Fortune cookie

Reluctantly, the detective set out. He didn’t like this job, but it was what he was best at, and he was already used to the fact that he never had a day off. While walking to the bus, he was about to light a cigarette when a boy selling circus fortune cookies standing by the roadside suddenly approached him:

“You’re the 100th customer; this one’s on the house,” said the roughly 12-year-old boy dressed in colorful clothes.

He thanked him with a half-smile, continued walking, and ate the cookie. He hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast, even though it was already late afternoon. He barely glanced at the note inside before crumpling it into his pocket with a disdainful grimace.

“What a cheap trick,” he thought.
“They wrap dry wisdom in a sugary shell to make it easier for simple people to swallow.”

In less than twenty minutes, he arrived at the circus—or at least at what was left of it. The signs of destruction were everywhere. Thousands of footprints were sunk into the soaked, muddy ground. The usually heavy circus gate lay broken and pushed aside like a piece of cardboard in the mud. Streams of muddy footprints surrounded the sagging, tilted ticket booth.

The scene spoke to him clearly, coming to life as if in a vivid film: the image of a panicked crowd fleeing in terror. Trampled children’s toys, a single lost shoe, hats, small muddy handprints, and torn pieces of clothing caught on the jagged edges of the broken fence. He methodically circled the remnants of the tent. The scene was the same on every side. The crowd had fled headlong from something in the center of the tent.

“How many people died?” he asked, forcing an emotionless tone as he spoke to the police officer securing the site.

“Well, there are a lot of injuries, and quite a few serious ones,” the officer replied.
“We don’t know for sure yet, but so far, it seems there are no human casualties.”

He moved on toward the remains of the scorched tent canvas and still-smoldering poles near the former arena. Smoking wooden benches, platforms, and other remnants surrounded him. The air was thick with the stench of sweat and burnt flesh. The energy of the panic, barely an hour old, still seemed to vibrate in the air around him. Most of the metal poles supporting the roof had remained intact, but the burned remnants of the canvas swayed ominously in the twilight breeze. Through the drifting smoke and dim light, something large, reddish-gray, appeared to be stirring inside. A spotlight flickered on, casting the shadow of enormous tusks against the remnants of the canvas, followed by a guttural roar that shattered the ambient noise.

“This is no joke anymore,” he thought, drawing his service weapon. Holding it in front of him, he cautiously stepped forward. Another spine-chilling roar sounded from close by. He swung around, aiming his weapon.

“Man, I almost shot you!” he shouted at a soot-covered figure in red clothes, drenched and sobbing over a massive, smoldering carcass. But the figure didn’t even flinch, continuing to cry and, with arms spread toward the sky, let out another inarticulate wail: “WHY?”

In the center of the arena, the tent roof had completely collapsed. Thanks to the fresh spotlight set up by the forensic team, three charred elephant carcasses and a few dazed, staggering figures could be seen.

“We’re all prisoners,” murmured a boy sitting a few meters away, staring blankly ahead. He was perched on a surviving bench in the audience area. It was the same boy who had sold him the fortune cookie earlier—or at least, that’s what he seemed to be.

“Of course, he couldn’t have gotten here in time,” the detective thought.
“It must be another kid from the circus dressed the same way,” he concluded to himself.

One of the officers was gathering the circus staff still on site so the detective could take their statements.

“Who’s that guy in the red outfit?” the detective asked.

“That’s Ivan. He’s been training the elephants for 20 years. It’s as if he just lost his own children,” the clown replied.

“They were very gentle and docile animals; we didn’t even need to use cages. Ivan’s a genius. It’s thanks to him that the elephants didn’t panic and stampede through the crowd.”

“The Lord saved us! The elephants would have trampled everyone to death if divine intervention hadn’t stepped in!” shouted a performer in an acrobat costume, his voice filled with reverence.

“Wait your turn,” the on-duty officer snapped irritably.
“You’ll have your chance to give a statement soon.”

The detective lit a cigarette and began to ponder. It truly was shocking that the elephants burned to death rather than fleeing. But he had seen too often that there were no miracles—something else must be behind it. He certainly didn’t believe in God.

— Maybe if He showed up in person, looked me in the eye, and spoke to me, then, perhaps—

This thought made him involuntarily smirk, as though he wanted to dismiss the notion of miracles entirely. He waved away the cigarette smoke he had just exhaled, stood up, and addressed those waiting to give their statements in a loud voice.

“Things that seem mystical always turn out to have a logical explanation. So everyone, pull yourselves together and think carefully about what happened today. I’m interested in every tiny detail!”

“A lifetime’s work is gone,” said the assistant trainer. “Training an elephant, even under ideal circumstances, takes at least 2–3 years.”

He described in detail where the elephants came from, what they were fed, and how they were trained. He explained their daily routines and why straw was needed on the stage.

After an investigation by the fire brigade, it was revealed that a leaking oil reservoir in an overloaded transformer station had gone unnoticed. The oil had ignited from overheated coils, spraying flaming liquid high onto the roof of the circus tent. While the tent material itself was fire-resistant, it couldn’t withstand the heat generated by the burning transformer oil, and so it melted. However, when the oil ran out, the fire died down.

— But — the detective thought — there’s still no explanation for why the elephants didn’t try to escape.

Not long after, however, the pieces fell into place unexpectedly.

“The case is solved,” he said as he called his superior.
— I knew there was nothing miraculous about this — he thought to himself. After a brief pause for dramatic effect, he continued:

“Since they were calves, the elephants were trained to associate the arena with a thick stake driven into the center. A pole would be attached to a harness around their necks, and they were tied to it, forced to walk around it during every performance for years. Over time, the animals became so accustomed to the presence of the pole that later, through a Pavlovian reflex, it was enough just to put the harness on their necks. The harness signified to them that they could only move in a fixed circle, and trying anything else was pointless.”

“Excellent. I knew you were the right man for the job,” the police chief said, satisfied.
“The working people don’t need the false opium of religion! Our country will be built into greatness by conscious, hardworking hands!”

— Now I’ll talk to that boy and find out what happened to his parents, — the detective thought, but the boy was nowhere to be found.
— It seems his parents found him — he forced the thought into his mind and began the walk home, content. Leisurely strolling, he lit another cigarette and felt relaxed.
— I smoke too much — the thought crossed his mind. — This damn habit takes all my money. —

As he slid his lighter back into his pocket, his fingers bumped into the slip of paper he had stuffed in earlier. Pulling it out, he read its contents:

“Your habits bind you with frightening strength. Day by day, chip away at the bad ones and gradually replace them with good ones!”

Rohrsetzer Gyula