Opium Requiem. Ten Masks of Evil by Martin Cid

Opium Requiem. Ten Masks of Evil by Martin Cid

Opium Requiem. Ten Masks of Evil by Martin Cid. A new episode of Martin Cid novel. Enjoy it and have a nice day, Yareah friends.


Hookah. Photo by Petra Bubníkova

Episode 1  Episode 2  Episode 3  Episode 4

You Cannot Smoke This Opium Without a Mask



Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine,

Shapeless clouds rose silently, dense air flew smoothly and he inhaled the heavy smoke of his long pipe.

Times of war, good times.

Et lux perpetua luceat eis, te decet hymus,

Smoke, only smoke. It drew circles and metaphors among the shadows; it caressed the dark walls and shone in front of the lamps; it played with ghosts turned into angels and spoke with threatening grey figures.

Deus in Sion, et tibi reddetur votum in Jerusalem;

He inhaled again: the taste was a mix of eternity and corpses; smell of flowers, absinthe and strawberries mixed. He abandoned his body… calmly.

Eexaudi ortionem meam, ad te omnis caro veniet.

Buck was a bold young man. He was not clever but had some talent to make money or, at least, that was what he believed.

Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis.

Wills toppled the sofa over. He knew this peaceful sensation, this interior music of exotic sounds running through his body like a wave, arriving at his arms and legs without a sense of touch. He felt immortal now.

Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison, kyrie eleison.


Dies irae

Dies irae, dies illa

In 1943, Buck spent his lonely winter afternoons among the powerful structures of a grey New York, always busy.

Solvet saeclum in favilla, teste David cum Sybilla.

Peace and quiet. His mind could hear any bodily function if he concentrated a little: the beat of his heart; the smoke in his lungs; the liquids of his stomach moving slowly. Each new puff turned him into a cleverer person or, at least, that was what he thought.

Quantus tremor est futures, quando judex est venturus,

This is the great Buck’s story.

Cuncta stricte discussurus.

‘Excellent opium,’ Wills whispered.


Tuba mirum

Tuba mirum spargens sonum.

Wills left his long black pipe on the table and leaned on the sofa tiredly.

Per sepulchral regionum,

Buck had been an orphan since the 3rd of August, 1915. Both his parents had died on the same day and for the same reason: poverty. They had been suffering from starvation until they decided they were tired of seeing their children killed in the First World War.

Coget omnes ante thronum.

She came near him. She was an oriental girl dressed with a dark shen-i –smarter than a pien-fu but not as much as an evening dress-. Her lips were too much red and her hair too much black but her perfume was really marvelous.

More stupebit et natura,

The beginnings of Buck Mulligan were difficult: a swindler in his district, a seller on the black market, a cheap informer and other bad actions that he could easily recognize since he didn’t care about the roots of meanness. Now, he was 32 years old and for him war and sins did not exist.

Cum resurget creatura,

The girl sat in front of Wills and unfastened two buttons of her shirt. She rubbed her hands together to produce heat. Then, she caressed Wills’s chest tracing circles, looking steadily at him, moving slowly like a yellow image.

Judicanti responsura 

Now Buck was carving out a future dealing in medicines illegally. It was an easy job despite the ban since half of the country was dying due to illnesses and starvation and the other half was much too drunk to pay attention to this kind of problem. It was enough to have a few contacts, a pair of doctors in the biggest hospitals, and a clever man could live the rest of his life with the profits of one year.

Liber scriptus proferetur,

They heard the footsteps of new clients approaching. They walked confidently and sat comfortably on the sofas. Then, other oriental girls gave them long pipes to dream. Soon, their rusty spirits flew too and the room remained in silence again.

In quo totum continetur,

‘I need a hundred ampoules of penicillin,’ Buck said.

‘I don’t know if I can get them,’ a man with lab coat and very few coins answered.

The local temperature was hot; it was an opium den in the surroundings of Sad Bride, County of Missing.

Unde mundus judicetur.

‘I pay generously,’ Buck did not insist too much. If this one refused, another one would agree… everybody needed money.


‘Now. I cannot wait.’

Judex ergo cum sedebit,

The room was black and red. There were several forgotten glasses on the tables and absinthe, too much absinthe, to start the cruel performance of those people who did not dare touch strong drugs.

The doctor gave a nod and went out. Buck had to wait for several minutes, never more than ten. He smoked a cigarette, whistled an old polonaise and he returned with a wrapped box in his hands.

Quidquid latet apparebit,

A half-naked woman was allowing a client to touch her small breasts. Ten other men were lying on the sofas beside ten nice girls.

Nil inultum remanebit.

‘You cannot smoke here,’ the doctor said to him.

‘I’m completely afraid,’ Buck answered while he kept on puffing.

Quid sum miser tunc dicturus?

The room was hardly lit except for some oil lamps.

‘Listen to me, Buck. Come what may, you mustn’t say my name. My honor depends on your discretion.’

Quem patronum rogaturus,

They could only hear the door creaking while new clients were entering.

Cum vix Justus sit secures?

The heavy atmosphere was unbearable for a novice due to the smell of opium and musk.

 Continuation. Every Thursday and Sunday with Martin Cid


Ten Masks of Evil by Martin Cid. Amazon

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