that his savior was standing at a thick wooden door, above which hung a sign "Onkel Körble Lichtspielsalon". The last word vaguely reminded him of his native English "movie theater".

- Are they showing a movie here? - Galbraith nodded at the inscription.

His interlocutor seemed to be just waiting for this passerby to ask him about it. The German's huge lips stretched into a smile.

- How else? For German immigrants, onkel Korble founded a small cinema here two years ago.

The inspector thought doubtfully about what kind of cinema there could be in a room that had clearly previously housed a small store, but he decided not to show his mind.

- And what films are shown here? - he asked.

- In Deutsch, of course. However, if you don’t know our language at all, this is not a problem.

- Can I come to the session? - Galbraith began to be overcome by curiosity.

- You're just in time, last seat left.

- All right, then I'm all in.

Galbraith gave this German some money - as much as the ticket cost - and, opening the heavy door, entered a small but spacious hall. The decoration of this room alternated between wood and brick, and it seemed to the inspector who entered that the only thing missing to complete the ambience was stretched skins and other hunting trophies that could be hung all over the walls. However, signs of modern American life were also present in this dimly lit establishment - in the farthest corner there was a white canvas on a thick iron tripod, obviously it served as a screen. There were four rows of chairs in front of him. There were twenty seats in total, of which only one was free - ironically, it was located closest to the exit.

The contingent that gathered in this low-ceilinged room seemed to consist exclusively of lean, middle-aged men with short black hair. More than half of them had a thin black moustache, like the usher standing at the exit. Galbraith involuntarily caught himself thinking that he was invited to this place not least because he himself had a short haircut and a moustache. It might well be possible that the usher had a liking for people of other nations who were in some way similar to his compatriots. While waiting for the film to be shown, the audience quietly talked to each other. The inspector, sitting down on a chair with a high carved back and a soft seat, listened to their conversation. Of course, he did not hear a single word of English - all those gathered, as the usher warned him, were Germans who, for some purpose, immigrated from their historical homeland to America, Das gelobte Land.

Soon a click was heard above the heads of those gathered - apparently, a projector hidden somewhere under the ceiling began its work. Galbraith, having made himself comfortable on this chair, not the most suitable for watching a movie, fixed his eyes on the screen and from the very first frame found himself captivated by the mesmerizing spectacle. It was possible to say with confidence that onkel Korble - who, according to the ticket taker, founded this small cinema - did not skimp on ensuring that at the end of the session the audience, no matter how much they wanted, would not be able to forget this moving-picture show.

From the very first frames the film promised something very mysterious and unusual - in the middle of the red desert terrain, which strongly reminded Galbraith of the views of Glen Canyon, a horseman rode. There was one detail in his appearance that immediately caught the inspector's eye - this young man had gray hair that reached his shoulders. The operator's camera slowly changed angles as the man continued to make his way through the red sands.