Arkadi and Boris Strugatski. Hard to be a god
© Copyright Arcady and Boris Strugatsky
© Copyright Translated by Wendayne Ackerman, 1973
© Copyright DAW Books, INC.
Origin: "Trudno byt bogom"
OCR: SCOUT
PROLOGUE
The stock of Anka's crossbow was made of black plastic. The string of
chrome steel was operated by a noiselessly moving winch. Anton did not think
much of such innovations. He owned a conventional arquebus in the style of
Marshal Totz, King Pitz the first. It was overlaid with black copper and a
rope of steer sinews ran along small wheels. Pashka, on the other hand, had
an air rifle. Crossbows were childish weapons, he thought, for he was lazy
by nature and lacked manual dexterity.
They landed on the north shore at a spot where the gnarled roots of
mighty pine trees protruded from the yellow sandy slope. Anka let go of the
rudder and looked around. The sun had risen above the forest. A blue fog
hung over the lake. The pines glowed dark green and a yellow sandy beach
stretched in the distance. A light blue sky arched over the whole landscape.
The children bent over the side of the boat and looked into the water.
"Can't see a thing," said Pashka.
"A huge pike," said Anton, a trifle too sure of himself.
"With fins like that?" asked Pashka.
Anton did not reply. Anka, too, looked into the water, but she saw only
her own reflection in it.
"How about taking a swim?" said Pashka, and plunged his arm into the
water up to the elbow. "Cold," he reported.
Anton climbed onto the bow and jumped ashore. The boat rocked to and
fro. Anton took hold of the boat and glanced questioningly at Pashka. Now
Pashka rose, placed the oar like a water carrier's beam across his neck,
bent his knees a bit and sang at the top of his voice:
Old salt, sea-dog, Witzliputzli!
Are you watching, on your guard?
Look! A school of hard-boiled sharkies
Are approaching, swimming hard!
Anton rocked the boat.
"Hey, hey!" yelled Pashka, trying not to lose his balance.
"Why 'hard-boiled?'" Anka asked.
"I don't know," answered Pashka. They climbed out of the boat. "But
it's pretty good, isn't it? 'A school of hard-boiled sharkies!'"
They pulled the boat ashore. Their feet slipped on the wet sand, which
was strewn with dried needles and pine cones. The boat was heavy and
slippery but they dragged it all the way up onto the land. Then they stopped
for a while to catch their breath.
"Almost squashed my foot," said Pashka, and straightened his red fez.
He made sure that the tassel hung directly above his right ear--just like
the broad-nosed Irukanian pirates were wont to do. "life isn't worth a
farthing, my dear!" he recited dramatically.
Anka was intently sucking her finger.
"A splinter?" asked Anton.
"No. Got a scratch. One of you two must have long nails."
"Let me see!"
She showed him her finger.
"Yes," said Anton. "A scratch.--Well, let's do something!"
"Pick up your arms and let's walk along the shore!" suggested Pashka.
"For that we didn't need to crawl ashore," Anton said.
"It's chicken to stay in the boat," stated Pashka. "But along the shore
there are all kinds of things. Reeds, canyons, whirlpools, eddies with
eels--and catfish, too."
"A school of hard-boiled catfish," said Anton.
"Hey, did you ever dive into a whirlpool?"
"Sure."
"Funny that I didn't see you do it."
"Lots of things you haven't seen yet"
Anka turned her back on them, raised her crossbow and aimed at a pine
tree 20 feet away. The bark came off in splinters.
"Wow, did you see that!" exclaimed Pashka with admiration. Then he
aimed his air rifle at the same spot. But he missed. "I didn't hold my
breath properly," he said.
"And even if you had held it properly, so what?" asked Anton. He looked
at Anka.
With a firm movement Anka retracted the steel bow with the winch. She
had splendid muscles, and Anton watched with pleasure the hard ball of her
biceps rolling beneath her tanned skin.
Anka took aim carefully, and shot again. The second arrow penetrated
the tree trunk, a bit lower than the first
"That doesn't make any sense," said Anka, and let the crossbow hang
down her side. "What?" asked Anton.
"We're only damaging the trees, that's all. Yesterday, a kid shot an
arrow at a tree and I forced him to pull that arrow out with his own teeth."
"Pashka would have run away," said Anton. "You have good teeth."
"I can whistle through my teeth, too," said Pashka.
"Well," said Anka, "let's do something!"
"I don't feel like climbing up and down canyons," said Anton.
"Me neither. Let's walk straight ahead."
"Where to?" asked Pashka.
"Just follow your nose."
"Meaning what?" said Anton.
"Let's go into the forest!" said Pashka. "Toshka, do you remember the
'Forgotten Road'?"
"Sure!"
"You know, Anetchka--" said Pashka.
"Don't you call me Anetchka," Anka cut in abruptly. She could not stand
to be called by any other name than Anka.
Anton remembered very well that she did not like it, and said quickly:
"Sure--the Forgotten Road. Nobody has driven over it for ages. It isn't
even marked on the map, and where it leads to, nobody knows."
"Have you ever been there?"
"Yes. But we didn't explore it."
"A road coming from nowhere and leading nowhere," stated Pashka, who
had regained his former self-assurance.
"That's fine!" said Anka. Here eyes narrowed to black slits. "Let's go!
Will we get there by tonight?"
"What are you talking about? Well be there by noon."
They clambered up the steep slope. Once they had arrived at the top,
Pashka tamed around. Down below was the blue lake with yellow speckled sand
bars, and the boat on the sandy beach. Close to the shore, where the water
was as smooth as oil, large concentric circles broke the surface-- that was
the pike, probably. And the boy felt, as always, that vague joy he
experienced whenever he and Toshka stole away from the boarding-school and a
whole day of freedom lay before them. A day filled with unexplored places,
strawberries, sun-scorched deserted meadows, lizards, and ice cold water
from unexpected springs amidst the rocks. And as always he felt overcome by
a desire to shout out loud and jump up into the air. Anton, laughing
happily, watched him, and Pashka saw the understanding in his friend's eyes.
Anka placed two fingers in her mouth and gave forth with a piercing whistle.
And they entered the forest.
It was a pine wood, with sparse vegetation. Their feet skidded over the
slippery, needle-covered soil. The slanting sun rays glittered between the
straight tree trunks, and golden spots danced on the ground. The air smelled
of resin, the nearby lake, and strawberries. Somewhere, far above them, an
invisible lark was warbling.
Anka walked ahead. She carried her crossbow in one hand, and with the
other reached now and then for the strawberries that occasionally peeked
out, as red as blood, from among the foliage. Anton marched behind her with
the solid battle gear of Marshal Totz slung over his shoulder. The quiver,
filled with mighty battle arrows, rhythmically banged against the seat of
his trousers with every step. He looked at Anka's neck: it was deeply
tanned, and the vertebrae jutted out like little knobs. Once in a while he
turned around and looked for Pashka, who had disappeared; only the red fez
flashed from time to time in the bright sunlight. Anton imagined Pashka
prowling silently among the pine trees, his air rifle held in firing
position, his lean face with the hooked nose pointing forward like some
predatory animal Pashka crawling through the underwood. But the forest knows
no mercy. A challenge--and you must react at once, thought Anton. He was
just about to duck--but Anka was walking right in front of him, and she
might turn around any moment Wouldn't he look silly then!
Anka tamed around and asked:
"Did you sneak away real quietly?"
Anton shrugged his shoulders. "Nobody sneaks away noisily!"
"Well, I did. I guess I made some awful noise," said Anka with a
worried expression. "I dropped a cup--and suddenly I heard steps in the
corridor. Probably old maid Katja; she's on duty today. I had to jump out of
the window into a flower bed. Guess what kind of flowers grow there,
Toshka?"
Anton frowned.
"Under your window? I don't know, what kind?"
"Pretty tough flowers. No wind can rock them, no storm can break them.
You can jump around in them and trample on them and it won't harm them."
"That's interesting," said Anton in a serious voice. He remembered that
he also had a flower bed under his window, with flowers that were neither
rocked by wind nor broken by storm. But actually he had never paid any
attention to it.
Anka stopped and waited until Anton had caught up with her. She held
her hand out to him. It was full of strawberries. With the tip of his
fingers, Anton seized exactly three berries.
"Go ahead. Take some more," said Anka.
"No, thanks," said Anton. "I like to pick them myself.-- But listen,
Anka, it must be easy to get along with old maid Katja, isn't it?"
"That all depends," said Anka. "Just imagine somebody telling you every
night how dirty and dusty your feet are--"
She fell silent. It was good to walk with her through the woods,
shoulder to shoulder, and their bare elbows touching now and then. And it
felt good to look at her--how pretty she was, so nimble, so friendly--and
how big and gray her eyes were, and what dark lashes she had.
"Sure," said Anton, and stretched out his hand to grasp a spider web
that glistened in the sun. "Her feet wouldn't get dirty. If somebody carried
you through every puddle, then you wouldn't get dirty either."
"Who carries her?"
"Henry from the weather station. A big, strong guy with blond hair, you
know."
"Really?"
"Didn't you know it? It's old hat, everybody knows they're in love."
Both fell silent again. Anton looked at Anka. Her eyes were dark caves.
"And when did that happen?" she asked.
"Oh, on a moonlit night," replied Anton, not too eagerly. "Just keep
this all to yourself, will you?"
Anka laughed.
"It wasn't hard to drag it out of you, Toshka," She said. "Do you want
some more strawberries?"
Quite mechanically, Anton now took some berries from her red-stained
hand and put them in his mouth. I don't like gossip-mongers, he thought I
can't stand people who tell tales about others. Suddenly he had a thought.
"Some day somebody will carry you, too. How would you like it if people
talk about it then?"
"I'm certainly not going to tell anybody about it," said Anka. "I don't
like gossip."
Then she continued in a more confidential tone: "You know, I'm really
fed up with having to wash my feet two times every night."
Poor old maid Katja, thought Anton. What an uphill fight she has.
They reached a narrow lane. The path led up a steep slope and the wood
became darker and darker. Ferns grew in profusion, and wood sorrel. The pine
trunks were covered with moss and the whitish foam of lichen.
But the forest knows no mercy. Suddenly a hoarse, shrill voice, quite
unhuman, roared out:
"Stop! Throw your arms to the ground! You, milord, noble don and you,
too, Dona!"
If there is a challenge in the woods, you must react at once, Anton
knew. With calculated precision, Anton pushed Anka down into the ferns to
the left of the path, while he himself leapt into the ferns to the right. He
slipped at first, and then hid behind the evil-smelling lichen foam. The
echo of the hoarse voice still rang through the wood, but the path was
empty. Suddenly everything was quiet.
Anton turned to one side to bend his bow, when an arrow hit close by.
Dirt showered down on him. The hoarse, unhuman voice announced:
"Milord has been hit in the heel!"
Anton moaned and pulled up his left
"Not that one, it's the right heel!" corrected the voice.
He could hear Pashka giggle nearby. Cautiously, Anton peered out from
the ferns, but he could not see him anywhere in the dusky, green jungle.
At that moment, a penetrating, whistling sound came and a thud as if a
tree were falling to the ground.
"Owoooooo!" howled Pashka in a tortured voice. "Have mercy! Spare my
life! Don't kill me!"
Anton leapt to his feet. From the thicket of ferns he saw Pashka
approach in an unsteady gait, both arms raised above his head. Anka's voice
asked:
"Toshka, can you see him?"
"Yes, I can," called Anton cheerfully. "Don't move!" he yelled in
Pashka's direction. "Put your hands on top of your head!"
Pashka obediently clasped his hands above his head and declared:
"I won't tell a thing."
"What shall we do with him, Toshka?" asked Anka.
"You'll find out in just a minute," said Anton, settling comfortably on
the ground and placing his crossbow across his knees.
"Name!" he croaked, using the voice of the witch of Irukan.
Pashka simply arched his back and made a contemptuous gesture. He did
not want to submit to defeat. Anton fired. The heavy arrow noisily
penetrated the branches above Pashka's head.
"Wow!" exclaimed Anka.
"They call me Don Sarancha," grudgingly confessed Pashka. And then he
began to recite: "And here lies, as you all can see, one of his
accomplices."
"An infamous thug and murderer," Anton clarified. "But he is known
never to do something for nothing. On whose behalf have you come here to
snoop around?"
"Don Satarina the Pitiless has sent me," Pashka lied.
Anton spoke with contempt in his voice:
"This hand of mine cut the thread of Don Satarina's stinking life on
the Square of the Heavy Swords just two years ago."
"Shall I pierce him with an arrow?" suggested Anka.
"Oh, I completely forgot," said Pashka quickly. "Actually, I'm being
sent by Arata the Fair. He promised me one hundred gold pieces for your
heads."
Anton slapped his knees.
"What a liar!" he shouted. "Do you believe for an instant that Arata
would have anything to do with a swindler like you?"
"Maybe I'd better pierce him with an arrow after all?" asked a
bloodthirsty Anka.
Anton laughed demonically.
"By the way," said Pashka, "you were shot in your heel. You should have
collapsed long since from losing so much blood."
"Nuts!" countered Anton. "First of all, I've had a piece from the bark
of the White Tree in my mouth the whole time; and, second, two beautiful
barbarian maidens bandaged my wound."
The ferns began to move and Anka stepped out onto the path. On her
cheek was a long scratch and her knees were smeared with earth and lichen.
"It's about time we threw him into the swamp," she declared. "If the
enemy won't surrender, he must be destroyed."
Pashka's arms dropped down and dangled at his sides.
"You don't stick to the rules of the game," he said to Anton. "With you
it always turns out that the witch is a good person."
"You don't know the first thing about it!" said Anton. He, too, stepped
out onto the path. 'The forest knows no mercy, you filthy mercenary."
Anka returned the air rifle to Pashka.
"You two are real sharpshooters," said Anka enviously. "Do you always
aim so close?"
"What else did you expect from us?" Pashka asked. "We don't run around
yelling 'Bang, bang--you're dead!' When we play, we always take risks."
Anton added with nonchalance:
"We play William Tell a lot."
"We take turns," volunteered Pashka. "One day I have to go stand there
with an apple on my head, and next time he's got to do it."
"You don't say." Her words came slowly. "I'd love to watch that some
time."
"We'd show it to you right now--with pleasure," snapped Anton. 'Too bad
we don't have an apple!"
Pashka grinned from ear to ear. But Anka quickly yanked the pirate's
fez from his head and swiftly rolled it up into a cone.
"It doesn't have to be an apple!" she said. "This makes a marvelous
target. Come on, let's play William Tell!"
Anton took the red cone and examined it carefully. He glanced at Anka;
her eyes were like dark wells. Pashka was dancing about; he felt great Anton
held the cone out to him.
"I can hit the bull's-eye at 30 paces," he said flatly. "Of course,
only with a pistol I'm familiar with."
"Really?" said Anka, and she turned to Pashka. "And how about you? Can
you score a direct hit from 30 feet away?"
"I'm known as the fastest gun this side of the lake!" he grinned
broadly. "Let's try it out."
Anton made an about-face and walked down the path, counting out loud:
"... fifteen... sixteen... seventeen..."
Pashka said something that Anton couldn't hear, and Anka laughed, much
too loud.
"Thirty," said Anton and turned around.
At a distance of thirty paces, Pashka looked pretty small. The red cone
sat on his head like a dunce cap. Pashka grinned. He was still playing.
Anton leaned forward and leisurely drew his bow.
"Bless you. Father William!" Pashka called out to him. "And whatever
happens, thanks for everything!"
Anton placed a bolt in the slot which would guide the missile. He
straightened up. Pashka and Anka looked at him. They were standing close to
each other. The lane stretched ahead like a dark soggy passage between tall
green walls. Anton raised the crossbow. The battle gear of Marshal Totz
suddenly felt very heavy. My hands are trembling, thought Anton. That's bad.
What nonsense! He remembered how he and Pashka had amused themselves last
winter for one full hour by aiming snowballs at an icicle on a fence post
They were throwing from a distance of twenty feet, then fifteen, then
ten--and they still could not hit it And finally, when they had grown tired
of the game and were just about to leave, Pashka pitched the last snowball,
without even taking aim, and made a direct hit.
Anton pressed the stock hard against his shoulder. Anka is standing
much too close, he thought He was on the point of calling out to her to move
over a bit, but then he remembered that this would seem silly. Higher.
Higher still. . . Higher . .. Suddenly he was firmly convinced that the
heavy bolt was going to strike Pashka right between the eyes, bore deeply
between those merry, green eyes, even if he turned around now and let the
arrow fly in the opposite direction.
He opened his eyes and looked at Pashka. Pashka's grin had vanished.
Anka raised her hand very slowly, then ever so slowly spread her fingers
apart. Her face looked very intense and grown-up. Now Anton lifted his
crossbow higher still and pulled the trigger. He did not see where the arrow
landed.
"Missed it!" he said very loud.
He walked along the path but his legs would not properly obey him.
Pashka wiped the red cone across his face, shook himself like a wet dog,
unrolled the cone and formed it into a fez again. Anka bent down and picked
up her crossbow. If shell hit me over the head with it, thought Anton, I'll
even say thank you. But Anka did not even look at him.
She tamed to Pashka and asked: "Are we leaving?"
"Right away," said Pashka.
He looked at Anton, tapping his finger against his forehead.
"But you were scared too." Anton said. Pashka did not reply. Once more
he tapped his finger against his forehead. Then he followed Anka. Anton
ambled along in the rear, trying to cope with his doubts.
What did I do, he thought. His head felt very heavy all of a sudden.
Why are they so put out? Pashka--well, he was scared stiff. Who knows who
was more afraid: Father William or his son? But what's the matter with Anka?
Maybe she was worried about Pashka. But what should I have done? Now they
make me trot behind like an outcast. I should take off on my own. I can take
that tarn over there on the left, there's an interesting looking little pool
Maybe I can catch an owl; wouldn't that be something!
But he did not even slow down. That's for good, he thought Somewhere he
had read that such things happened frequently.
They reached the Forgotten Road sooner than they had expected. By now,
the sun was high up in the sky, and it was very hot. The pine needles
pricked their bare skin. The road was paved with concrete; it consisted of
two rows of cracked, reddish-gray blocks. Thick tufts of dried grass were
growing in the cracks. The soft shoulders on either side were full of dusty
thistles. Above the road flew fat blowflies, buzzing and droning, and a
brazen one bumped right into Anton's forehead. The air was quiet and sultry.
"Look, you two!" said Pashka.
He pointed to a round metal sign hanging over the middle of the road on
a rusty wire that had been strung across. The paint was peeling off the
sign. They could barely make out a light-colored crossbar on a red
background.
"What is that?" asked Anka. She did not seem too interested.
"A traffic sign," said Pashka. "Do Not Enter."
"A one-way street," explained Anton.
"What does that mean?" asked Anka.
"That means that you can't enter that road," said Pashka.
"But why do they have the road, then?"
Pashka shrugged his shoulders.
"It's a very old road," he said.
"An anisotropic road," Anton explained. Anka stood with her back to
him. "Traffic can move only in one direction."
"The wisdom of our forefathers," said Pashka pensively. "There they
were, driving along for about 200 miles, and all of a sudden--smash,
bang!--Do Not Enter! Wrong Way! And you can't drive on, and there isn't
anybody you can ask."
"Just imagine all the things that might be there on the other side of
that traffic sign!" said Anka. She looked all around. For many miles there
was only the deserted forest and not a person to ask what might lie beyond
that traffic sign. "Maybe it isn't an anisotropic traffic sign after all,"
said Anka. "The paint's almost all peeled off."
Now Anton lifted his crossbow, took careful aim and shot off an arrow.
How nice if the bolt would snap the wire and let the traffic sign fall right
before Anka's feet. But the arrow hit the upper part of the sign, pierced
the rusty metal and nothing fell down except some flakes of dried paint
"Silly ass!" said Anka without bothering to turn around.
That was the first remark she had addressed to him since they had
played William Tell. Anton smiled wryly.
"And enterprises of great pitch and moment," he recited, "with this
regard their current turn away and lose the name of action."
Faithful Pashka called out:
"Hey, kids, a car was here! After the thunderstorm! The grass is still
flat where the tires drove over it! And here--"
That lucky Pashka, thought Anton. Carefully he examined the tire tracks
in the road. He, too, saw the trampled grass and the black skid marks where
the car must have suddenly braked before a pothole in the concrete pavement.
"I can see it now," called out Pashka. "The car must have come from the
other side, from behind the traffic sign."
It seemed very obvious, but Anton said:
"Baloney! He's come from the other direction!"
Pashka regarded him with surprise:
"What's gotten into you? You're blind as a bat!"
"He's come from this way here," Anton argued stubbornly. "Let's follow
his track."
"You idiot!" Pashka sounded angry. "Who in his right mind would drive
into a one-way street the wrong way? And look here: here is the pothole and
over there the skid mark --so where did the car come from?"
"I don't care what you say! I'm going along this one-way street, even
if it's the wrong way."
Pashka turned pale with fury. "Go right ahead!"
He started to hiccup. "What idiocy! The sun must have cooked your
brain!"
Anton turned around. He looked straight ahead, ducked under the traffic
sign and passed through to the other side. He only wished he could come upon
a collapsed bridge and have to work his way over to the other side. I have
nothing more to do with them, he thought. Let them go wherever they
please--with her darling Pashka. Then he remembered how Anka had cut off
Pashka when he had called her Anetchka, and feeling a bit relieved, he
turned and looked back.
His eye fell on Pashka. Like a dog sniffing a scent, Don Sarancha was
following the track of the mysterious car. The rusty sign over the road was
gently swaying in the wind, and the blue sky gleamed through the hole the
arrow had made, Anka sat at the side of the road, her elbows resting on her
knees and her chin supported by her small, clenched fists.
As they were returning home, dusk began to fall. The two boys rowed,
while Anka sat at the rudder. A red moon stood above the dark forest and the
frogs croaked untiringly.
"And we had planned everything so nicely," said Anka mournfully. "You
two--!"
The boys remained silent. Then Pashka asked softly:
"Toshka, what did you find behind the one-way street sign?"
"A collapsed bridge," answered Anton. "And the skeleton of a German,
chained to a machine gun." He thought a while, then he added: "the machine
gun was halfway sunk into the ground already."
"Hmm, yes," said Pashka. "These things can happen. I helped somebody
repair his car back there."
ONE
As Rumata passed by the tomb of the Holy Mickey--the seventh and the
last on this stretch of the road--darkness had already fallen. The highly
praised Chamalharian stallion which he had won from Don Tameo in a game of
cards, was in fact a miserable nag. The animal was dripping with sweat; it
kept stumbling over its own legs, and its irregular trot reminded one of the
swaying motions of a tossing ship. Rumata pressed his knees hard into the
animal's flanks and slapped his gloves between the horse's ears. The nag
responded merely with a tired nod; its pace remained the same. Under the
late evening dusk, the bushes that lined the road appeared like solidified
smoke clouds. Swarms of flies buzzed annoyingly around the rider's head. Up
in the darkened night sky a few yellowish stars dimly nickered. An
alternately cold and warm wind came in gentle, irregular squalls, typical
for this coastal strip during fall with its sultry, dust-filled days and
cold, frosty nights.
Rumata drew his cloak closer around his shoulders and let go of the
reins. There was no use trying to hurry. Midnight was still one hour away,
and already he could recognize the black jagged outline of Hiccup Forest on
the horizon. To the left and the right of the road carelessly ploughed
fields stretched into the distance. Swamps stinking of rotten vegetation and
decaying animals glimmered in the faint light of the stars: here and there
silhouettes of hills and the half-rotted wooden palisades from the time of
the Great Invasion loomed up horribly. Far off in the distance the sullen,
lambent flames of a fire flickered: most likely a village was burning
somewhere over there--one of the innumerable wretched little look-alike
places that until recently had been known by names such as "Death Hamlet,"
"Gallows Hill View," or "Robbers Nest"; imperial edicts had renamed them
"Blossom Grove," "Peace Harbor View" and "Angel Rest."
This land stretched over hundreds of miles, from the shores of the Big
Bay to the eerie Hiccup Forest. The terrain teemed with hosts of gnats,
gouged by gorges, half smothered by swamps; its inhabitants were raked by
fever and forever threatened by pestilence and vile colds.
Near a bend in the road, a dark figure stepped from the bushes. The
stallion gave a sudden start and threw back its head. Rumata quickly seized
the reins, then with a swift movement adjusted his right sleeve--an old
habit of his--and reached for his sword. Then he had a closer look. The man
at the side of the road took off his hat.
"Good evening, noble don," he said softly. "I beg your pardon."
"What's the matter?" inquired Rumata. He cocked an ear toward the
bushes.
There is actually no such thing as a silent ambush. Robbers are
betrayed by the singing of their bow strings; the men of the Gray Militia
constantly belch up their sour beer; the hordes of the barons grunt with
greed and rattle their sabers; and the monks who hunt for slaves scratch
themselves noisily. No, it was all quiet in the thicket. This man was no
bushwhacker, thought Rumata. He did not look at all like a sniper: he was a
short, stocky townsman wrapped in a rather inexpensive cloak.
"Will you permit me to run alongside your horse?" he asked the rider
and bowed deeply to him.
"Come along," said Rumata, toying with the reins. "You can hold onto
the stirrup."
The man walked alongside, holding his hat in his hand. His head was
completely bald. A stewart from some baronial estate, thought Rumata. Visits
barons and cattle dealers, buys up hemp and flax. A stalwart man . . . Then
again, maybe he's no stewart after all. Maybe he's a "bookworm," or a
fugitive. Maybe he's a ne'er-do-well--there are many of that kind roaming
the roads at night--certainly more than there are baronial stewarts. But be
could be a spy as well...
"Who are you and where are you coming from?" asked Rumata.
"They call me Kiun," answered the man sorrowfully. "And I come from
Arkanar."
"You mean you are fleeing from Arkanar," said Rumata and bent forward
slightly toward him. "Yes." The man spoke with sadness. Some freak, an odd
character, thought Rumata. Or is he a spy after all? I'll keep an eye on him
. . . But why should I bother to keep an eye on him? Who will be helped by
that? Who am I to scrutinize and test him? I don't even want to observe him!
Why shouldn't I simply believe him? There is a man, quite obviously an
intellectual, on the run, his life at stake ... He feels lonely, he's afraid
and weak, just looking for a helping hand--and then he runs into an
aristocrat The aristocrats are too stupid and arrogant to know much about
politics. Instead, they have very long sabers, and they don't like the Gray
Militia, Why shouldn't citizen Kiun simply seek protection from some stupid,
arrogant aristocrat? That's it. Of course, I won't keep my eye on him
especially. I have no special reason to. Let's rather chat for a while, kill
some time, and then we will part friends...
"Kiun . . ." he said aloud. "I once knew a Kiun. A quack doctor and
alchemist on Klempner Street. Are you related to him?"
"Oh dear, yes, I am," said Kiun. "I'm only a very distant relative of
his, but they don't care. They exterminate our kind up to the twelfth
generation."
"And where are you fleeing to, Kiun?"
"Any place. As far away from here as possible. Many have fled to
Irukan. Ill try my luck with Irukan, too."
"Well, well," said Rumata. "And you think the noble don will lead you
safely through the sentry posts?"
Kiun remained silent.
"Or, maybe you think the noble don doesn't know what kind of a man the
alchemist on Klempner Street really is?"
Kiun still did not answer. I think I'm talking a lot of nonsense,
thought Rumata. But then he rose high up in his stirrups and, imitating the
town crier on the Royal Square, puffed up his throat and shouted:
"Accused and condemned of the most horrible and unforgivable crimes
against God, the Crown and the public safety!"
Kiun still remained silent.
"And what if the noble don adored and revered Don Reba, the father of
all abominations? What if he were devoted with all his heart to the cause of
the Gray Militia? Or do you think that is totally out of the question?"
Kiun kept silent. To the right of the road, the black silhouette of a
gallows tree loomed in the dark. A ghostly white naked body, strung up by
the feet, swung from a crossbeam. Oh well, thought Rumata, what's the good
of it all? He pulled tight his reins, seized Kiun by the shoulder and turned
the man's face around for him to see.
"And how would you like it if the noble don would hang you now right
next to that gallows bird?" he said and stared into the white face and dark
orbs of Kiun. "I'd do it myself. Swift and skillful. With a strong
Arkanarian rope? For the sake of ideals? Why do you keep silent, bookworm
Kiun?"
Kiun did not speak. His teeth were rattling with fright and he twisted
weakly under Rumata's strong grip like a captured lizard. Suddenly, a splash
could be heard as something fell into the canal alongside the road. At the
same time, as if to drown out the splashing noise of the impact, the man
shouted desperately:
"Go ahead and hang me! String me up, you traitor!"
Rumata caught his breath and let go of Kiun.
"I was only joking," he said. "Don't be afraid."
"Lies, lies," Kiun sobbed. "Nothing but lies everywhere!"
"All right, then," said Rumata. "Forgive me! You'd better fish it out
of the water, whatever you just threw in there. It will get soaked through
otherwise."
Kiun did not budge from the spot. His upper body swayed back and forth
in indecision. He continued to sob softly, and beat his palms senselessly
against his cloak. Then, slowly, he crawled into the canal. Rumata was
waiting. He was very tired and he sank down into his saddle. That's the way
it's got to be, he thought; it can't be done any other way. Kiun came
staggering out of the canal, a bundle hidden under his cloak.
"Books, of course," said Rumata.
Kiun gently shook his head.
"No," he said hoarsely. "Only one book. My book."
"What do you write?"
"I'm afraid it wouldn't interest you, noble don."
Rumata wrinkled his brow and sighed.
"Hold onto the stirrup," he said, "and come on."
Neither spoke for a long time.
"Listen, Kiun," said Rumata. "I was only joking. Don't be afraid of
me."
"What a world," grumbled Kiun. "What a funny world. Everybody is making
fun. And they all do it the same way. Even the noble Don Rumata.
Rumata was startled.
"You know my name?"
"Yes, I do," said Kiun. "I recognized you by the circlet on your
forehead. And at first I was so happy to have met you of all people here on
this road--"
Why, of course, Rumata thought. That's what was on his mind when he
called me a traitor. He said:
"You see, I thought you were a spy. And those I kill usually at once."
"A spy?" Kiun replied. "Yes, indeed. Nowadays it's so easy and
profitable to be a spy. Our shining eagle, our most noble Don Reba, is very
anxious to know what the king's subjects are saying and thinking. I wish I
were a spy. A proper scout in the Gray Joy Tavern. How fine and honorable!
At six o'clock, off I go to the inn. The innkeeper will rush to my usual
table to bring me my first tankard, and I can drink as much as I can hold.
Don Reba is paying for the beer-- or to be exact, nobody really pays for it.
I just sit there with my beer in front of me and my ears open. Sometimes I
pretend to make some notes about the conversations, and you should see the
poor frightened things crawl up to offer their friendship and their purses.
In their eyes I can see what I always wanted to: the devotion of whipped
dogs, awe and fear and impotent hatred. I can have any girl I want, any time
I like; women melt in my arms right in front of their husbands' eyes--all
healthy, strapping men, who stand there with obsequious giggles. Splendid
prospects, noble don, don't you agree? I heard all this first-hand from a
fifteen-year-old kid, a pupil of the Patriotic School--"
"And what did you tell him then?" Rumata's curiosity had been roused by
the fugitive's tale.
"What should I have told him? He wouldn't have understood anyhow. So I
told him about the men of Waga Koleso, the robber chief; whenever they catch
a spy, they simply slit his belly open and stuff his guts with pepper. Then
again, there are the drunken soldiers who jam a spy into a sack and drown
him in the village pond. And, what's more, I was telling the truth, the pure
truth--but he wouldn't believe me. He said, "That's not what they teach us
at school." Then I took a piece of paper and started to write down our
conversation. I needed it at the time for my book, but the poor boy thought
it was a denunciation. He suddenly broke out in a sweat all over..."
They could see lights twinkle through the foliage of the trees lining
the road. It was coming from the inn called Bako's Skeleton. Kiun's steps
began to falter and he fell silent.
"What's the matter?" asked Rumata.
"A patrol of the Gray Militia. Over there," answered Kiun under his
breath.
"Well, so what?" said Rumata. "Listen--we love and revere these simple
rough men, our militant Gray boys. We need them. From now on the people will
have to keep their tongues in check, if they don't want to dangle from the
nearest branch of a tree!"
He laughed because he had expressed it so splendidly--exactly in the
language of the Gray Barracks.
Kiun seemed to shrink; he pulled his head between his shoulders.
"Simple folk have to know their place. God didn't give them a tongue
for talking, but for licking the boots of their master, the noble lord, who
has been placed above them from the very beginning of time..."
In the paddock, behind the inn, the saddled horses of the Gray Patrol
pranced about. Through an open window came the raucous cursing of the
players and the knock and rattle from their game of knucklebones. In the
doorway stood "Skeleton Bako" in person, blocking the way with his
tremendous belly. He wore an old leather jacket whose seams had burst in
innumerable places. The edges of his sleeves dripped with moisture. His
mossy paw gripped a club--evidently he had just slain a dog for his broth,
had broken out in a heavy sweat with the effort, and had stepped outside to
get his wind back. A Gray Sturmovik lolled on the stairs, his battle-ax held
between his knees. The massive handle of his ax pushed his face to one side.
It was plain to see that he was nursing a giant hangover. When he noticed
the rider, be cleared his throat, spat between his feet, and called
hoarsely. "Sto-o-o-p! Who goes there? St-o-o-op! No-o-o-ble d-o-n-n-n!"
Rumata's chin barely jutted out as he rode past the man without so much
as a glance.
". . . But if their tongue is licking the wrong boots," he said aloud,
"then it must be yanked out, for it is written: Your tongue--my enemy..."
Hidden by the nag's croup, Kiun hopped alongside with long leaps. Out
of the corner of his eye, Rumata noticed Kiun's bald head gleaming with
perspiration.
"Stop, I said!" roared the Sturmovik.
One could hear his ax scraping against the steps as he dragged himself
down the stairs, cursing God, the devil, and all people of high birth.
About five men, pondered Rumata, and tugged at his lace cuffs. Drunken
butchers. So what!
They had passed the inn by now and kept moving toward the woods.
"I can walk faster, if you so desire," said Kiun with an exaggerated
firm voice.
"Certainly not!" said Rumata and slowed his horse down.
"It would be boring to ride so many miles without a single brawl. Don't
you ever want to get into a good fight, Kiun? Just talk, that's all you do,
don't you?"
"No," said Kiun. "I have never any desire to get into a fight."
"That's exactly your trouble," Rumata grumbled, annoyed. He directed
the stallion to the side of the road, and tugged impatiently at his gloves.
From a bend in the road, two riders came galloping at full speed. They
halted as soon as they caught sight of him.
"Hey, there, noble don!" shouted the first one. "Show your pass!"
"You boor!" Rumata's voice was icy. "You can't even read, what good
will a pass do you!"
He jerked his knees deeply into his horse's flanks, and the steed took
off in a fast trot straight toward the two Gray Sturmoviks. Cowards, he
thought. Let's just slap their faces a few times! No, what's the use. Here I
am, burning to vent the rage that has been building up all day--but nothing
will come of it anyhow. So let's stay calm and humane, let's forgive
everyone, remain imperturbable like the gods. The gods are never in a hurry;
after all, they have all eternity ahead of them...
He rode close to the Sturmoviks. The two men, no longer sure of
themselves, seized their axes and fell back.
"W-e-e-ell?" Rumata asked slowly.
"Oh--what's the matter with me?" stammered the braver of the two
Sturmoviks, quite perplexed. "I mean--it's you, the noble Don Rumata?"
His companion had already turned his horse around and made off in a
fast gallop. The first Sturmovik kept falling back and lowered his raised
ax.
"I beg your most humble pardon, noble don," he gushed. "We did not
recognize you right away ... it was our fault. Official business, you
know--so easy to make a mistake there. The fellows have been drinking a
little, and they are burning with eagerness--" He maneuvered his horse
around, ready to take off. "You will understand, noble don, such restless
times . . . We're hunting down those fleeing bookworms ... I hope you won't
make complaints about us, noble don--"
Rumata turned his back on him. "A pleasant journey, most noble don!"
shouted the Sturmovik after him, much relieved.
As soon as the two riders were out of sight, Rumata called out softly:
"Kiun!"
There was no answer.
"Hey, Kiun!"
Still no answer. He listened more closely; now he could hear a distant
rustling in the bushes that was set off distinctly against the background of
the constantly singing gnats and mosquitoes. Kiun must be marching hastily
across the land, toward the West, in the direction of the Irukanian border.
That's that, thought Rumata. What was the good of the whole conversation?
It's always the same thing, over and over again. Cautious exploring at
first, then guarded exchange of ambiguous remarks . . . Week after week you
waste your energy on stupid chatter with any number of morons; but if you
are lucky enough to meet some real person, there's no time for a
heart-to-heart talk. You'd like to provide some cover for him, to protect
him, to help him reach some refuge--and he walks away without ever knowing
whether he encountered a friend or a vain fop. And you don't find out
anything about him either--his desires, his abilities, his reason for
living, his goals...
His thoughts turned to Arkanar in the evening. Solid stone houses along
the main streets, friendly lanterns over the inn gates, kindhearted,
satisfied shopkeepers drinking their beer at clean tables, chatting about
the world, how it isn't such a bad place after all; discussing the falling
bread prices or the rising harness prices; here and there a conspiracy is
unveiled, warlocks and suspect bookworms are incarcerated, the king is as
magnificent and grand as ever; Don Reba, however, is infinitely clever and
always on his guard. "You don't say!"---"That's the way it's supposed to
be!"-- "The world is round!"--"For all I care it might be square, only don't
you touch our learned men!"--"Believe me, brothers, all our misfortunes come
from those know-it-alls!"-- "Happiness is not caused by money; the peasant
is a human being, too, so they say, fine, but go on--and all the time more
and more of this inciting poetry: and they begin to raise hell, there are
riots and mutiny . . ." "Throw them all in jail, brothers! Myself, for
example, what would I do? I would ask them directly: can you read and write?
Lock him up! You write poems? Lock him up! You are an expert on diagrams?
Lock him up! You know too much!--" "Bina, my angel, another three tankards
of beer and a roast hare!"
And outside the window--stomp, stomp, stomp--come marching along the
nailed boots of the sturdy, red-nosed fellows in their gray shirts. And over
their right shoulder, the heavy hatchets. "Brothers! There they are, our
protectors! They keep this learned rabble at a proper distance, yes, indeed!
. . . And that one over there, that's my boy, my son--Over there on the
right flank! It was only yesterday that I tanned his hide! Yes, brothers,
we're living in a wonderful time! Our monarchy, so solidly entrenched,
prosperity, unshakable law and order--and justice. Hooray for our Gray
Troops! Hooray, Don Reba! Long live our King! That's the life, brothers!"
Over the dark plains of the kingdom of Arkanar, however, lit up by
raging fires and glowing woods, hundreds of miserable men are fleeing,
skirting the sentry posts, running, stumbling, and running on. Bitten by
gnats, with bleeding, sore feet, covered with dust and sweat, tormented,
frightened and tortured by despair, but as hard as steel and firm in their
convictions--they are unlawfully accused and persecuted. Why? Because they
heal and teach their people, who are riddled by disease and swamped by
ignorance; because, like gods, they create a second nature out of clay and
stone, wishing to beautify our existence, for a people that does not know
beauty; because they penetrate into the secrets of nature hoping to place
these secrets at the service of and for the benefit of the dull, apathetic
people, who have been kept in fear by ancient black arts. They are helpless,
good and awkward, way ahead of their own times...
Rumata pulled off one glove and soundly slapped his stallion between
the ears. "Let's go, you lame old mare!" He spoke Russian. It was already
past midnight when he rode into the forest.
Nowadays nobody could tell exactly any more where that strange name
came from--"Hiccup Forest." A rumor had been circulated via official sources
that some 300 years earlier the Iron Squads of Imperial Marshal Totz (who
later became the first king of Arkanar) had penetrated this forest as they
were pursuing the retreating hordes of the copper-skinned barbarians. There
the brave warriors had gathered the bark of the White Trees and brewed a
kind of domestic beer which turned out so miserably that whoever drank it
would suffer for hours from hiccups and belching. The following morning, so
the legend goes, when said Marshal Totz came to inspect the camp, he tamed
up his blue-blooded nose and spoke, the following words; "Indeed, this is
unbearable! The whole forest has the hiccups and reeks of bad beer!" That is
the origin, it is said, of this peculiar name.
One might quarrel about the veracity of this legend, but in any case
this was no ordinary forest. Giant trees with firm white trunks were growing
in it, of the kind that could no longer be found anywhere else in the
country. Not even in the dukedom of Irukan, and definitely not in the
Mercantile Republic of Sloan, where all the timber had long since been cut
down for use in the construction of ships. There were rumors making the
round that many such woods still existed beyond the Red Mountains, in the
country of the barbarians--but there are all kinds of stories told about
those barbarians, you know ...
A path had been cut through the forest some 200 years back. This road
led to the silver mines and by virtue of feudal law the noble family of the
Barons of Pampa, the descendants of a comrade-in-arms of Marshal Totz, had
been invested with these holdings. According to this feudal law, the Barons
of Pampa were supposed to pay the Arkanarian kings twelve poods of pure
silver each year. Thus each new king would gather an army shortly after he
ascended to the throne, and march toward Castle Bau, where the barons dwelt
The walls of the castle were solid, the barons were brave, and each year, as
before, the kingdom of Arkanar had yet to collect the twelve poods of pure
silver. After their defeated armies had returned home, the Arkanarian kings
would once again confirm the barons' legal claims, in addition to other
privileges, including the right to pick one's nose at the royal table, the
right to go hunting in the western regions of Arkanar and, finally, the
right to call the princes by their first names, without adding their rank
and title.
Hiccup Forest was full of dark secrets. Throughout the day, heavy
carloads of silver ore would roll toward the South. But at night, the road
was deserted, for few men dared walk there under the lights of the stars. It
was said that at night the Siu bird called from the High Tree. No one had
ever beheld this bird, for it cannot be seen by human eyes, being no
ordinary bird. It was said that great shaggy spiders would jump from the
tree branches onto a horse's neck to suck his blood in almost no time. It
was said that the monstrous primeval dragon Pech roamed this forest; the
monster was said to be covered with giant scales; to bear a live young
dragonlet once every twelve years; and to drag after it 12 tails pouring
with sweat. And somebody is said to have seen with his own eyes, in broad
daylight, how the naked wild sow Y, cursed by the Holy Mickey, was dragging
itself along the highway, moaning and grunting--a rapacious beast of prey,
invulnerable to iron but easily pierced by a bone.
Here in this mysterious forest, you might encounter the fugitive slave,
the one with the black tattoos between his shoulder blades. He was stupid
and pitiless, just like the shaggy, blood-sucking spiders. Or you might meet
the magician, the one who had been mangled by three deaths; he was always
gathering mysterious mushrooms for his magic potions, which could make a man
invisible, or change him into different animals, or even give him a second
shadow.
Everyone knew, of course, that the robber captain Waga Koleso and his
band roamed along the road all through the night, and fugitive forced
laborers from the silver mines, with their black hands and whitish,
transparent faces. The poisoners would gather here for their nocturnal
meetings, and the brazen hunters of the Barons of Pampa camped out in the
glades where they could roast their stolen buffaloes on a spit over an open
fire.
In the midst of the thicket, where the underbrush was growing denser
than anywhere, stood a giant tree, gouged with clefts and chinks by old age.
Beneath it leaned a warped wooden hut, surrounded by a blackened, wooden
palisade. The hut had been here since time immemorial. The door was always
closed. Idols hewn of entire logs leaned against the moldering wooden steps.
This hut was, as everyone could testify, the most, most dangerous spot in
all Hiccup Forest. Every twelve years the old wild sow Pech comes here to
bring forth its young. Then the sow crawls under this hut to die, poisoning
the whole foundation of the hut with its black venom. If ever this poison
seeps to the outside, the end of the world will be near. People also say
that on unclean nights, the idols will dig themselves out from the soil,
walk to the path, and make mysterious signs there. And they also say that at
times a demonic light will shine in the dead windows of the hut, while dull
sounds can be heard from within, and smoke can be seen rising from the
chimney up to the sky.
Not long ago, the village idiot Kukisch from the hamlet "Sweet Stench"
(also popularly known as "Dung Heap") happened to chance upon this hut and,
fool that he is, stared into a window. He came home completely mad, and
after he had regained the pitiful traces of wit he had, he told of having
seen a light inside the hut, a man sitting at a rough wooden table, his feet
propped up on the rough bench, holding a little casket in his hand and
drinking from it. His jowls drooped almost down to his belt and his skin was
all pockmarked. And that, naturally, was the Holy Mickey in person, before
he had seen the light, in fact: a moll hunter, drunkard, and blasphemer. To
gaze upon him was only possible for those who were entirely without fear. A
sweet, heavy odor had come through the window and shadows flitted through
the trees. People came from all over to listen to the idiot's tale. The
whole story finally ended when the Sturmoviks appeared, screwed his elbows
up to his shoulders and sent him packing. Still, of course, the rumors about
the old hut could not be quenched, and from then on it was generally known
as the "Drunkard's Lair."
Rumata made his way through the prolific growths of gigantic ferns
until he came to the entrance of the Drunkard's Lair. He tied his horse to
one of the idols. There was a light inside the hut and the door was open,
hanging by a single hinge. Father Kabani sat at the table, completely
disheveled. A penetrating odor of schnapps filled the hut; on the table,
amidst gnawed bones and boiled beets, sat a giant earthenware jug.
"Good evening, Father Kabani," said Rumata as he crossed the threshold.
"I bid you welcome," replied Father Kabani with a voice that sounded
like a hunter's horn.
Rumata approached the table with clicking spurs, dropped his gloves on
the table and looked again at Father Kabani, who sat motionless, his heavy
drooping jowls supported in his palms. His shaggy, half-gray eyebrows hung
down onto his cheeks like dried grass tufts over a ravine. From the nostrils
of his porous large-pored nose the air came whistling whenever he breathed
out. It stank of half-digested alcohol.
"I invented it myself!" he said suddenly, unexpectedly. With great
effort he pulled up his right eyebrow and directed a somber glance at
Rumata. "I myself! And what for?" He withdrew his right hand from under his
jowl and his hairy finger gestured aimlessly in the air. "And despite all, I
am good for nothing! I have invented it--and yet I'm no good, eh? That's
right, that's right, a failure. None of us invents anything anyhow, nobody
has any new ideas, but-- oh, the devil with it all...!"
Rumata unbuckled his belt, took off his fez and removed his swords.
"Come, come," he said gently.
"The box!" Father Kabani wheezed. Then he fell silent and moved his
cheeks in a strange fashion.
Without taking his eyes off the old man, Rumata swung his feet, shod in
dusty boots, over the bench and sat down. He placed both his swords next to
each other on the table.
"The box . . ." repeated Father Kabani. "We always say we invented it.
But in reality it was all thought up a long time before us. Some person
invented it ages ago, put it in a box, made a hole in the box, and then made
off--maybe went to sleep somewhere--And what comes next? Then Father Kabani
arrives, closes his eyes and puts his hand into the hole." Father Kabani
looked at his hand. "Ha! Invented! I, he said, have thought up this thing
... ! And if you don't believe it, then you are an ass. And I stick my hand
inside --One! What do I find? Barbed wire! What is that for? For the wolves,
naturally. Splendid! And I stick my hand inside again--Two! What do I find?
What a cleverly conceived thing, a so-called meat grinder. What is that for?
For finely ground meat. Splendid! I stick my hand inside for the third
time--Three! What is it? Firewater. What is that for? To make damp wood
burn, eh?"
Father Kabani fell silent once, more and arched forward as if someone
had grabbed him by the collar. Rumata took the jug, peered inside, then
poured a few drops on the back of his hand. The liquid was violet and
smelled strongly of cheap alcohol. Rumata carefully dried his hand with his
lace handkerchief. Greasy spots remained on the cloth. Father Kabani's
disheveled head touched the table. He suddenly straightened up again.
"Whoever put all this stuff into the box knew what it was good for.
Barbed wire against the wolves? I made that up myself, fool that I am. They
use the barbed wire for fencing the mines and the pits! So that the
political prisoners don't run away from there. But I won't play along with
them! I'm an enemy of the state, too. But did they ask me? Sure they did!
Barbed wire, eh? Sure, barbed wire, what else. Against the wolves, eh?
Against the wolves . . . Excellent . . . Splendid chap! Let's fence the
mines and the pits with it! Don Reba in person, the first minister of state,
helped to fence the mines. And he even requisitioned my meat grinder. He's
got brains, all right! Splendid! And now he grinds the meat in the Tower of
Joy--from human beings--And that works miracles during interrogations,
people say..."
I know all that, thought Rumata. I know it all. I know how you screamed
in your private audience with Don Reba, how you crawled at his feet,
imploring and begging: Stop, please. I'll confess! But it was too late
already. Your meat grinder had already started...
Father Kabani seized the jug and lifted it to his hairy mouth, tippling
the poisonous swill as he roared like the wild sow Y. Then he set the jug
back on the table with a bang and popped a boiled beet into his mouth. Tears
flowed over his broad cheeks.
"Yes, firewater!" he said when he found his voice again. "To be used as
tinder for the hearth and for a jolly game or two. But what kind of
firewater is that, my dear, if you can drink it? Mix it with beer, and how
the price of beer would soar! But no, I won't give it to you! I'll drink it
all myself. And how I drink it! Night and day. I'm all bloated. And it's
getting worse all the time. The other day I looked in a mirror and--Don
Rumata, you won't believe it--I was scared of myself! I looked closer--may
the Good Lord protect me! What was left of Father Kabani? A sea-monster, a
polyp, dotted all over with colored spots. Some red, some blue . . . They
say firewater was invented for merry games with fire--"
Father Kabani spat on the floor, scraping his shoe over the spot to rub
out his spittle. Suddenly he asked: "What day is it today?"
"The eve of Kata the Just," said Rumata.
"And why isn't the sun shining?"
"Because it's night."
"Night again," said Father Kabani painfully and fell forward, his face
splashing into the beets.
Rumata regarded him for a while, whistling softly between his teeth.
Then he rose from the bench and walked over to the back porch. Amid small
piles of beets and sawdust glittered the glass pipes of Father Kabani's
voluminous distillation equipment for home-brewed liquor. It was the amazing
creation of a born engineer and a masterful glass-blower. Twice, Rumata
walked around the devilish machine, then, in the dark, groped for a piece of
iron and began to hit about at random, without aiming at anything in
particular. There was the sound of breaking glass, rattling metal, and
gurgling liquids. The cheap smell of soured spirits pervaded the small room.
As he walked over to the other comer to switch on the electric light, the
broken glass crunched under his boots. In the comer stood a heavy strongbox,
containing a "Midas" field synthesizer. With his right hand Rumata swept
some rubble off the top of the safe, dialed a combination of various numbers
on the lock and opened it. Even in the bright electrical light, the
synthesizer looked rather odd in the midst of all the rubbish and garbage.
Rumata grasped a handful of sawdust from a pile and threw it into the feeder
funnel. The synthesizer started humming at once, then automatically switched
on the indicator. With the tip of his boot, Rumata shoved a rusty pail under
the output slot. And in no time--clink, clink, clink--golden ducats, coins
with the aristocratic profile of Pitz the Sixth, King of Arkanar, fell into
the battered pail.
Rumata carried the old man over to an old creaking wooden cot, pulled
off his boots, tamed him over on his right side, and covered him with the
almost hairless fur of a long-dead animal. In the process, Father Kabani
woke up briefly. He could neither move nor think clearly. So he contented
himself with reciting a few verses of a forbidden romance: "I am like a
crimson flower in your dear little hand . . . ," whereupon he lapsed into a
hearty snore.
Rumata cleared the table, swept the floor, and cleaned the single
window, which was black with accumulated dirt and soot from the chemical
experiments that Father Kabani conducted at the window sill. Behind the
dilapidated stove he found a bottle with alcohol which he poured into a
rathole. Then he watered his Chamalharian stallion, fed him oats from his
saddlebag, washed his face and hands, and sat down to wait. He stared into
the little smoking flame of the oil lamp.
He had been leading this strange dual existence for the past six years
and had apparently adjusted to it by now. Only from time to time--like the
present, for instance--it suddenly seemed to him that there was no reality
behind the organized bestiality, the depressing cult of the Grays. He felt
as if a strange theater performance were unrolling in front of his eyes,
with himself, Rumata, playing the principal part And any moment now, after
some particularly successful rejoinder, the applause would begin to thunder
and the connoisseurs and art lovers from the Institute of Experimental
History would shout enthusiastically from their loges:
"Bravo, Anton, fantastic, great! Well done, Tony!"
He looked around but there was no crowded theater, only damp, mossy
walls of rough-hewn logs, blackened by the smoking oil lamp.
Outside, the Chamalharian stallion neighed softly and pawed the ground.
Gradually, a deep whistle came nearer. It sounded so familiar, so well known
from days of old, that tears almost welled up in Rumata's eyes--the sound
was so unexpected in this godforsaken place. Rumata listened intently, his
mouth half open. Now the throbbing stopped suddenly; the tiny flame in the
oil lamp began to sputter, then suddenly flared up again. Rumata was about
to get up from the bench when Don Kondor emerged from the darkness of the
night and came striding into the room. Don Kondor was the Supreme Judge and
Keeper of the Great Seal of the Mercantile Republic of Soan, Vice-President
of the Conference of the Twelve Negotiators, and Cavalier of the Imperial
Order of Righteous Pity.
Rumata jumped up and knocked the bench over. He would have loved to
embrace, his friend, kiss his cheeks, but his legs automatically bent at the
knee (as prescribed by etiquette), his spurs clicked solemnly, his right
hand swept in a semicircle from his heart over to his right side, and his
head lowered itself so swiftly that his chin almost disappeared in his
scarf. Don Kondor took off his velvet cap, adorned by a simple feather, and
quickly waved it in the direction of Don Rumata, as if he were shooing
flies. Then he threw the cap on the table and undid the clasp at the collar
of his cloak. The cloak sank downwards along his back as he sat on the bench
and stretched out his legs. His left hand was held akimbo, and with his
outstretched right hand he held the hilt of his gilded sword, whose tip
stuck in the moldy wood of the floor. He was rather small and lean, and big,
somewhat protruding eyes marked his pale face. His black hair was gathered,
like Rumata's, by a heavy golden circlet with a green stone on his forehead.
"Are you alone, Don Rumata?" he asked hastily.
"Yes, noble don," Rumata answered, depressed.
Father Kabani's voice thundered suddenly: "Noble Don Reba! You are a
hyena, that's what you are!"
Don Kondor did not pay any attention to him. He did not even turn
around.
"I've come with the helicopter," he said.
"Let's hope nobody saw you."
One legend more or less. "What's the difference?" answered Don Kondor
in a somewhat irritated voice. "I've simply not the time to ride around on a
horse. What's happened with Budach? I'm worried about him. Do sit down, Don
Rumata, will you please? I'm getting a crick in my neck this way."
Rumata obediently took a seat on the bench.
"Budach has disappeared," he said. "I waited for him at the Square of
the Heavy Swords. The only person that came was a one-eyed vagabond, who
gave the password and handed me a bag full of books. I waited for another
two hours; then I got in touch with Don Hug, who told me he took Budach as
far as the border. Budach was in the company of some noble don, a man who
could be trusted since he had lost everything at a game of cards with Don
Hug and therefore sold himself over, body and soul. Consequently, Budach
must be somewhere here in Arkanar. That's all I know."
"Not much, I dare say," remarked Don Kondor.
"But the affair with Budach is not that important," replied Rumata. "If
he is still alive, I'll find him and extricate him from any tight spot he
might be in. That's no problem really. But this wasn't what I wanted to
discuss with you. I must once more draw your attention to the fact that the
situation in Arkanar is exceeding the bounds of the basis theory--"
Don Kondor made a sour face.
"No, no, hear me out," said Rumata firmly. "I have the feeling I can
never make myself properly understood over the radio. And in Arkanar
everything is helter-skelter! A new, systematically effective factor has
made its appearance. It looks as if Don Reba is intentionally hurtling the
whole depressing Grayness of the kingdom on the scientists. Anyone who rises
even slightly above the average Gray level puts his life in jeopardy. Listen
to me, Don Kondor! These are no vague, emotional impressions, these are real
facts! It's enough to be intelligent and educated, to dare to have doubts,
to say something out of the ordinary. Perhaps if some day you refuse a glass
of wine, your life will be in danger. Any little grocery clerk can beat you
to death. Hundreds, thousands of people are being denounced. They are caught
by the Sturmoviks, strung up by their feet in the streets. Naked, with their
head dangling down. Only yesterday they trampled an old man to death in my
street with their boots: somebody told them he could read and write. They
kept kicking him for two hours, these stupid pigs with their beastly
drooling snouts--"
Rumata paused for a moment to collect himself and ended in a calm
voice: "To sum it all up, it won't be long now until not a single
intelligent person will remain alive in Arkanar. Just like in the domain of
the Holy Order after the slaughter of Barkan."
Don Kondor fixed his dark eyes on Rumata and pressed his lips together.
"I don't like what's happening with you, Anton," he said in Russian.
"There are lots of things I don't like either, Alexander Vassilevitch,"
said Rumata. "For instance, I don't like the fact that we have tied our own
hands, the way we have set up our problem here. I don't like the fact that
we call it the 'problem of bloodless procedure.' For as far as I am
concerned, this is equivalent to scientific justification of inactivity. I
know all your arguments! And I am well acquainted with our theories. But
theories do not work in such a situation, where every minute human beings
are attacked by wild beasts in a typical fascist manner! Everything is going
to pieces, going to rack and rum. What good is our knowledge and our gold?
It always comes too late."
"Anton," said Don Kondor, "calm down. I believe you when you say that
the situation in Arkanar has reached a critical point. But I am also
convinced that you cannot propose a single constructive solution."
"That's true," agreed Rumata. "I have no concrete solutions to propose.
But it gets to be more and more difficult for me to control myself in view
of these increasing signs of physical and moral corruption."
"Anton," said Don Kondor. "There are 250 of us altogether on this
entire planet. All of us exercise effective self-control, and it is equally
difficult for all of us. The most experienced among us have lived here for
twenty-two years. They came only as observers, nothing else. They are
forbidden to intervene here in any way. Just imagine: an out-and-out ban on
any intervention. We don't have the right to rescue Budach, even if they
trampled him to death in front of our eyes."
"You don't need to talk to me as if I were a child," said Rumata.
"But you are as impatient as a child," replied Don Kondor. "And you
must display a lot of patience here."
Rumata laughed bitterly.
"And while we are practicing patience and waiting forever," he said,
"holding endless discussions about the proper ways to behave, these beasts
are attacking their fellow human beings every day, every single minute."
"Anton," said Don Kondor, "there are thousands of other planets in the
universe which we have not yet visited and where history runs its course."
"But we did come to this planet!"
"Yes. Not to vent our righteous anger, but rather to help these
creatures here. If you're too weak for the job, then get out! Go back home!
After all, you're not a child. You knew what to expect here."
Rumata did not speak. Don Kondor's features relaxed; he seemed to have
aged many years during his last words. Slowly he strode the length of the
table, seized his sword and dragged it behind him like a stick. Then he
lapsed into an almost imperceptible, sad shaking of his head; only his nose
seemed to move.
"I can understand all that," he said. "I've gone through all of this
myself. There were times when this sensation of personal impotence, my own
wretchedness, appeared to me as the most horrible thing. Some weaker
characters even went crazy over it and were sent back home for treatment. It
took me fifteen years to understand what the most horrible thing is. It's
become dehumanized, Anton; to harden your soul by dragging it through the
dirt. We are the gods here, Anton, but we have to be wiser than the local
gods that men here have created after their own image. Our path, however,
leads us along the edge of an abyss. One wrong step and you are caught in a
morass, and for the rest of your days you cannot free and cleanse yourself
of it. In the Story of the Descent, Goran the Irukanian wrote: After God had
descended from Heaven and emerged from the Pitanian swamps in order to show
himself to the people, lo and behold, his feet were covered with dirt."
"Goran was ultimately burned to death for that," added Rumata in a
somber voice.
"True, they put him to death by burning him alive. But these things do
not really concern us. I have been here now for fifteen years. Even in my
dreams I don't see Earth any longer. Some time ago while I was rummaging in
some old papers, I found the photo of a woman, and for the longest time I
could not remember who she was. Sometimes I am overcome by a sensation of
horror because in reality I am no longer a staff member of the Institute but
rather an exponent of that local institution, the highest judge of the
Mercantile Republic. That, to my mind, is the most frightening thing: to
become adjusted to your role. Inside each of us, the noble wild sow
struggles with the communard. And while everyone around cheers for the sow,
the communard is all alone.--Earth is a thousand years and a thousand
parsecs away from here." Don Kondor fell silent; he patted his knees.
"That's the way it is, Anton," he said after a while, and his voice grew
firmer. "So let's remain communards!"
He doesn't understand, thought Anton-Rumata. How should he after all?
He's lucky; he does not know the Gray Terror or Don Reba. All that he has
seen on this planet in the course of these past fifteen years fits somehow
within the framework of the basis theory. And if I talk to him about
fascism, the Gray Sturmoviks, the rising militancy of the petty bourgeoisie,
he accuses me of emotional word games: "Don't fool around with terminology,
Anton! Terminological confusion will bring about dangerous results!" He is
absolutely incapable of comprehending that the average level of medieval
bestiality corresponds to the happy day yesterday on Arkanar. In his eyes
Don Reba is another Richelieu, a wise and farsighted politician, who is
defending the absolute regime from feudalistic excesses. I am the only one
on this planet to see the terrible shadow spreading over the whole land. But
I just can't understand where this shadow is coming from, and why. And how
can I convince him, when I can clearly see in his eyes that he would like
best to send me back to Earth on the spot for a cure?
"How is the noble Synda?" asked Rumata.
Don Kondor stopped inspecting him with his eyes and murmured: "Very
well, thank you." Then he added: "We must finally come to grips with the
fact that neither you, nor I, nor anybody of our group here, will ever see
the tangible results of our work. We are not physicists but historians. Our
unit of time is not the second but the century. And what we are doing here
is not meant to be the sowing of the seed but merely the preparation of the
soil. And those emissaries from Earth, those--enthusiasts we get from time
to time--I wish they'd go to hell, those eager beavers ..."
Rumata put on a forced smile and tugged needlessly at his riding boots.
Eager beavers. Yes indeed.
Ten years ago, Stefan Orlovski, alias Don Kapada, commander of the
crossbow troops of His Imperial Highness, had ordered his soldiers to open
fire on the emperor's men as they were publicly torturing eighteen Estorian
witches. With his own hand he had slain the imperial high judge and two of
his assistants but in the end he had been pierced by the spears of the
emperor's bodyguard. As he lay dying, he called out to the people watching
the public spectacle:
"Remember, you are human beings! Defend yourselves, kill them, don't be
afraid of them!" But his voice could scarcely be heard over the din of the
roaring crowd as they were shouting, "Burn the witches! Burn them alive!"
And it was at about the same time that Karl Rosenblum, one of the most
highly regarded historical experts on the Peasants' War in Germany and
France, alias Pani-Pas, the wool merchant, incited a riot amongst the Murian
peasants, He took two cities by assault and was killed by an arrow in his
back as he tried to put a stop to the looting. He was still alive when he
was rescued by a helicopter but he could no longer speak. His big blue eyes
expressed guilt and amazement as big tears trickled down his bloodless
cheeks ...
And shortly before Rumata's arrival on this planet, the most powerful
fellow conspirator, confidant of the Tyrant of Kaisan (alias Jeremy
Toughnut, specialist in reforms on Terra), had staged a palace revolution
out of a clear sky, had seized power and tried to introduce the Golden Age
within two months; had stubbornly refused to reply to the strongest protests
and interpellations of neighbors and the Earth had earned the dubious
reputation of a crazy fool; had successfully evaded eight rescue attempts;
and was finally captured by the Institute's special commando troop who had
taken him by submarine to an island base near the South pole...
"Just think of that!" Rumata said under his breath. "And people on
Earth still firmly believe to this very day that our physicists are working
on the most complicated problems ..."
Don Kondor suddenly sat up and took notice.
"Ah, finally," he whispered.
From outside came the sound of angry or desperate neighing, hoofs
pawing the ground, and energetic cursing in a voice with a strong Irukanian
accent. A man entered the room, It was Don Hug, the first groom of the
chamber of His Lordship the Duke of Irukan. He was stout, red-cheeked with a
smartly upturned mustache, grinned from ear to ear, and from under the wavy
curls of his auburn wig peered two merry little eyes. And once again Rumata
wanted to obey the impulse to embrace the new arrival--it was his boyhood
friend Pashka; but Don Hug suddenly assumed a formal posture, his fat face
took on the sickeningly sweet smile demanded by etiquette; he bowed nimbly
from the waist down, pressed his hat against his chest and pursed his lips.
Rumata stole a furtive glance over to Alexander Vassilevitch. Alexander
Vassilevitch had vanished, and in his place was Don Kondor, the Supreme
Judge and Keeper of the Seal; his legs stretched out, his left hand akimbo,
while his right hand clasped the hilt of his gilded sword.
"You are very late, Don Hug," he said in an unpleasant tone of voice.
"I beg your most humble pardon!" called out Don Hug, swiftly
approaching the table. "I swear by my Duke's rickets, nothing but totally
unforeseen unfortunate circumstances! I was stopped four times by the patrol
of His Highness, the King of Arkanar, and twice I had to fight off some
rascals." He raised his left hand with an elegant movement to show off his
blood-soaked, bandaged limb. "By the way, noble don, whose helicopter is
that behind the hut?"
"It's mine," Don Kondor answered snippishly. "I have no time to waste
on brawls along the way."
Don Hug gave him a friendly smile and sat down, straddling the bench.
"In other words, noble dons, we are forced to state that our most learned
Dr. Budach has mysteriously vanished somewhere between the Irukanian border
and the Square of the Heavy Swords-"
Father Kabani stirred on his cot. He turned over in his sleep and
without waking he mumbled: "Don Reba ..."
"Leave Budach to me," said Rumata, in a desperate tone, "and despite
everything, will you please try to understand me..."
TWO
Rumata woke up with a start. He opened his eyes. It was broad daylight.
Down in the street, just below his windows, was some commotion. Somebody,
probably a soldier, yelled at the top of his voice: "You stinking bum! Look
at this filth! I'll make you lap it up with your tongue! (Good morning to
you, thought Rumata.) Shut up, you! I swear by the hunchback of Holy Mickey,
you make me lose my temper!"
Another voice, hoarse and coarse, growled: "You've got to watch your
step in this miserable street! It rained this morning, but who knows when
they last swept this place."
"You'll show me where I'm supposed to look, all right."
"You'd better let go of me, noble don, let go of my shirt, will you!"
"Oh, you'll show me, all right--"
Rumata heard a loud slapping sound. It was evidently the second slap;
the first one had woken him up.
"You'd better stop hitting me, noble don." A familiar voice. Who could
it be? Probably Don Tameo. I'll let him win back his decrepit Chamalharian
nag today. I wonder if I'll ever learn to distinguish a good horse from a
poor one. But after all, my family isn't known for their expertise with
horses. Camels, yes; we are experts on fighter camels. A good thing there
are hardly, any camels here in Arkanar. Rumata stretched his arms and legs,
until his joints cracked. He groped for a silken rope attached to the
headboard of his bed and tugged at it several times. Little bells could be
heard ringing throughout the house. That fellow is probably hanging out of
the window, watching the racket down below.
I could simply get up, of course, and get dressed by myself, but that
would only start tongues wagging again.
He listened once more to the stream of abuse coming from below his
windows. The inventiveness of the human tongue! What entropy, what measure
of the uncertainty of human knowledge!
Lately, Rumata continued with his thoughts, some know-it-alls have
emerged in the guard troops, declaring that only one sword alone can be used
for noble warfare, while the second sword must be used exclusively for
street fights--and Don Reba pays too much attention to their worries in
beautiful Arkanar. By the way, Don Tameo is not one of them. Too much of a
coward, our dear Don Tameo, and an incorrigible armchair politician.
How horrible when the day starts out with Don Tameo ... Rumata sat up
in bed and clasped his hands around his knees underneath the patched-up
elegant coverlet. He was seized by a feeling of leaden hopelessness. You
could ponder forever, keep thinking about how powerless and small we are in
the face of circumstances ... On Earth I wouldn't ever dream of doing such a
thing. On Terra we are strong, self-assured men with specialized,
psychological training, men who are ready for anything. And we do have
strong nerves:
We manage, for instance, not to turn away our head when some poor
person is beaten or executed. We are capable of tremendous self-control: We
can stand to listen unperturbed to the endless babblings of the most abject
cretins. We have also forgotten how to feel disgusted: We don't mind when
someone puts a dish before us from which the dogs eat, or when they wipe it
out afterwards with a duly rag. And aren't we marvelous actors? Not even in
our dreams do we lapse into our mother tongue or any of the other languages
of Earth. And after all, we are equipped with an invincible weapon: The
basis theory of feudalism, worked out in the quiet offices of our officials
and in our laboratories, based on studious research and serious
discussions...
It's just too bad that Don Reba hasn't the slightest inkling of the
theory. And too bad, also, that our special psychological training peels off
like sunburnt skin, that we have to go to extremes, that we are forced to
submit to a steady mental reconditioning: grit your teeth and remember that
you are a god in disguise. Remember that they do not know what they are
doing; and that they are almost all free of guilt. And that is why you must
have the patience of Job, patience, patience--and meanwhile the fountains of
humanism inside us, which on Earth seemed to be well-nigh inexhaustible, are
drying up here with frightening speed. Holy Mickey! Weren't we real
humanists back on Terra, lovers of mankind, humanism was the mainstay of our
nature and in our respect for the human being, in our love for man, we even
steered toward anthropocentrism--and now we discover with horror that we did
not truly love mankind but only the communards, our compatriots who
resembled us ... And more and more frequently we catch ourselves in the act
of wondering: Are these human beings, after all? Are they even capable of
becoming human beings in time? And then we remember men like Kyra, Budach,
Arata, the hunchback, or the unsurpassable Baron Pampa, and we feel
ashamed--but this is equally rare and unpleasant and, worse still, it does
not help us in the least...
All right, thought Rumata, that's enough of that. At least not so early
in the morning. And damn this Don Tameo! So much trouble, so much has
accumulated inside me, in my soul, and there is no place to get rid of it in
this isolated state. That's what gets me: the isolation, the solitude. What
did they call us back home? "Strong and self-assured, strapping young men."
When we were back home did we ever imagine in those days that we would ever
have to put up with such loneliness? Nobody would believe it. Anton, my
friend, what's happening to you? To the West from here, barely three hours
by plane, lives Alexander Vassilevitch, a good man with a set of brains. To
the East is Pashka, a merry, faithful friend, who went to school with you
for seven years. It's just a momentary depression, Anton. Too bad--we
believed you had more endurance; but doesn't this happen to all of us? What
a wretched grind. We understand. So why don't you go back home to Terra,
recuperate from all this, occupy yourself with theoretical research, and the
rest will follow...
Incidentally, Alexander Vassilevitch is a dogmatist par excellence. So
if the basis theory doesn't take in the Gray Ones--"In fifteen years of
working on this, my friend, I have never once come across an exception like
this ..." In other words, I am simply dreaming of the Gray hordes. And if I
dream about them, it simply means that I am overworked, under too much
tension, that they should send me home for a rest. "All right, Don Rumata, I
promise to investigate this personally and advise you of my findings. But in
the meantime, give me your word, no excesses, please . . ." And then there
is Pavel, whom I used to call Pashka when we were kids together: now he's a
scientist, an expert, a brain full of information. He became totally
immersed in the history of two planets and proved with enthusiasm that the
phenomenon of the Gray hordes represents merely the most common occurrence
in the relationship of the bourgeoisie against the barons--" By the way,
I'll pay you a brief visit in a few days. To be frank with you, I'm quite
disturbed when I think about the incident with Budach . . ." Many thanks!
And that's the end of it! I'll take care of the Budach case myself, even if
I'm no longer much good for anything else.
The most learned Doctor Budach. A great physician, a most devoted
citizen of Irukan; the duke almost knighted him, but then he changed his
mind and had him incarcerated. The most distinguished specialist for cures
by drugs in the entire empire. Author of the widely known and famous
treatise Concerning Herbs and Other Plants, which Items in Mysterious Ways
Cause and Occasion Sorrow, Joy or Tranquility; Concerning the Salivary and
Body Fluids of Reptiles, Spiders and the Hairless Wild Sow Y, which Last
Disposes over said Characteristics and Many Others Besides. A remarkable
person, undoubtedly, and a genuine mental giant, at the same time a devoted
humanist and eccentric who never had any money. His entire fortune consisted
of a sack full of books. Who needs you, Doctor Budach, in this country of
darkest ignorance that wallows in a bloody morass of conspiracy and greed?
Let us assume you are alive and you are in Arkanar. Of course you may
have fallen into the hands of the barbarians, who periodically raid the
countryside from their mountain strongholds. If this should be the case,
then Don Kondor will contact with our friend Schumtuletidovodus, a
specialist in the history of antique cultures, who presently works as an
epileptic shaman for the chieftain whose first name consists of forty-five
syllables. But if you should be in Arkanar after all--first of all, you
might have been captured by the nocturnal armies of the robber chieftain
Waga Koleso. No, not "captured, " - but simply taken along, for they would
consider your companion the far more desirable booty, your friend, the noble
don, who has gambled away his entire fortune. Either way, they will not kill
you: Waga Koleso is far too avaricious.
There's an equal chance, though, that some idiot of a baron has you in
his clutches. Without any malicious intentions, merely out of boredom and
some warped idea of hospitality. He simply would like to drink together with
a noble guest, so he sends out his hordes and has them drag you to the
castle of your companion. And you will be sitting in the stinking chamber
until the dons have drunk themselves into oblivion and finally part company.
In that case no harm will befall you.
But it's quite another story with the remnants of the recently defeated
peasant army of Don Ksi and of Pert Posvonotchnik, who have retreated to the
hamlet "Rotten Nest" where they are secretly supported and fed by our bright
eagle, Don Reba himself--just in case some complication should arise in his
relationship with the barons. These peasant soldiers know no mercy; better
not even imagine the eventuality. And then there is Don Satarina, a crabby
imperial aristocrat, 102 years of age and, of course, totally senile. He
carries on a family feud with the dukes of Irukan, and snatches--whenever he
revives sufficiently--anything that crosses the Irukanian border. He is very
dangerous; when he is under the influence of Cholezistit, he is quite
capable of issuing commands with such catastrophic results that the churches
cannot collect the corpses from his cellars fast enough.
And then there's the top possibility. Not the most dangerous one, but
the one most likely to occur: the Gray Patrol of Don Reba. The Sturmoviks on
the main roads. You might have fallen into their hands quite by accident,
Budach, in which case your only hope would be the quick wit and cool head of
your companion to get you out of this calamity. But what if Don Reba should
be interested in you personally? For Don Reba will occasionally display an
unexpected concern . . . His spies might report that you are traveling
through Arkanar, then a detachment under the command of some very eager Gray
officer will be sent out to meet you. And this Gray cretin of low rank will
be responsible for your ending up in a bag of stones in the Tower of Joy...
Rumata pulled once more at the rope, very impatient now. The bedroom
door opened with a repulsive creak and a thin, somber-looking boy entered
the room. His name was Uno, and his fate might have served as the theme for
a ballad. He bowed deeply as he stood on the threshold, scraping the floor
with his torn shoes, and stepped up to the bed. On the small bedside table
he put down a tray with letters, some coffee, and a stale bread crust to be
chewed, which in turn was supposed to strengthen and cleanse the teeth.
Rumata glanced at him, very annoyed.
"Tell me please, are you ever going to oil that creaky door?"
The boy looked silently at the floor. Rumata threw the coverlet back,
let his bare feet dangle down over the edge of the bed and reached for the
tray. "Washed yourself this morning?" he asked. The boy shifted from one
foot to the other; without answering he wandered through the room, picking
up the scattered garments that lay on the floor.
"I believe I asked you whether you washed yourself today?" said Rumata
while he opened his first letter.
"Water won't wash away your sins," muttered the boy under his breath.
"So why, noble don, should I wash myself?"
"And what did I tell you about microbes?" said Rumata. Carefully, the
boy placed his master's green trousers over the back of the armchair, then
passed his thumb in a circle above it to chase away the wicked ghosts.
"I prayed three times last night," he said. "What more could I do?"
"You numbskull," said Rumata and started to read his letter.
It was from Dona Okana, a lady-in-waiting, the latest favorite of Don
Reba. She invited him to come and visit her this very evening, and signed
the letter "amorously languishing for you." The P.S. stated in clear, simple
language what she really expected from this rendezvous. Rumata felt
embarrassed; he blushed. Throwing a side glance at the boy, he murmured:
"That's really too much . . ." He ought to think it over. To go there was
disgusting; not to go there would be foolish. Dona Okana was a well-informed
person. He quickly drained his cup of coffee and put the chewing-crust into
his mouth.
The next envelope was made of heavy paper; the seal was damaged. It was
obvious that the letter had been opened. The letter was from Don Ripat, an
unscrupulous careerist and lieutenant in the Gray Militia, who inquired
after his esteemed well-being, expressed his belief in the imminent victory
of the Gray Cause, and begged to postpone payment of his debt, by quoting
various unfavorable circumstances. "All right, all right," Rumata mumbled
and put the letter aside, picked the envelope up once again and examined it
with great interest. Oh yes, they were working much more carefully now; much
more carefully.
The third letter contained an invitation to a duel because of a certain
Dona Pifa, but the writer was willing to withdraw his challenge provided the
noble Don Rumata would testify that he was making no claims upon the person
of Dona Pifa and had never made any such claims. The letter was typical: the
basic text had been written by a calligrapher and the blanks had been filled
in with names and times-- in a clumsy hand and full of mistakes.
Rumata put the letter down and scratched the mosquito bites on his left
hand.
"I want to wash up. Bring the things in!" he ordered.
The boy disappeared behind the door, to return soon with a wooden
basin. He dragged the tub along the floor, his behind wagging with the
exertion. Then he ran once more out of the room and dragged in an empty tub
with a big dipper.
Rumata now jumped to his feet, pulled the elaborately embroidered
nightshirt over his head, and noisily unsheathed the swords that had been
hanging over the headboard of his bed. Cautiously, the boy ducked behind a
chair. For ten minutes Rumata practiced attack and defense; then he leaned
the swords against the wall, bent over the empty tub, and ordered: "The
water!" It was rather miserable to wash without soap but Rumata had become
used to it. The boy scooped up the water with the dipper and poured it over
Rumata's back, neck, and head. Dipper after dipper filled with water. All
the while he kept grumbling: "Everywhere else people behave like human
beings, only here in our house must we bother with such refined nonsense.
Who has ever heard of such a thing? To wash yourself with two buckets of
water? Every day a fresh towel . . . And His Lordship jumps around all naked
with two swords every morning, without having said his prayers first.. ."
While Rumata toweled himself vigorously, he spoke with an authoritative
tone: "I am a member of the court, not just some lousy baron. A courtier
must always be clean and sweet-smelling."
"His Royal Highness will hardly sniff at you," replied the boy.
"Everyone knows that his Highness prays day and night for us sinners. And
Don Reba--he never washes. I have it first-hand; his servant has told me
so."
"All right, don't fret," said Rumata and put on his nylon undershirt.
The boy regarded the undershirt with dismay. Rumors about it had been
circulating for quite some time now amongst the servants in Arkanar. But
there was nothing that Rumata could do about it, for very natural reasons
growing out of his masculine mentality. As Rumata slipped on his shorts, the
boy jerked his head to one side, moving his lips as if he wanted to shoo
away the spirit of impurity.
Still, it wouldn't be a bad idea to introduce here the fashion of
wearing undergarments, thought Rumata. But such innovations could naturally
be carried out only with the help of the fairer sex. And in this area,
too--unfortunately for him--he distinguished himself by rather high
requirements. Quite inconvenient for a spy. For a cavalier and man of the
world, for a renowned connoisseur of court etiquette and for a person who
was sent to the provinces, there to fight duels to settle love affairs, it
was only fitting to have twenty mistresses. Rumata made heroic endeavors to
keep up with his reputation. Half the members of his agency, rather than
devote their time to more serious efforts, spread the most despicable
rumors--rumors calculated to arouse the envy and delight of the young men of
the Arkanarian Guard. Dozens of overjoyed and disappointed ladies whom
Rumata visited until late in the night--reciting poems all the time (third
night watch: fraternal kiss on the lady's cheek, a mighty leap over the
balcony's balustrade and right into the arms of the commander of the night
watch, whom he knew well)--dozens of ladies would outdo each other with
tales of the marvelous style of the genuine cavalier from the big city.
Rumata used the vanity of these women, depraved to the point of
repulsiveness, for his own purposes. However, the question of underwear was
never touched on.
How much simpler had been the business with the handkerchiefs! On the
occasion of the very first ball be had pulled an elegant silk cloth from his
waistcoat pocket, and with flourish had proceeded to dry his lips with it.
And at the next ball, the manly youths were drying their sweaty faces with
large or small pieces of cloth of various colors, gaily embroidered and with
monograms. And within one month, the ladies' men were outdoing each other by
draping bedsheets over their hand, dragging the four comers elegantly along
the floor behind them ...
Rumata put on his green trousers and a white batiste shirt with a
freshly pressed, upturned collar.
"Any callers?" he inquired of the boy.
"The barber is waiting," said the boy. "And there are two dons sitting
in the drawing room, Don Tameo and Don Sera. They had me bring them some
wine and are quarreling violently. They are waiting to have breakfast with
you."
"Go and get the barber. Tell the noble dons that I'll join them very
soon. But don't be rude to them, do you hear me? You must always remain
polite."
Breakfast was not very opulent and left room for an early lunch. A
strongly spiced roast was served along with dogs' ears, marinated in
vinegar. They drank Irukanian sparkling wine, the viscous, brown Estorian
and the white Soanian. While he skillfully dissected a leg of lamb with the
aid of two daggers, Don Tameo complained about the overbearing temerity of
the lower classes. "I will lodge a complaint at the highest instance," he
declared. "The nobility demands that the plebs, the peasants, and the
artisans be forbidden to show their faces in public places and in the
street. Let them use the courtyards and back entrances. In those instances
where the appearance of a peasant cannot be avoided--for example, when they
deliver bread, meat, or wine--they should obtain a special permit from the
Ministry for the Protection of the Crown.'"
"What a clever brain!" Don Sera spoke with enthusiasm and sprayed the
area before him liberally with saliva and juice from the meat. "But last
night at the Court . . ." And he related the latest gossip. Don Reba's
current flame. Lady in waiting Okana, had been careless enough to step on
the king's sore foot. His Highness flew into a rage and turned to Don Reba,
ordering him to mete out an exemplary punishment to the evildoer. Whereupon
Don Reba, without even so much as batting an eyelid, replied; "It will be
carried out, Your Highness. This very night!"
"I laughed so hard that two buttons popped off my waistcoat!" remarked
Don Sera, cocking his head to one side.
Protoplasm, though Rumata. Nothing but ingesting and digesting and
procreating protoplasm.
"Indeed, noble dons," he said. "Don Reba is truly a very, very clever
man."
"Ho, Ho!" said Don Sera. "Much more--he is an intellectual luminary!"
"An outstanding statesman," said Don Tameo emphatically, with a knowing
expression.
"Yes it's really very strange," Don Rumata continued with a friendly
smile, "when you remember the kind of things people would tell about him
hardly a year ago. Do you recall, Don Tameo, how wittily you expressed
yourself on the subject of his bow legs?"
Don Tameo's drink almost went down the wrong way as he quickly
swallowed a little glass of Irukanian wine.
"I can't remember a thing," he grumbled. "And besides I am not known as
a wit--"
"Oh surely you must remember," said Don Sera and reproachfully wagged
his head.
"Yes, indeed!" shouted Don Rumata. "You were present at the
conversation, Don Sera! I remember so well how you laughed at Don Tameo's
witty ideas. You laughed so hard that something popped off the clothes you
were wearing."
Don Sera turned red and blue in the face and started to justify his
remarks with long-winded and distorted explanations. He was lying in his
teeth, of course. Don Tameo's face had grown somber. He made a long face. He
devoted himself wholeheartedly to the strong Estorian wine, and since he
had--according to his own words--"begun two mornings ago, and had not been
able to desist till now," he had to be supported from either side when they
finally departed.
It was a sunny, friendly day. The common people stood around in the
streets and gaped as if there were something to look at; little boys
whistled and screamed, throwing mud at each other; prettily bedecked
housewives with bonnets on their heads leaned out of the windows; daring
servant girls flashed their shy glances from moist eyes. Don Sera's mood
began to improve. He tripped a peasant and almost split his sides to see how
the man wallowed in the mud. Don Tameo suddenly noticed that he had put on
his fez with the double sword ornament back to front. He yelled: "Stop! Stay
put!" and raised his fez, held it up steady, while he tried to turn his body
180 degrees underneath the fez. Another item popped off Don Sera's
waistcoat. Rumata seized a pretty servant girl passing by the group, tugged
at her pink ear and begged her to put Don Tameo's headgear in order. A crowd
of onlookers quickly gathered around the three noble dons, all eagerly
dispensing advice to the girl whose face was as red as a beet--and Don's
Sera's waistcoat kept losing a steady stream of buttons, buckles, and hooks.
When finally they were on their way again, Don Tameo summoned up his courage
and on the spot drew up an addenda to his complaint wherein he pointed out
how necessary it was "To keep pretty persons of the female gender at a
proper distance from peasants and the common people."
And then a cart loaded with earthenware pots blocked their path. Don
Sera unsheathed both his swords and stated that it was not fit and proper
for the noble dons to make a detour around pots of any kind and declared his
determination to pave his way straight through the cart. But while he was
still busy trying to aim properly and distinguish where the wall of the
house ended and where the pots began, Rumata grasped the spokes of two
wheels and turned the cart around, and thus cleared the road. The gaping
crowd, who had followed the incident with delight, began to cheer: Hip, hip,
hooray! The noble dons were about to continue on their way when from a
second-storey window a fat merchant's gray-blue head popped out, loudly
giving forth with a tirade concerning the rudeness of the courtiers against
whom "Our Enlightened Eagle, Don Reba, would soon find some proper remedy."
Of course they had to stop on the spot once more and transfer the entire
load of pots into the merchant's window. Rumata saved the last pot, threw
two gold pieces with the profile of Pitz the Sixth inside into the vessel
and presented it to the petrified owner of the wagon.
"How much did you give him?" asked Don Tameo as they started out again.
"Oh, it's not worth mentioning," answered Rumata, shrugging his
shoulders. 'Two pieces of gold."
"I swear by the humpback of our Holy Mickey!" broke from Don Tameo's
lips. "You do have money! If you want, I'll sell you my Chamalharian
stallion!"
"I'd rather win that stallion from you in a game of knucklebones," said
Rumata.
"Splendid!" shouted Don Sera and stopped in his tracks. "Let's have a
game of knucklebones!"
"Right here?" asked Rumata.
"Why not?" asked Don Sera. "I see no reason why three noble dons can't
play a game of knucklebones wherever it pleases them!"
Suddenly Don Tameo stumbled and sprawled full length in the mud. Don
Sera's legs, too, suddenly became entangled and he fell down.
"Oh, I completely forgot," he said. "We're supposed to be on guard duty
now."
Rumata dragged the two to their feet and led each by the arm along the
way. Before the giant dark house of Don Satarina he came to a halt
"We ought to pay a visit to the old don," he suggested.
"Sure, can't see any reason why three noble dons shouldn't call on Don
Satarina," said Don Sera.
Don Tameo opened his eyes.
"In the king's Service," he managed the words painfully, "we must all
look ahead to the future. D-d-d-on Satarina-- that's a piece of the past
already. Onward, noble dons! I must get to my guard post."
"Onward!" echoed Don Rumata.
Don Tameo's head dropped forward to rest on his chest; he did not wake
up a second time. Don Sera cracked his knuckles and began to tell stories
about his ever-successful amorous adventures. They arrived at the palace and
went to the guardroom where Rumata, very relieved, laid Don Tameo on a
bench. Don Sera, however, took a seat at the table, grandly swept aside a
pile of orders signed by the king, and declared that the time had finally
come to drink a glass of cold Irukanian wine. The landlord ought to roll out
a little barrel, he stated, and these old women (he pointed to the officers
of the guard on duty who were playing cards at another table) should join
them for a drink. The commander of the guard, a lieutenant of the guard
troop, came over. He eyed Don Tameo and Don Sera from top to toe. And after
Don Sera had directed an inquiry to him--"Why are all the flowers fading
away in the shelter of my solitude?"--he decided it would not make any sense
to send them to their sentry post in the present condition; they'd be better
off to lie there for a while.
Rumata won a gold piece from the lieutenant and talked with him about
the new ribbons on their uniforms and the best method of polishing a sword.
He mentioned a short time later that he hoped to visit Don Satarina, who was
known to possess some fine grinding stones, and seemed visibly upset to
learn that the honorable grandee apparently had now lost his mind for good.
One month earlier he was said to have released all his prisoners, had
dissolved his bodyguard and handed over to the state his rich arsenal of
instruments of torture. At the age of 102 years, the old man declared, it
was his intention from now on to devote the rest of his life to good deeds.
He'd probably not be long for this world now.
Taking his leave of the lieutenant, Rumata left the palace and ambled
over in the direction of the harbor. He had to walk around puddles and jump
over deep wheel ruts filled with greenish-brown water. Without further ado,
he pushed the loitering onlookers out of his path, winked at the girls (who
seemed greatly impressed by his outfit), bowed deeply to the ladies who were
being carried down the street in sedan chairs, waved friendly greetings to
his acquaintances from the court and deliberately ignored the Gray
Sturmoviks.
Next, Rumata made a little detour to look in at the School of Patriots.
This school had been founded two years previously under the protection of
Don Reba himself for the purpose of training the adolescent sons of
merchants and the lower middle class for positions as low-ranking military
and administrative officials. The building was constructed of stone, without
any columns or ornaments; it had thick walls with narrow, embrasurelike
windows; on either side of the main entrance were two semicircular towers.
If necessary, one could defend oneself there for quite a while.
Rumata climbed up a narrow circular staircase leading to the second
floor, his spurs clanking on the stone floor. On his way to the office of
the school's procurator he passed by the classrooms. A monotonous, uniform
hum of voices came from the rooms; answers were given in unison. "What is
our king?"--"A sublime person." "What are our ministers?"-- "Faithful and
without the spirit of contradiction." "And God, the Creator, spoke: 'I
pronounce a curse.' And He pronounced a curse . . ." ". . . and at the sound
of the horn blowing twice, run two by two and form a chain, holding your
spears ready to thrust ...""... in case the tortured should lose
consciousness, the torturing must be interrupted immediately..."
The school, thought Rumata. The breeding ground of wisdom. The mainstay
of culture ...
Without knocking, he pushed open the low entrance door and entered the
office; it was dark and icy as a crypt. Behind an immensely massive writing
desk, heaped with papers and thrashing canes, a tall, angular man jumped to
his feet. A pair of deep-seated eyes peered from his bald head, and on his
tightly braided gray uniform could be seen the epaulets of the Ministry of
Security. He was the procurator of the School of Patriots, the most learned
Father Kin, a sadist, a murderer, and a monk at the same time, author of the
Treatise Dealing with Denunciations, which had aroused Don Reba's interest
"Well, how are you faring here?" asked Don Rumata with a benevolent
smile. 'The literate folk . . . Some we slaughter and others we teach, eh?"
Father Kin smiled wryly.
"Not every literate man is an enemy of the crown," he said. "The king's
enemies are the literate dreamers, skeptics, and disloyal dissidents!
Whereas our task here--"
"All right, all right," said Rumata. "I believe you. Are you writing
anything new? I have read your treatise--a very useful work, but stupid. How
can you harbor such thoughts? How do you get such ideas? That isn't very
good, my dear ... procurator, is it... ?"
"I make no boastful claims of special intelligence or wisdom," answered
Father Kin with dignity. "My only goal is the good of the state. We need no
clever people. We need loyalty. And we--"
"That will do, that will do," said Rumata. "All right then. But are you
writing anything new or not?"
"In the near future I will hand the minister an outline of the New
State for his perusal. I have used the Realm of the Holy Order as a model
for it"
"The very ideal" Rumata was filled with wonder. "Do you intend to make
monks of all of us?"
Father Kin pressed his palms together and leaned forward.
"Permit me, noble don, to make myself clear," he said excitedly,
licking his lips. "The crux of the matter lies somewhere else. The crux of
the matter lies in the basic pillars of the New State. And the basic pillars
are rather simple; there are but three: blind belief in the infallibility of
the law; total submission to the law; and finally, the unrelenting
observation of everyone by all."
"Hum," said Rumata. "And what for?"
"What do you mean, what for?"
"You are stupid after all," said Rumata. "All right, I believe you. I
wanted something else. What was it now? . . . Oh, yes. Tomorrow you'll get
two new teachers to add to your staff. Father Tarra, a venerable old man, is
dabbling in --cosmography; and Brother Nanin, also a most worthy man,
specialist in history. They are my people, and you are to treat them right!
Here is my pledge." He threw a money pouch of leather on the table. "That's
for you, five gold pieces. All clear?"
"Yes, noble don," said Father Kin humbly.
Rumata yawned and looked around.
"Just as long as we understand each other," he said. "For some reason
my father used to love these people very dearly, and charged me with the
task of making their lives as pleasant as possible. Would you do me a favor
and explain, you learned man, why such a most noble don would be so inclined
toward the sciences?"
"Some special merits perhaps?" guessed Father Kin.
"What are you babbling about?" asked Rumata angrily. "But then again,
why not? Indeed, why not? There might be a beautiful daughter, or a sister .
. . Don't you have any wine here? Of course not--"
Father Kin shrugged his shoulders guiltily. Rumata took one of the
papers that cluttered the writing desk and held it against the light for a
while.
"Defensive belt breakthrough," he read out loud. "Oh, you crafty
fellows!"
He dropped the paper on the floor and rose to his feet "Just make sure
that your educated brood doesn't bother these two. Ill come to visit them
some time soon, and if I hear that--" He pushed his fist under Father Kin's
nose.
"All right, all right, don't worry." Father Kin snickered obsequiously.
Rumata nodded curtly and walked out the door, scraping his spurs along
the floor.
On the Boulevard of Overwhelming Gratitude, he went into an armorer's
workshop and bought new rings for his sword sheath. He tried out a few
daggers, hurled them against the wall, weighed them in his hand, but could
not decide on any of them. Then he sat down on a table and chatted with the
owner of the place, a certain Father Hauk. Father Hauk had kind, sad eyes,
and small pale hands, stained with inkspots. Rumata discussed with him for a
while the merits of Zuren's poetry, listened to an interesting commentary on
the poem. "It weighs upon my soul like fallen leaves," and asked for
something new to read. Before leaving, he sighed with the author over the
inexpressibly sad verses and recited "To be or not to be" in an Irukanian
translation.
"Holy Mickey!" Father Hauk cried out exuberantly. "Who writes such
verses?"
"I do," said Rumata and left the store.
He made his way to the Gray Joy Inn, drank there a glass of Irukanian
white wine, patted the innkeeper's wife on the cheek, skillfully overthrew
with one thrust of his sword a table where a government spy sat staring at
him with empty eyes. Then he walked to a far comer of the inn and found
there a ragged, bearded man, who had an inkwell suspended around his neck.
"Good day, Brother Nanin," he greeted the man. "How many petitions have
you written today?"
Brother Nanin's embarrassed smile displayed his small decayed teeth.
"Nowadays people want to write very few petitions, noble don," he
answered. "Some believe that it is useless to beg for favors. And others
count on the likelihood that they will get what they want soon anyhow,
without having to ask for it."
Rumata bent over and whispered in his ear that he had arranged the
matter with the School of Patriots.
"Here are two pieces of gold for you," he said finally. "Clean up and
put on some decent clothes. And weigh your words. At least for the first few
days. Father Kin, the procurator, is a dangerous man." .
"I'll read him my treatise about rumors," said Brother Nanin merrily.
"I thank you, noble don."
"The things one does in memory of a dear departed father," said Rumata.
"But, tell me, where can I find Father Tarra?"
Brother Nanin's smile vanished suddenly and a nervous tick played
around his mouth.
'There was a brawl here yesterday," he said. "And Father Tarra had a
bit too much to drink and got somewhat out of hand. And, then, you know, he
has red hair . . . They broke his ribs."
"What a mess!" Rumata said. "Why do you all drink so much?"
"Sometimes it's hard to control oneself," said Brother Nanin sadly.
"That's very true," said Rumata. "Well, here's a few more gold pieces,
and try to take care of him, will you?"
Brother Nanin bowed low and wanted to kiss Rumata's hand but Rumata
stepped back quickly.
"Now, now," he said. "I have seen you make better jokes in your time,
Brother Nanin. Farewell!"
The harbor smelled like no other spot in Arkanar. It smelled of
seawater and foul algae, of spices, tar, smoke, and rotten corned beef, and
from the taverns came a nauseating odor of boiled fish and home brewed beer
turned sour. The sultry air was filled with a jumble of curses in many
tongues. On the piers, in the narrow lanes between the warehouses and around
the taverns, thousands of people shoved and pushed. They caught the eye.
Down-and-out seamen, bloated merchants, fishermen with somber faces, slave
traders, pimps, heavily made-up whores, drunken soldiers, men impossible to
classify, hung with arms from head to toe, and fantastic vagabonds in torn
clothes with golden bracelets around their dirty wrists. And all were
excited and ill-tempered. Don Reba had issued an edict three days before,
forbidding any ship or boat to leave the harbor.
The Gray Sturmoviks lounged on the quays, playing with their rusty
butcher cleavers. They spat into the water and bestowed impertinent and
malicious glances on the crowd. On some of the ships that were moored near
the quays, groups of five or six men huddled, brawny, copper-skinned men
clad in heavy furs turned inside out. These were the barbarian mercenaries.
They were no good in a fight at close range, but when they were at a
distance (as they were now) they were very dangerous with their blowpipes
and poisoned arrows. In the distance loomed the black masts of the war
galleys of the royal fleet, like threatening fingers pointing skywards. From
time to time, streams of fire issued from them and landed on the surface of
the water toward the quays: the oil slicks were ignited in this way in order
to intimidate the waiting crowd.
Rumata passed the customs shed where the ship captains were waiting in
front of closed doors in vain, trying to obtain their permit to depart. He
thrust through the noisy crowd that was busy at bartering and trading with
anything at hand: from slave girls and black pearls to narcotics and trained
spiders. He continued on to the quays, threw a swift glance over to the side
where corpses in sailors' uniforms were publicly displayed. The dead bodies
had already swelled up under the hot sun. He described a wide circle around
a square which was littered with all kinds of junk and garbage, and finally
entered an evil-smelling little side street. It was much quieter here.
Half-naked prostitutes were sprawled in the doorways of cheap waterfront
dives; at a street crossing a soldier lay, dead drunk, his nose bashed in
and his pockets tamed inside out: suspicious figures with pale nocturnal
faces crept along the walls of the houses.
This was the first time that Rumata had come here during the day. At
first he was surprised at the lack of reaction to his presence. The people
he encountered either looked past him with their watery eyes or saw straight
through him. Still, they stepped aside to let him pass.
