Arkady and Boris Strugatsky. The Final Circle of Paradise
© Copyright by Arkady Strugatsky, Boris Strugatsky
© Copyright by Leonid Renen, english translation
Published by D.A.W. Books, Inc; November 1976.
"Hishnye veshi veka" (in Russian)
"Tidsеlderns rovgiriga ting" (in Sweeden)
("Hischnye Veschi Veka", "Century's Ravenous Pleasures")
There is but one problem --
the only one in the world --
to restore to men a spiritual
content, spiritual concerns....
-- A de St. Exupery
Chapter ONE
The customs inspector had a round smooth face which
registered the most benevolent of attitudes. He was
respectfully cordial and solicitous.
"Welcome," he murmured. "How do you like our sunshine?" He
glanced at the passport in my hand. "Beautiful morning, isn't
it?"
I proffered him my passport and stood the suitcase on the
white counter. The inspector rapidly leafed through it with his
long careful fingers. He was dressed in a white uniform with
silver buttons and silver braid on the shoulders. He laid the
passport aside and touched the suitcase with the tips of his
fingers.
"Curious," he said. "The case has not yet dried. It is
difficult to imagine that somewhere the weather can be bad."
"Yes," I said with a sigh, "we are already well into the
autumn," and opened the suitcase.
The inspector smiled sympathetically and glanced at it
absent-mindedly. "It's impossible amid our sunshine to
visualize an autumn. Thank you, that will be quite all
right.... Rain, wet roofs, wind...
"And what if I have something hidden under the linen?" I
asked -- I don't appreciate conversations about the weather. He
laughed heartily.
"Just an empty formality," he said. "Tradition. A
conditioned reflex of all customs inspectors, if you will." He
handed me a sheet of heavy paper. "And here is another
conditioned reflex. Please read it -- it's rather unusual. And
sign it if you don't mind."
I read. It was a law concerning immigration, printed in
elegant type on heavy paper and in four languages. Immigration
was absolutely forbidden. The customs man regarded me steadily.
"Curious, isn't it?" he asked.
"In any case it's intriguing," I replied, drawing my
fountain pen. "Where do I sign?"
"Where and how you please," said the customs man. "Just
across will do."
I signed under the Russian text over the line "I have been
informed on the immigration laws."
'Thank you," said the customs man, filing the paper away
in his desk, 'Now you know practically all our laws. And during
your entire stay -- How long will you be staying with us?"
I shrugged my shoulders.
"It's difficult to say in advance. Depends on how the work
will go."
"Shall we say a month?"
'That would be about it. Let's say a month."
"And during this whole month," he bent over the passport
making some notation, "during this entire month you won't need
any other laws." He handed me my passport. "I shouldn't even
have to mention that you can prolong your stay with us to any
reasonable extent. But in the meantime, let it be thirty days.
If you find it desirable to stay longer, visit the police
station on the 16th of May and pay one dollar... You have
dollars?"
"Yes."
"That's fine. By the way, it is not at all necessary to
have exclusively a dollar. We accept any currency. Rubles,
pounds, cruzeiros."
"I don't have cruzeiros," I said. 'I have only dollars,
rubles, and some English pounds. Will that suit you?"
"Undoubtedly. By the way, so as not to forget, would you
please deposit ninety dollars and seventy-two cents."
"With pleasure," I said, "but why?"
"It's customary. To guarantee the minimum needs. We have
never had anyone with us who did not have some needs."
I counted out ninety-one dollars, and without sitting
down, he proceeded to write out a receipt. His neck grew red
from the awkward position. I looked around. The white counter
stretched along the entire pavilion. On the other side of the
barrier, customs inspectors in white smiled cordially, laughed,
explained things in a confidential manner. On this side,
brightly clad tourists shuffled impatiently, snapped suitcase
locks, and gaped excitedly. While they waited they feverishly
thumbed through advertising brochures, loudly devised all kinds
of plans, secretly and openly anticipated happy days ahead, and
now thirsted to surmount the white counter as quickly as
possible. Sedate London clerks and their athletic-looking
brides, pushy Oklahoma farmers in bright shirts hanging outside
Bermuda shorts and sandals over bare feet, Turin workers with
their well-rouged wives and numerous children, small-time
Catholic bosses from Spain, Finnish lumbermen with their pipes
considerately banked, Hungarian basketball players, Iranian
students, union organizers from Zambia...
The customs man gave me my receipt and counted out
twenty-eight cents change.
"Well -- there is all the formality. I hope I haven't
detained you too long. May I wish you a pleasant stay!"
"Thank you," I said and took my suitcase.
He regarded me with his head slightly bent sideways,
smiling out of his bland, smooth face.
"Through this turnstile, please. Au revoir. May I
once more wish you the best."
I went out on the plaza following an Italian pair with
four kids and two robot redcaps.
The sun stood high over mauve mountains. Everything in the
plaza was bright and shiny and colorful. A bit too bright and
colorful, as it usually is in resort towns. Gleaming
orange-and-red buses surrounded by tourist crowds, shiny and
polished green of the vegetation in the squares with white,
blue, yellow, and gold pavilions, kiosks, and tents. Mirrorlike
surfaces, vertical, horizontal, and inclined, which flared with
sunbursts. Smooth matte hexagons underfoot and under the wheels
-- red, black, and gray, just slightly springy and smothering
the sound of footsteps. I put down the suitcase and donned
sunglasses.
Out of all the sunny towns it has been my luck to visit,
this was without a doubt the sunniest. And that was all wrong.
It would have been much easier if the day had been gray, if
there had been dirt and mud, if the pavilion had also been gray
with concrete walls, and if on that wet concrete was scratched
something obscene, tired, and pointless, born of boredom. Then
I would probably feel like working at once. I am positive of
this because such things are irritating and demand action. It's
still hard to get used to the idea that poverty can be wealthy.
And so the urge is lacking and there is no desire to begin
immediately, but rather to take one of these buses, like the
red-and-blue one, and take off to the beach, do a little scuba
diving, get a tan, play some ball, or find Peck, stretch out on
the floor in some cool room and reminisce on all the good stuff
so that he could ask about Bykov, about the Trans-Pluto
expedition, about the new ships on which I too am behind the
times, but still know better than he, and so that he could
recollect the uprising and boast of his scars and his high
social position.... It would be most convenient if Peck did
have a high social position. It would be well if he were, for
example, a mayor....
A small darkish rotund individual in a white suit and a
round white hat set at a rakish angle approached deliberately,
wiping his lips with a dainty handkerchief. The hat was
equipped with a transparent green shade and a green ribbon on
which was stamped "Welcome." On his right earlobe glistened a
pendant radio.
"Welcome aboard," said the man.
"Hello," said I.
"A pleasure to have you with us. My name is Ahmad."
"And my name is Ivan," said I. "Pleased to make your
acquaintance."
We nodded to each other and regarded the tourists entering
the buses. They were happily noisy and the warm wind rolled
their discarded butts and crumpled candy wrappers along the
square. Ahmad's face bore a green tint from the light filtering
through his cap visor.
"Vacationers," he said. "Carefree and loud. Now they will
be taken to their hotels and will immediately rush off to the
beaches."
"I wouldn't mind a run on water skis," I observed.
"Really? I never would have guessed. There's nothing you
look less like than a vacationer."
"So be it," I said. "In fact I did come to work"
"To work? Well, that happens too, some do come to work
here. Two years back Jonathan Kreis came here to paint a
picture." He laughed. "Later there was an assault-and-battery
case in Rome, some papal nuncio was involved, can't remember
his name."
"Because of the picture?"
"No, hardly. He didn't paint a thing here. The casino was
where you could find him day or night. Shall we go have a
drink?"
"Let's. You can give me a few pointers."
"It's my pleasurable duty -- to give advice," said Ahmad.
We bent down simultaneously and both of us took hold of
the suitcase handle.
"It's okay -- I'll manage."
"No," countered Ahmad, "you are the guest and I the host.
Let's go to yonder bar. It's quiet there at this time."
We went in under a blue awning. Ahmad seated me at a
table, put my suitcase on a vacant chair, and went to the
counter. It was cool and an air conditioner sighed in the
background. Ahmad returned with a tray. There were tall glasses
and flat plates with butter-gold tidbits.
"Not very strong," said Ahmad, "but really cold to make up
for that."
"I don't like it strong in the morning either," I said.
I quaffed the glass. The stuff was good.
"A swallow -- a bite," counseled Ahmad, "Like this: a
swallow, a bite."
The tidbits crunched and melted in the mouth. In my view,
they were unnecessary. We were silent for some time, watching
the square from under the marquee. gently purring, the buses
pulled out one after another into their respective tree-lined
avenues. They looked ponderous yet strangely elegant in their
clumsiness.
"It would be too noisy there," said Ahmad. "Fine cottages,
lots of women -- to suit any taste -- and right on the water,
but no privacy. I don't think it's for you."
"Yes," I agreed. "The noise would bother me. Anyway, I
don't like vacationers, Ahmad. Can't stand it when people work
at having fun."
Ahmad nodded and carefully placed the next tidbit in his
mouth. I watched him chew. There was something professional and
concentrated in the movement of his lower jaw. Having
swallowed, he said, "No, the synthetic will never compare with
the natural product. Not the same bouquet." He flexed his lips,
smacked them gently, and continued, "There are two excellent
hotels in the center of town, but, in my view..."
"Yes, that won't do either," I said. "A hotel places
certain obligations on you. I never heard that anything
worthwhile has ever been written in a hotel."
"Well, that's not quite true," retorted Ahmad, critically
studying the last tidbit. "I read one book and in it they said
that it was in fact written in a hotel -- the Hotel Florida."
"Aah," I said, "you are correct. But then your city is not
being shelled by cannons."
"Cannons? Of course not. Not as a rule, anyway."
"Just as I thought. But, as a matter of fact, it has been
noted that something worthwhile can be written only in a hotel
which is under bombardment."
Ahmad took the last tidbit after all.
'That would be difficult to arrange," he said. "In our
times it's hard to obtain a cannon. Besides, it's very
expensive; the hotel could lose its clientele."
"Hotel Florida also lost its clients in its time.
Hemingway lived in it alone."
"Who?"
"Hemingway."
"Ah... but that was so long ago, in the fascist times. But
times have changed, Ivan."
"Yes," said I, "and therefore in our times there is no
point in writing in hotels."
"To blazes with hotels then," said Ahmad. "I know what you
need. You need a boarding house." He took out a notebook.
"State your requirements and we'll try to match them up."
"Boarding house," I said. "I don't know. I don't think so,
Ahmad. Do understand that I don't want to meet people whom I
don't want to know. That's to begin with. And in the second
place, who lives in private boarding houses? These same
vacationers who don't have enough money for a cottage. They too
work hard at having fun. They concoct picnics, meets, and song
fests. At night they play the banjo. On top of which they grab
anyone they can get hold of and make them participate in
contests for the longest uninterrupted kiss. Most important of
all, they are all transients. But I am interested in your
country, Ahmad. In your townspeople. I'll tell you what I need:
I need a quiet house with a garden. Not too far from downtown.
A relaxed family, with a respectable housewife. An attractive
young daughter. You get the picture, Ahmad?"
Ahmad took the empty glasses, went over to the counter,
and returned with full ones. Now they contained a colorless
transparent liquid and the small plates were stacked with tiny
multistoried sandwiches.
"I know of such a cozy house," declared Ahmad. "The widow
is forty-five and the daughter twenty. The son is eleven. Let's
finish the drinks and we'll be on our way. I think you'll like
it. The rent is standard, but of course it's more than in a
hoarding house. You have come to stay for a long time?"
"For a month."
"Good Lord! Just a month?"
"I don't know how my affairs will go. Perhaps I may tarry
awhile."
"By all means, you will," said Ahmad. "I can see that you
have totally failed to grasp just where you have arrived. You
simply don't understand what a good time you can have here and
how you don't have to think about a thing."
We finished our drinks, got up, and went across the square
under the hot sun to the parking area. Ahmad walked with a
rapid, slightly rolling gait, with the green visor of his cap
set low over his eyes, swinging the suitcase in a debonair
manner. The next batch of tourists was being discharged
broadcast from the customs house.
"Would you like me to... Frankly?" said Ahmad suddenly.
"Yes, I would like you to," said I. What else could I say?
Forty years I have lived in this world and have yet to learn to
deflect this unpleasant question.
"You won't write a thing here," said Ahmad. "It's mighty
hard to write in our town."
"It's always hard to write anything. However, fortunately
I am not a writer."
"I accept this gladly. But in that case, it is slightly
impossible here. At least for a transient."
"You frighten me."
"It's not a case of being frightened. You simply won't
want to work. You won't be able to stay at the typewriter.
You'll feel annoyed by the typewriter. Do you know what the joy
of living is?"
"How shall I say?"
"You don't know anything, Ivan. So far you still don't
know anything about it. You are bound to traverse the twelve
circles of paradise. It's funny, of course, but I envy you."
We stopped by a long open car. Ahmad threw the suitcase
into the back seat and flung the door open for me.
"Please," he said.
"Presumably you have already passed through them?" I
asked, sliding into the seat.
He got in behind the wheel and started the engine.
"What exactly do you mean?"
"The twelve circles of paradise."
"As for me, Ivan, a long time ago I selected my favorite
circle," said Ahmad. The car began to roll noiselessly through
the square. "The others haven't existed for me for quite a
while. Unfortunately. It's like old age, with all its
privileges and deficiencies."
The car rushed through a park and sped along a shaded,
straight thoroughfare. I kept looking around with great
interest but couldn't recognize a thing. It was stupid to
expect to. We had been landed at night, in a torrential rain;
seven thousand exhausted tourists stood on the pier looking at
the burning liner. We hadn't seen the city -- in its place was
a black, wet emptiness dotted with red flashes. It had rattled,
boomed, and screeched as though being rent asunder. "We'll be
slaughtered in the dark, like rabbits," Robert had said, and I
immediately had sent him back to the barge to unload the
armored car. The gangway had collapsed and the car had fallen
into the water, and when Peck had pulled Robert out, all blue
from the cold, he had come over to me and said through
chattering teeth, "Didn't I tell you it was dark?"
Ahmad said suddenly, "When I was a boy, we lived near the
port and we used to come out here to beat up the factory kids.
Many of them had brass knuckles, and that got me a broken nose.
Half of my life I put up with a crooked nose until I had it
fixed last year. I sure loved to scrap when I was young. I used
to have a hunk of lead pipe, and once I had to sit in jail for
six months, but that didn't help."
He stopped, grinning. I waited awhile, then said, "You
can't find a good lead pipe these days. Now rubber truncheons
are in fashion: you buy them used from the police."
"Exactly," said Ahmad. "Or else you buy a dumbbell, cut
off one ball and there you are, ready to go. But the guys are
not what they used to be. Now you get deported for such stuff."
"Yes. And what else did you occupy yourself with in your
youth?"
"And you?"
"I planned on joining the interplanetary force and trained
to withstand overstress. We also played at who could dive the
deepest."
"We too," said Ahmad. "We went down ten meters for
automatics and whiskey. Over by the piers they lay on the
seabed by the case. I used to get nosebleeds. But when the fire
fights started, we began to find corpses with weights around
their necks, so we quit that game."
"It's a very unpleasant sight, a corpse under water --
especially if there is a current," said I.
Ahmad chuckled "I've seen worse. I had occasion to work
with the police."
"This was after the fracas?"
"Much later. When the anti-gangster laws were passed."
'They were called gangsters here too?"
"What else would you call them? Not brigands, certainly.
'A group of brigands, armed with flame throwers and gas bombs,
have laid siege to the municipal buildings,' " he pronounced
expressively. "It doesn't sound right, you can feel that. A
brigand is an ax, a bludgeon, a mustache up to the ears, a
cleaver --"
"A lead pipe," I offered.
Ahmad gurgled.
"What are you doing tonight?" he asked.
"Going for a walk."
"You have friends here?"
"Yes. Why?"
"Well... then it's different."
"How come?"
"Well, I was going to suggest something to you, but since
you have friends..."
"By the way, " I said, "who is your mayor?"
"Mayor? The devil knows, I don't remember. Somebody was
elected."
"Not Peck Xenai, by any chance?"
"I don't know." He sounded regretful. "I wouldn't want to
mislead you."
"Would you know the man anyway?"
"Xenai... Peck Xenai... No, I don't knew him; haven't
heard of him. What is he to you -- a friend?"
"Yes, an old friend. I have some others here, but they are
all visitors."
"Well," said Ahmad, "if you should get bored and all kinds
of thoughts begin to enter your head, come on over for a visit.
Every single day from seven o'clock on I am at the Chez
Gourmet. Do you like good eating?"
"Quite," said I.
"Stomach in good shape?"
"Like an ostrich's."
"Well, then, why don't you come by? We'll have a fine
time, and it won't be necessary to think about a thing."
Ahmad braked and turned cautiously into a driveway with an
iron gate, which silently swung open before us. The car rolled
into the yard.
"We have arrived," announced Ahmad. "Here is your home."
The house was two-storied, white with blue trim. The
windows were draped on the inside. A clean, deserted patio with
multi-colored flagstones was surrounded by a fruit-tree garden,
with apple branches touching the walls.
"And where is the widow?" I said.
"Let's go inside," said Ahmad.
He went up the steps, leafing through his notebook I was
following him while looking around. I liked the mini-orchard.
Ahmad found the right page and set up the combination on the
small disc by the doorbell. The door opened. Cool, fresh air
flowed out of the house. It was dark inside, but as soon as we
stepped into the hall, it lit up with concealed illumination.
Putting away his notebook, Ahmad said, "To the right is the
landlord's half, to the left is yours. Please come in. Here is
the living room, and there is the bar. In a minute we'll have a
drink. And now here is your study. Do you have a phonor?"
"No."
"It's just as well. You have everything you need right
here. Come on over here. This is the bedroom. There is the
control board for acoustic defense. You know how to use it?"
"I'll figure it out."
"Good. The defense is triple, you can have it quiet as a
tomb or turn the place into a bordello, whatever you like...
Here's the air-conditioning control, which, incidentally, is
not too convenient, as you can only operate it from the
bedroom."
"I'll manage," I said.
"What? Well, okay. Here is the bathroom and powder room."
"I am interested in the widow," I said, "and the
daughter."
"All in good time. Shall I open the drapes?"
"What for?"
"Right you are, for no reason. Let's go have a drink."
We returned to the living room and Ahmad disappeared up to
his waist in the bar.
"You want it on the strong side?" he asked.
"You have it backwards."
"Would you like an omelette? Sandwiches?"
"How about nothing?"
"No," said Ahmad, "an omelette it shall be -- with
tomatoes." He rummaged in the bar. "I don't know what does it,
but this autocooker makes an altogether astonishingly good
omelette with tomatoes. While we are at it, I will also have a
bite."
He extracted a tray from the bar and placed it on a low
table by a semicircular couch. We sat down.
"Now about the widow," I reminded him. "I would like to .
present myself."
"You like the rooms?"
"They'll do."
"Well, the widow is quite all right, too. And the daughter
is not bad either."
He extracted a flat case from an inside pocket. Like a
cartridge clip it was stacked with a row of ampoules filled
with colored liquids. Ahmad ran his index finger over them,
smelled the omelette, hesitated, and finally selected one with
a green fluid, broke it carefully, and dripped a few drops on
the tomatoes. An aroma pervaded the room. The smell was not
unpleasant, but, to my taste, bore no particular relation to
the food.
"Right now," continued Ahmad, "they are still asleep." His
gaze turned abstracted. "They sleep and see dreams."
I looked at my watch.
"Well, well!"
Ahmad was enjoying his food.
"Ten-thirty!" I said.
Ahmad was enjoying his food. His cap was pushed back on
his head, and the green visor stuck up vertically like the
crest of an aroused mimicrodon. His eyes were half-closed. I
regarded him with interest.
Having swallowed the last bit of tomato, he broke off a
piece of the crust of white bread and carefully wiped the pan
with it. His gaze cleared.
"What were you saying?" he asked. "Ten-thirty? Tomorrow
you too will get up at ten-thirty or maybe even at twelve. I,
for one, will get up at twelve."
He got up and stretched luxuriously, cracking his joints.
"Well," he said, "it's time to go home, finally. Here's my
card, Ivan. Put it in your desk, and don't throw it out until
your very last day here." He went over to the flat box and
inserted another card into its slot. There was a loud click.
"Now this one," he said, examining the card against the
light. "Please pass on to the widow with my very best
compliments."
"And then what will happen?" said I.
"Money will happen. I trust you are not a devotee of
haggling, Ivan? The widow will name a figure, Ivan, and you
shouldn't haggle over it. It's not done."
"I will try not to haggle," I said, "although it would be
amusing to try it."
Ahmad raised his eyebrows.
"Well, if you really want to so much, then why not try it?
Always do what you want to do. Then you will have excellent
digestion. I will get your suitcase now."
"I need prospects," I said. "I need guidebooks. I am a
writer, Ahmad. I will require brochures on the economic
situation of the masses, statistical references. Where can I
get all that? And when?"
"I will give you a guidebook," said Ahmad. "It has
statistics, addresses, telephone numbers, and so on. As far as
the masses are concerned, I don't think we publish any such
nonsense. Of course, you can send an inquiry to UNESCO, but
what would you want with it? You'll see everything for
yourself. Just hold on a minute. I'll get the suitcase and the
guidebook."
He went out and quickly returned with my suitcase in one
hand and a fat bluish-looking little tome in the other.
I stood up.
"Judging by the look on your face," he announced, smiling,
"you are debating whether it's proper to tip me or not."
"I confess," I said.
"Well then, would you like to do it or not?"
"No, I must admit."
"You have a healthy, strong character," Ahmad approved.
"Don't do it. Don't tip anybody. You could collect one in the
face, especially from the girls. But, on the other hand, don't
haggle either. You could walk into one that way too. Anyway,
that's all a lot of rot. For all I know you may like to have
your face slapped, like that Jonathan Kreis. Farewell, Ivan,
have fun, and come to Chez Gourmet. Any evening at seven. But
most important of all, don't think about a thing."
He waved his hand and left. I picked up the mixture in the
dewy glass and sat down with the guidebook.
Chapter TWO
The guidebook was printed on bond paper with a gilt edge.
Interspersed with gorgeous photographs, it contained some
curious information. In the city there were fifty thousand
people, fifteen hundred cats, twenty thousand pigeons, and two
thousand dogs (including seven hundred winners of medals). The
city had fifteen thousand passenger cars, five thousand helis,
a thousand taxis (with and without chauffeurs), nine hundred
automatic garbage collectors, four hundred permanent bars,
cafes, and snack bars, eleven restaurants, and four first-class
hotels, and was a tourist establishment which served over one
hundred thousand visitors every year. The city had sixty
thousand TV sets, fifty movie theaters, eight amusement parks,
two Happy Mood salons, sixteen beauty parlors, forty libraries,
and one hundred and eighty automated barber shops. Eighty
percent of the population were engaged in services, and the
rest worked in two syntho-bakeries and one government shipyard.
There were six schools and one university housed in an old
castle once the home of crusader Ulrich da Casa. In the city
there were also eight active civilian societies, among them the
Society of Diligent Tasters, the Society of Connoisseurs and
Appraisers, and the Society for the Good Old Country Against
Evil Influences. In addition, fifteen hundred citizens were
members of seven hundred and one groups where they sang,
learned to act, to arrange furniture, to breast-feed, and to
medicate cats. As to per-capita consumption of alcoholic
beverages, natural meat, and liquid oxygen, the city was sixth,
twelfth, and thirteenth highest in Europe respectively. The
city had seven men's clubs and five women's clubs, as well as
sport clubs named the Bulls and Rhinos. By a majority of
forty-six votes, someone by the name of Flim Gao had been
elected mayor. Peck was not among the municipal officials.
I put the guidebook aside, took off my jacket, and made a
thorough examination of my domain. I approved of the living
room. It was done in blue, and I like that color. The bar was
full of bottled and refrigerated victuals so that I could at a
moment's notice entertain a dozen starving guests.
I went into the study. There was a large table in front of
the window and a comfortable chair. The walls were lined with
shelves tightly filled with collected works. The clean bright
bindings were arranged with great skill so that they formed a
colorful and appealing layout. The top shelf was occupied by
the fifty-volume encyclopedia of UNESCO. Lower shelves were
kaleidoscopic with the shiny wrappers of detective novels.
As soon as I saw the telephone on the table, I dialed
Rimeyer's number, perching on the chair arm. The receiver
sounded with prolonged honkings and I waited, twirling a small
dictaphone which someone had left on the table. Rimeyer did not
answer. I hung up and inspected the dictaphone. The tape was
half-used-up, and after rewinding, I punched the playback
button.
"Greetings and more greetings," said a merry male voice.
"I clasp your hand heartily or kiss you on the cheek, depending
on your sex and age. I have lived here two months and bear
witness that it was most enjoyable. Allow me a few points of
advice. The best institution in town is the Hoity Toity in the
Park of Dreams. The best girl in town is Basi in the House of
Models. The best guy in town is me, but I have already left. On
television just watch Program Nine; everything else is chaff.
Don't get involved with Intels, and give the Rhinos a wide
berth. Don't buy anything on credit -- there'll be no end to
the runaround. The widow is a good woman but loves to talk and
in general... As for Vousi, I didn't get to meet her, as she
had left the country to visit her grandmother. In my opinion
she is sweet, and there was a photograph of her in the widow's
album, but I took it. There's more: I expect to come back next
March, so be a pal, if you decide to return, pick another time.
Have a --"
Music followed abruptly. I listened awhile and turned off
the machine.
There wasn't a single tome I could extract from the
shelves, so well were they stuck in, or maybe even glued on,
and as there was nothing else of interest in the study, I went
into the bedroom.
Here it was especially cool and cozy. I have always wanted
just such a bedroom, but somehow never had the time to get
around to setting one up. The bed was big and low. On the night
table stood an elegant phonor and a tiny remote-control box for
the TV. The screen stood at the foot of the bed, while at the
head the widow had hung a very natural-looking picture of field
flowers in a crystal vase. The picture was painted with
luminous paints and the dewdrops glistened in the darkened
room.
I punched the TV control at random and stretched out on
the bed. It was soft yet somehow firm. The TV roared loudly. An
inebriated-looking man launched himself out of the screen,
crashed through some sort of railing, and fell from a great
height into a colossal fuming vat. There was a loud splash and
the phonor exuded a smell. The man disappeared in the bubbling
liquid and then reappeared, holding in his teeth something
reminiscent of a well-boiled boot. The unseen audience broke
out in a storm of horse laughs. Fade out... soft lyrical music.
A white horse pulling a phaeton appeared out of green woods and
advanced toward me. A pretty girl in a bathing suit sat in the
carriage. I turned off the TV, got up, and went to look at the
bathroom.
There was a piny smell and flickering of germicidal lamps.
I undressed, threw the underwear into the hopper, and climbed
into the shower. Taking my time, I dressed in front of the
mirror, combed my hair, and shaved. The shelves were loaded
with rows of vials, hygienic devices, antiseptics, and tubes
with pastes and greases. At the edge of one shelf there was a
pile of flat colorful boxes with the logo "Devon." I switched
off the razor and took one of the boxes. A germicidal lamp
flickered in the mirror, just as it did that day in Vienna,
when I stood just like this studiously regarding just such a
little box, because I did not want to go out to the bedroom,
where Raffy Reisman loudly argued about something with the
doctor; while the green oily liquid still oscillated in the
bath, over which hung the steamy vapor and a screeching radio
receiver, attached to a porcelain hook for towels, howled,
hooted, and snorted until Raffy turned it off in irritation.
That was in Vienna, and just as here, it was very strange to
see in a bathroom a box of Devon -- a popular repellent which
did an excellent job of chasing mosquitoes, chiggers, gnats,
and other bloodsucking insects which were long forgotten in
Vienna and here in a seaside resort town. Only in Vienna there
had been an overlay of fear.
The box which I held in my hand was almost empty, with
only one tablet remaining. The rest of the boxes were still
scaled. I finished shaving and returned to the bedroom. I felt
like calling Rimeyer again, but abruptly the house came to
life. The pleated drapes flew open with a soft whine, the
windowpanes slid away in their frames, and the bedroom was
flooded with warm air, laden with the scent of apples. Someone
was talking somewhere, light footsteps sounded overhead, and a
severe-sounding female voice said, "Vousi -- at least eat some
cake, do you hear?"
Thereupon I imparted a certain air of disorder to my
clothes (in accordance with the current style), smoothed my
temples, and went into the hall, taking one of Ahmad's cards
from the living room.
The widow turned out to be a youthful plump woman,
somewhat languid, with a pleasant fresh face.
"How nice!" she said, seeing me. "You are up already?
Hello, my name is Vaina Tuur, but you can call me Vaina."
"My pleasure," I said, shuddering fashionably. "My name is
Ivan."
"How nice," said Aunt Vaina. "What an original
soft-sounding name! Have you had breakfast, Ivan?"
"With your permission, I intended to have breakfast in
town," I said, and proffered her the card.
"Ah," said Aunt Vaina, looking through the card at the
light. "That nice Ahmad, if you only knew what a nice
responsible fellow he is. But I see you did not have breakfast.
Lunch you can have in town, but now I will treat you to some of
my croutons. The major general always said that nowhere else in
the world could you have such wonderful croutons."
"With pleasure," said I, shuddering for the second time.
The door behind Aunt Vaina was flung open and a very
pretty young girl in a short blue skirt and an open white
blouse flew in on clicking high heels. In her hand she held a
piece of cake, which she munched while humming a currently
popular song. Seeing me, she stopped, flung her pocketbook on
its long strap over her shoulder with a show of abandon, and
swallowed, bending down her head.
"Vousi!" said Aunt Vaina, compressing her lips. "Vousi,
this is Ivan."
"Not bad!" said Vousi. "Greetings."
"Vousi," reproached Aunt Vaina.
"You came with your wife?" said Vousi, extending her hand.
"No," said I. Her fingers were soft and cool. "I am
alone."
In that case, I'll show you all there is to see," she
said. "Till tonight. I must run now, but we'll go out this
evening."
"Vousi!" reproached Aunt Vaina.
Vousi pushed the rest of the cake into her mouth, bussed
her mother on the cheek, and ran toward the door. She had
smooth sunburned legs, long and slender, and a close-cropped
back of the head.
"Ach, Ivan," said Aunt Vaina, who was also looking at the
retreating girl, "in our times it is so difficult to deal with
young girls. They develop so early and leave us so soon. Ever
since she started working in that salon..."
"She is a dressmaker?" I inquired.
"Oh no! She works in the Happy Mood Salon, in the old
ladies' department. And do you know, they value her highly. But
last year she was late once and now she has to be very careful.
As you can see she could not even have a decent conversation
with you, but it's possible that a client is even now waiting
for her. You might not believe this, but she already has a
permanent clientele. Anyway, why are we standing here? The
croutons will get cold."
We entered the landlord's side. I tried with all my might
to conduct myself correctly, although I was a bit foggy as to
what exactly was correct. Aunt Vaina sat me down at a table,
excused herself, and left. I looked around. The room was an
exact copy of mine, except that the walls were rose instead of
blue, and beyond the window, in place of the sea was a small
yard with a low fence dividing it from the street. Aunt Vaina
came back with a tray bearing boiled cream and a plate of
croutons..
"You know," she said, "I think I will have some breakfast
too. My doctor does not recommend breakfast, especially with
boiled cream. But we became so accustomed... it was the
general's favorite breakfast. Do you know, I try to have only
men boarders. That nice Ahmad understands me very well. He
understands how much I need to sit just like this, now and
then, just as we are sitting, and have a cup of boiled cream."
"Your cream is wonderfully good," said I, not insincerely.
"Ach, Ivan." Aunt Vaina put down her cup and fluttered her
hands. "But you said that almost exactly like the major
general... Strange, you even look like him. Except that his
face was a bit narrower and he always had breakfast in his
uniform."
"Yes," I said with regret, "I don't have a uniform."
"But there was one once," said she coyly, shaking a finger
at me. "Of course! I can see it. It's so senseless! People
nowadays have to be ashamed of their military past. Isn't that
silly? But they are always betrayed by their bearing, that very
special manly carriage. You cannot hide it, Ivan!"
I made a very elaborate non-committal gesture, said, "Mm
-- yes," and took another crouton.
"It's all so out of place, isn't that right?" continued
Aunt Vaina with great animation. "How can you confuse such two
opposite concepts -- war and the army? We all detest war. War
is awful. My mother described it to me, she was only a girl,
but she remembers everything. Suddenly, without warning, there
they are -- the soldiers, crude, alien, speaking a foreign
tongue, belching; and the officers, without any manners,
laughing loudly, annoying the chambermaids, and smelling --
forgive me; and that senseless commander's meeting hour... that
is war and it deserves every condemnation! But the army! That's
an altogether different affair! Surely you remember, Ivan, the
troops lined up by battalion, the perfection of the line, the
manliness of the faces under the helmets, shiny arms, sparkling
decorations, and then the commanding officer riding in a
special staff car and addressing the battalions, which respond
willingly and briefly like one man."
"No doubt," said I, "this has impressed many people."
"Yes! Very much indeed. We have always said that it is
necessary to disarm, but did we really need to destroy the
army? It is the last refuge of manhood in our time of
widespread moral collapse. It's weird and ridiculous -- a
government without an army...."
"It is funny," I agreed. "You may not believe it, but I
have been smiling ever since they signed the Pact."
"Yes, I can understand that," said Aunt Vaina. "There was
nothing else for us to do, but to smile sarcastically. The
Major General Tuur" -- she extricated a handkerchief -- "passed
away with just such a sarcastic smile on his face." She applied
the handkerchief to her eyes. "He said to us: 'My friends, I
still hope to live to the day when everything will fall apart.'
A broken man, who has lost the meaning of life... he could not
stand the emptiness in his heart." Suddenly she perked up.
"Here, let me show you, Ivan."
She bustled into the next room and returned with a heavy
old-fashioned photo album.
I looked at my watch at once, but Aunt Vaina did not take
any notice, and sitting herself down at my side, opened the
album at the very first page.
"Here is the major general."
The major general looked quite the eagle. He had a narrow
bony face and translucent eyes. His long body was spangled with
medals. The biggest, a multi-pointed starburst framed in a
laurel wreath, sparkled in the region of the appendix. In his
left hand the general tightly pressed a pair of gloves, and his
right hand rested on the hilt of a ceremonial poniard. A high
collar with gold embroidery propped up his lower jaw.
"And here is the major general on maneuvers."
Here again the general looked the eagle. He was issuing
instructions to his officers, who were bent over a map spread
on the frontal armor of a gigantic tank. By the shape of the
treads and the streamlined appearance of the turret, I
recognized it as one of the Mammoth heavy storm vehicles, which
were designed for pushing through nuclear strike zones and now
are successfully employed by deep-sea exploration teams.
"And here is the general on his fiftieth birthday."
Here too, the general looked the eagle. He stood by a
well-set table with a wineglass in his hand, listening to a
toast in his honor. The lower left corner was occupied by a
halo of light from a shiny pate; and to his side, gazing up at
him with admiration, sat a very young and very pretty Aunt
Vaina. I tried surreptitiously to gauge the thickness of the
album by feel.
"Ah, here is the general on vacation."
Even on vacation, the general remained an eagle. With his
feet planted well apart, he stood an the beach sporting
tiger-stripe trunks, as he scanned the misty horizon through a
pair of binoculars. At his feet a child of three or four was
digging in the sand. The general was wiry and muscular.
Croutons and cream did not spoil his figure. I started to wind
my watch noisily.
"And here..." began Aunt Vaina, turning the page, but at
this point, a short portly man entered the room without
knocking. His face and in particular his dress seemed strangely
familiar.
"Good morning," he enunciated, bending his smooth smiling
face slightly sideways.
It was my erstwhile customs man, still in the same white
uniform with the silver buttons and the silver braid on the
shoulders.
"Ah! Pete!" said Aunt Vaina. "Here you are already.
Please, let me introduce you. Ivan, this is Pete, a friend of
the family."
The customs man turned toward me without recognition,
briefly inclined his head, and clicked his heels. Aunt Vaina
laid the album in my lap and got up.
"Have a seat, Pete," she said. "I will bring some cream."
Pete clicked his heels once more and sat down by me.
"This should interest you," I said, transferring the album
to his lap. "Here is Major General Tuur. In mufti." A strange
expression appeared on the face of the customs man. "And here
is the major general on maneuvers. You see? And here --"
"Thank you," said the customs man raggedly. "Don't exert
yourself, because --"
Aunt Vaina returned with cream and croutons. From as far
back as the doorway, she said, "How nice to see a man in
uniform! Isn't that right, Ivan?"
The cream for Pete was in a special cup with the monogram
"T" surrounded by four stars.
"It rained last night, so it must have been cloudy. I
know, because I woke up, and now there is not a cloud in the
sky. Another cup, Ivan?"
I got up.
'Thank you, I'm quite full. If you'll excuse me, I must
take my leave. I have a business appointment,"
Carefully closing the door behind me, I heard the widow
say, "Don't you find an extraordinary resemblance between him
and Staff Major Polom?"
In the bedroom, I unpacked the suitcase and transferred
the clothing to the wall closet, and again rang Rimeyer. Again
no one answered. So I sat down at the desk and set to exploring
the drawers. One contained a portable typewriter, another a set
of writing paper and an empty bottle of grease for arrhythmic
motors. The rest was empty, if you didn't count bundles of
crumpled receipts, a broken fountain pen, and a carelessly
folded sheet of paper, decorated with doodled faces. I unfolded
the sheet. Apparently it was the draft of a telegram.
"Green died while with the Fishers receive body Sunday
with condolences Hugger Martha boys." I read the writing twice,
turned the sheet over and studied the faces, and read for the
third time. Obviously Hugger and Martha were not informed that
normal people notifying of death first of all tell how and why
a person died and not whom he was with when he died. I would
have written, "Green drowned while fishing." Probably in a
drunken stupor. By the way, what address did I have now?
I returned to the hall. A small boy in short pants
squatted in the doorway to the landlord's half. Clamping a long
silvery tube under an armpit, he was panting and wheezing and
hurriedly unwinding a tangle of string. I went up to him and
said, "Hi."
My reflexes are not what they used to be, but still I
managed to duck a long black stream which whizzed by my ear and
splashed against the wall. I regarded the boy with astonishment
while he stared at me, lying on his side and holding the tube
in front of him. His face was damp and his mouth twisted and
open. I turned to look at the wall. The stuff was oozing down.
I looked at the boy again. He was getting up slowly, without
lowering the tube.
"Well, well, brother, you are nervous!" said I.
"Stand where you are," said the boy in a hoarse voice." I
did not say your name."
"To say the least," said I. "You did not even mention
yours, and you fire at me like I was a dummy."
"Stand where you are," repeated the boy, "and don't move."
He backed and suddenly blurted in rapid fire, "Hence from my
hair, hence from my bones, hence from my flesh."
"I cannot," I said. I was still trying to understand
whether he was playing or was really afraid of me.
"Why not?" said the boy. "I am saying everything right."
"I can't go without moving," I said. "I am standing where
I am."
His mouth fell open again.
"Hugger: I say to you -- Hugger -- begone!" he said
uncertainly.
"Why Hugger?" I said. "My name is Ivan; you confuse me
with somebody else."
The boy closed his eyes and advanced upon me, holding the
tube in front of him.
"I surrender," I warned. "Be careful not to fire."
When the tube dented my midriff he stopped and, dropping
it, suddenly went limp, letting his hands fall. I bent over and
looked him in the face. Now he was brick-red. I picked up the
tube. It was something like a toy rifle, with a convenient
checkered grip and a flat rectangular flask which was inserted
from below, like a clip.
"What kind of gadget is this?" I asked.
"A splotcher," he said gloomily. "Give it back."
I gave him back the toy.
"A splotcher," I said, "with which you splotch. And what
if you had hit me?" I looked at the wall. "Fine thing. Now you
won't get it off inside of a year. You'll have to get the wall
changed."
The boy looked up at me suspiciously. "But it's Splotchy,"
he said.
"Really -- and I thought it was lemonade."
His face finally acquired a normal hue and demonstrated an
obvious resemblance to the manly features of Major General
Tuur.
"No, no, it's Splotchy."
"So?"
"It will dry up."
"And then it's really hopeless?"
"Of course not. There will simply be nothing left."
"Hmm," said I, with reservation. "However, you know best.
Let us hope so. But I am still glad that there will be nothing
left on the wall instead of on my face. What's your name?"
"Siegfried."
"And after you give it some thought?"
He gave me a long look.
"Lucifer."
"What?"
"Lucifer."
"Lucifer," said I. "Belial, Ahriman, Beelzebub, and
Azrael. How about something a little shorter? It's very
inconvenient to call for help to someone with a name like
Lucifer."
"But the doors are closed," he said and backed one step.
His face paled again.
"So what?"
He did not respond but continued to back until he reached
the wall and began to sidle along it without taking his eyes
off me. It finally dawned on me that he took me for a murderer
or a thief and. that he wanted to escape. But for some reason
he did not call for help and went by his mother's door,
continuing toward the house exit.
"Siegfried," said I, "Siegfried, Lucifer, you are a
terrible coward. Who do you think I am?" I didn't move but only
Turned to keep facing him. "I am your new boarder; your mother
has just fed me croutons and cream and you go and fire at me
and almost splotched me, and now you are afraid of me. It is I
who should be afraid of you."
All this was very much reminiscent of a scene in the
boarding school in Anyudinsk, when they brought me a boy just
like this one, the son of a sect member. Hell's bells, do I
really look so much the gangster?
"You remind me of Chuchundra the Muskrat," I said, "who
spent his life crying because he could not come out into the
middle of the room. Your nose is blue from fear, your ears are
freezing, and your pants are wet so that you are trailing a
small stream...."
In such cases it makes absolutely no difference what is
said. It is important to speak calmly and not to make sudden
movements. The expression on his face did not change, but when
I spoke about the stream, he moved his eyes momentarily to take
a look. But only for a second. Then he jumped toward the door,
fluttering for a second at the latch, and flew outside, dirty
bottoms of his sandals flying. I went out after him.
He stood in the lilac bush, so that all I could see was
his pale face. Like a fleeing cat looking momentarily over its
shoulder.
"Okay, okay," said I. "Would you please explain to me what
I must do? I have to send home my new address. The address of
this house where I am now living." He regarded me in silence.
"I don't feel right going to your mother -- in the first place,
she has guests, and in the second--"
"Seventy-eight, Second Waterway," he said.
Slowly I sat down on the steps. There was a distance of
some ten meters between us.
'That's quite a voice you have," I said confidentially.
"Just like my friend the barman's at Mirza-Charles."
"When did you arrive?" said he.
"Well, let's see." I looked at my watch, "About an hour
and a half ago."
"Before you there was another one," he said, looking
sideways. "He was a rat-fink. He gave me striped swimming
trunks, and when I went in the water, they melted away."
"Ouch!" I said. "That is really a monster of some sort and
not a human -- he should have been drowned in Splotchy."
"Didn't have time -- I was going to, but he went away."
"Was it that same Hugger with Martha and the boys?"
"No -- where did you get that idea? Hugger came later."
"Also a rat-fink?"
He didn't answer. I leaned back against the wall and
contemplated the street. A car jerkily backed out of the
opposite driveway, back and forthed, and roared off.
Immediately it was followed by another just such a car. There
was the pungent smell of gasoline. Then cars followed one after
another, until my eyes blurred. Several helis appeared in the
sky. They were the so-called silent helis, but they flew
relatively low, and while they flew, it was difficult to talk.
In any case, the boy was apparently not going to talk. But he
wasn't going to leave, either. He was doing something with his
splotcher in the bushes and was glancing at me now and then. I
was hoping he wasn't going to splotch me again. The helis kept
going and going, and the cars kept swishing and swishing, as
though all the fifteen thousand cars were speeding by on Second
Waterway, and all the five hundred helis were hung over Number
78. The whole thing lasted about ten minutes, and the boy
seemed to cease paying attention to me while I sat and wondered
what questions I should ask of Rimeyer. Then everything
returned to its previous state, the smell of exhaust was gone,
the sky was cleared.
"Where are they all going -- all at once?" I asked.
"Don't you know?"
"How would I know?"
"I don't know either, but somehow you knew about Hugger."
"About Hugger," I said. "I know about Hugger quite
accidentally. And about you I know nothing at all... how you
live and what you do. For instance, what are you doing now?"
"The safeguard is broken."
"Well then, give it to me, I'll fix it. Why are you afraid
of me? Do I look like a rat-fink?"
"They all drove off to work," he said.
"You sure go to work late. It's practically dinnertime
already. Do you know the Hotel Olympic?"
"Of course I know."
"Would you walk me there?"
He hesitated.
"No."
"Why not?" I asked.
"School is about to end -- I must be going home."
"Aha! So that's the way of it," said I. "You are playing
hookey, or ditching it, as we used to say. What grade are you
in?"
"Third."
"I used to be in third grade, too," I said.
He came a bit out of the bushes.
"And then?"
"Then I was in the fourth." I got up. "Well, okay. Talk
you won't, go for a walk you won't, and your pants are wet, so
I am going back in. You won't even tell me your name."
He looked at me in silence and breathed heavily through
his mouth. I went back to my quarters. The cream-colored hall
was irreparably disfigured, it seemed to me. The huge black
clot was not drying. Somebody is going to get it today, I
thought. A ball of string was underfoot. I picked it up. The
end of the string was tied to the landlady's half-doorknob. So,
I thought, this too is clear. I untied the string and put the
ball in my pocket.
In the study, I got a clean sheet of paper from the desk
and composed a telegram to Matia. "Arrived safely, 78 Second
Waterway. Kisses. Ivan." I telephoned it to the local PT&T and
again dialed Rimeyer's number. Again there was no answer. I put
on my jacket, looked in the mirror, counted my money, and was
about to set out when I saw that the door to the living room
was open and an eye was visible through the crack. Naturally, I
gave no sign. I carefully completed the inspection of my
clothing, returned to the bathroom, and vacuumed myself for a
while, whistling away merrily. When I returned to the study,
the mouse-eared head sticking through the half-open door
immediately vanished. Only the silvery tube of the splotcher
continued to protrude. Sitting down in the chair, I opened and
closed all the twelve drawers, including the secret one, and
only then looked at the door. The boy stood framed in it.
"My name is Len," he announced.
"Greetings, Len," I said absent-mindedly. "I am called
Ivan. Come on in -- although I was going out to have dinner.
You haven't had dinner yet?"
"No."
"That's good. Go ask your mother's permission and we'll be
off "
"It's too early," he said.
"What's too early? To have dinner?"
"No, to go. School doesn't end for another twenty
minutes." He was silent again. "Besides, there's that fat fink
with the braid."
"He's a bad one?' I asked.
"Yeah," said Len. "Are you really leaving now?"
"Yes, I am," I said, and took the ball of string from my
pocket. "Here, take it. And what if Mother comes out first?"
He shrugged.
"If you are really leaving," he said, "would it be all
right if I stayed in your place?"
"Go ahead, stay."
"There's nobody else here?"
"Nobody."
He still didn't come to me to take the string, but let me
come to him, and even allowed me to take his ear. It was indeed
cold. I ruffled his head lightly and pushed him toward the
table.
"Go sit all you want. I won't be back soon."
"I'll take a snooze," said Len.
Chapter THREE
The Hotel Olympic was a fifteen-story red-and-black
structure. Half the plaza in front of it was covered with cars,
and in its center stood a monument surrounded by a small
flowerbed. It represented a man with a proudly raised head.
Detouring the monument, I suddenly realized that I knew the
man. In puzzlement I stopped and examined it more thoroughly.
There was no doubt about it. There in front of Hotel Olympic,
in a funny old-fashioned suit with his hand resting on an
incomprehensible apparatus which I almost took for the
extension of the abstract-styled base, and with his eyes
staring at infinity through contemptuously squinting lids, was
none other than Vladimir Sergeyevitch Yurkovsky. Carved in gold
letters on the base was the legend "Vladimir Yurkovsky,
December 5, Year of the Scales."
I couldn't believe it, because they do not raise monuments
to Yurkovskys. While they live, they are appointed to more or
less responsible positions, they are honored at jubilees, they
are elected to membership in academies. They are rewarded with
medals and are honored with international prizes, and when they
die or perish; they are the subjects of books, quotations,
references, but always less and less often as time passes, and
finally they are forgotten altogether. They depart the halls of
memory and linger on only in books. Vladimir Sergeyevitch was a
general of the sciences and a remarkable man. But it is not
possible to erect monuments to all generals and all remarkable
men, especially in countries to which they had no direct
relationship and in cities where if they did visit, it was only
temporarily. In any case, in that Year of the Scales, which is
of significance only to them, he was not even a general. In
March he was, jointly with Dauge, completing the investigation
of the Amorphous Spot on Uranus. That was when the sounding
probe blew up and we all got a dose in the work section -- and
when we got back to the Planet in September, he was all spotted
with lilac blotches, mad at the world, promising himself that
he would take time out to swim and get sunburned and then get
right back to the design of a new probe because the old one was
trash.... I looked at the hotel again to reassure myself. The
only out was to assume that the life of the town was in some
mysterious and potent manner highly dependent on the Amorphous
Spot on Uranus. Yurkovsky continued to smile with snobbish
superiority. Generally, the sculpture was quite good, but I
could not figure out what it was he was leaning on. The
apparatus didn't look like the probe.
Something hissed by my ear. I turned and involuntarily
sprang back. Beside me, staring dully at the monument base, was
a tall gaunt individual closely encased from head to foot in
some sort of gray scaly material and with a bulky cubical
helmet around his head. The face was obscured behind a glass
plate with holes, from which smoke issued in synchronism with
his breathing. The wasted visage behind the plate was covered
with perspiration and the cheeks twitched in frantic tempo. At
first I took him for a Wanderer, then I thought that he was a
tourist executing a curative routine, and only finally did I
realize that I was looking at an Arter.
"Excuse me," I said "Could you please tell me what sort of
monument this is?"
The damp face contorted more desperately. "What?" came the
dull response from inside the helmet.
I bent down.
"I am inquiring: what is this monument?"
The man glared at the statue. The smoke came thicker out
of the holes. There was more powerful hissing.
"Vladimir Yurkovsky," he read, "Fifth of December, Year of
the Scales... aha... December... so -- it must be some German."
"And who put up the monument?"
"I don't know," said the man. "But it's written down right
there. What's it to you?"
"I was an acquaintance of his," I explained.
"Well then, why do you ask? Ask the man himself."
"He is dead."
"Aah... Maybe they buried him here?"
"No," I said, "he is buried far away."
"Where?"
"Far away. What's that thing he is holding?"
"What thing? It's an eroula."
"What?"
"I said, an eroula. An electronic roulette."-
My eyes popped.
"What's a roulette doing here?"
"Where?"
"Here, on the statue."
"I don't know," said the man after some thought. "Maybe
your friend invented it?"
"Hardly," said I. "He worked in a different field."
"What was that?"
"He was a planetologist and an interplanetary pilot."
"Aah... well, if he invented it, that was bully for him.
It's a useful thing. I should remember it: Yurkovsky, Vladimir.
He must have been a brainy German."
"I doubt he invented it," I said. "I repeat -- he was an
interplanetary pilot."
The man stared at me.
"Well, if he didn't invent it, then why is he standing
with it?"
"That's the point," I said. "I am amazed myself."
"You are a damn liar," said the man suddenly. "You lie and
you don't even know why you are lying. It's early morning, and
he is stoned already.... Alcoholic!"
He turned away and shuffled off, dragging his thin legs
and hissing loudly. I shrugged my shoulders, took a last look
at Vladimir Sergeyevitch, and set off toward the hotel, across
the huge plaza.
The gigantic doorman swung the door open for me and
sounded an energetic welcome.
I stopped.
"Would you be so kind," said I. "Do you know what that
monument is?"
The doorman looked toward the plaza over my head. His face
registered confusion.
"Isn't that written on it?"
"There is a legend," I said. "But who put it up and why?"
The doorman shuffled his feet.
"I beg your pardon," he said guiltily, "I just can't
answer
your question. The monument has been there a long time,
while I came here very recently. I don't wish to misinform you.
Maybe the porter..."
I sighed.
"Well, don't worry about it. Where is a telephone?"
"To your right, if you please," he said looking delighted.
A porter started out in my direction, but I shook my head
and picked up the receiver and dialed Rimeyer's number. This
time I got a busy signal. I went to the elevator and up to the
ninth floor.
Rimeyer, looking untypically fleshy, met me in a dressing
gown, out of which stuck legs in pants and with shoes on. The
room stank of cigarette smoke and the ashtray was full of
butts. There was a general air of chaos in the whole suite. One
of the armchairs was knocked over, a woman's slip was lying
crumpled on the couch, and a whole battery of empty bottles
glinted under the table.
"What can I do for you?" asked Rimeyer with a touch of
hostility, looking at my chin. Apparently he was recently out
of his bathroom, and his sparse colorless hair was wet against
his long skull. I handed him my card in silence. Rimeyer read
it slowly and attentively, shoved it in his pocket, and
continuing to look at my chin, said, "Sit down."
I sat.
"It is most unfortunate. I am devilishly busy and don't
have a minute's time."
"I called you several times today," said I.
"I just got back. What's your name?"
"Ivan."
"And your last name?"
"Zhilin."
"You see, Zhilin, to make it short, I have to get dressed
and leave again." He was silent awhile, rubbing his flabby
cheeks. "Anyway there's not much to talk about.... However, if
you wish, you can sit here and wait for me. If I don't return
in an hour, come back tomorrow at twelve. And leave your
telephone number and address, write it down right on the table
there...."
He threw off the bathrobe, and dragging it along, walked
off into the adjoining room.
"In the meantime," he continued, "you can see the town,
and a miserable little town it is.... But you'll have to do it
in any case. As for me, I am sick to my stomach of it."
He returned adjusting his tie. His hands were trembling,
and the skin on his face looked gray and wilted. Suddenly I
felt that I did not trust him -- the sight of him was
repellent, like that of a neglected sick man.
"You look poorly," I said. "You have changed a great
deal."
For the first time he looked me in the eyes.
"And how would you know what I was like before?"
"I saw you at Matia's. You smoke a lot, Rimeyer, and
tobacco is saturated regularly with all kinds of trash
nowadays."
"Tobacco -- that's a lot of nonsense," he said with sudden
irritation. "Here everything is saturated with all kinds of
tripe.... But perhaps you may be right, probably I should
quit." He pulled on his jacket slowly; "Time to quit, and in
any case, I shouldn't have started."
"How is the work coming along?"
"It could be worse. And unusually absorbing work it is."
He smiled in a peculiar unpleasant way. "I am going now, as
they are waiting for me and I am late. So, till an hour from
now, or until tomorrow at twelve."
He nodded to me and left.
I wrote my address and telephone number on the table, and
as my foot plowed into the mass of bottles underneath, I
couldn't help but think that the work was indeed absorbing. I
called room service and requested a chambermaid to clean up the
room. The most polite of voices replied that the occupant of
the suite categorically forbade service personnel to enter his
room during his absence and had repeated the prohibition just
now on leaving the hotel. "Aha," I said, and hung up. This
didn't sit well with me. For myself, I never issue such
directions and have never hidden even my notebooks, not from
anyone. It's stupid to work at deception and much better to
drink less. I picked up the overturned armchair, sat down, and
prepared for a long wait, trying to overcome a sense of
displeasure and disappointment.
I didn't have to wait for long. After some ten minutes,
the door opened a crack and a pretty face protruded into the
room.
"Hey there," it pronounced huskily. "Is Rimeyer in?"
"Rimeyer is not in, but you can come in anyway."
She hesitated, examining me. Apparently she had no
intention of coming in, but was just saying hello, in passing.
"Come in, come in," said I. "I have nothing to do."
She entered with a light dancing gait, and putting her
arms akimbo, stood in front of me. She had a short turned-up
nose and a disheveled boyish hairdo. The hair was red, the
shorts crimson, and the blouse a bright yolk yellow. A colorful
woman and quite attractive. She must have been about
twenty-five.
"You wait -- right?"
Her eyes were unnaturally bright and she smelled of wine,
tobacco, and perfume.
She collapsed on the hassock and flung her legs up on the
telephone table.
"Throw a cigarette to a working girl," she said. "It's
five hours since I had one."
"I don't smoke. Shall I ring for some?"
"Good Lord, another sad sack! Never mind the phone .. or
that dame will show up again. Rummage around in the ashtray and
find me a good long butt."
The ashtray did have a lot of long butts.
'They all have lipstick on them," said I.
"That's all right; it's my lipstick. What's your name?"
"Ivan."
She snapped a lighter and lit up.
"And mine is Ilina. Are you a foreigner, too? All you
foreigners seem so wide. What are you doing here?"'
"Waiting for Rimeyer."
"I don't mean that! What brought you here, are you
escaping from your wife?"
"I am not married," I said quietly. "I came to write a
book."
"A book? Some friends this Rimeyer has. He came to write a
book. Sex Problems of Impotent Sportsmen. How's your
situation with the sex problem?"
"It is not a problem to me," I said mildly. "And how about
you?"
She lowered her legs from the table.
"That's a no-no. Take it slow. This isn't Paris, you know.
All in good time. Anyway, you should have your locks cut --
sitting there like a perch."
"Like a who?" I was very patient as I had another
forty-five minutes to wait.
"Like a perch. You know the type." She made vague motions
around her ears.
"I don't know about that," I said. "I don't know anything
yet as I have just arrived. Tell me about it, it sounds
interesting."
"Oh no! Not I! We don't chatter. Our bit is a small one --
serve, clean up, flash your teeth, and keep quiet. Professional
secret. Have you heard of such an animal?"
"I've heard," I said. "But who's 'we' -- an association of
doctors?
For some reason, she thought this was hilarious.
"Doctors! Imagine that." She laughed. "Well, wise guy,
you're all right -- quite a tongue. We have one in the once
like you. One word, and we're all rolling in the aisles.
Whenever we cater to the Fishers, he always gets the job, they
like a good laugh."
"Who doesn't?" said I.
"Well, you are wrong. The Intels, for instance, chased him
out. 'Take the fool away,' they said. Or also recently those
pregnant males."
"Who?"'
"The sad ones. Well, I can see you don't understand a
thing. Where in heaven's name did you come from?"
"From Vienna."
"So -- don't you have the sad ones in Vienna?"
"You couldn't imagine what we don't have in Vienna."
"Could be you don't even have irregular meetings?"
"No, we don't have them. All our meetings are regular,
like a bus schedule."
She was having a good time.
"Perhaps you don't have waitresses either?"
"Waitresses we do have, and you can find some excellent
examples. Are you a waitress then?"
She jumped up abruptly.
"That won't do at all," she cried. "I've had enough sad
ones for today. Now you're going to have a loving cup with me
like a good fellow...." She began to search furiously among the
bottles by the window. "Damn him, they're all empty! Could be
you're a teetotaler? Aha, here's a little vermouth. You drink
that, or shall we order whiskey?"
"Let's begin with the vermouth," said I.
She banged the bottle on the table and took two glasses
from the window sill.
"Have to wash them. Hold on a minute, everything's full of
garbage." She went into the bathroom and continued to speak
from there. "If you turned out to be a teetotaler on top of
everything else. I don't know what I would do with you.... What
a pigsty he's got in his bathroom -- I love it! Where are you
staying? Here too?"
"No, in town," I replied. "On Second Waterway."
She came back with the glasses.
"Straight or with water?"
"Straight, I guess."
"All foreigners take it straight. But we have it with
water for some reason." She sat on my armchair and put her arms
around my shoulders. We drank and kissed without any feeling.
Her lips were heavily lipsticked, and her eyelids were heavy
from lack of sleep and fatigue. She put down her glass,
searched out another butt in the ashtray, and returned to the
hassock.
"Where is that Rimeyer?" she said. "After all, how long
can you wait for him? Have you known him a long time?"
"No, not very."
"I think maybe he is a louse," she said with sudden ire.
"He's dug everything out of me, and now he plays hard to get.
He doesn't open his door, the animal, and you can't get through
to him by phone. Say, he wouldn't be a spy, would he?"
"What do you mean, a spy?"
"Oh, there's loads of them.... From the Association for
Sobriety and Morality.... The Connoisseurs and Appraisers are
also a bad lot...."
"No, Rimeyer is a decent sort," I said with some effort.
"Decent... you are all decent. In the beginning, Rimeyer
too was decent, so good-natured and full of fun... and now he
looks at you like a croc."
"Poor fellow," I said. "He must have remembered his family
and become ashamed of himself."
"He doesn't have a family. Anyway, the heck with him! Have
another drink?"
We had another drink. She lay down and put her hands over
her head. Finally she spoke.
"Don't let it get to you. Spit on it! Wine we have enough
of, we'll dance, go to the shivers. Tomorrow there's a football
game, we'll bet on the Bulls."
"I am not letting it get to me. If you want to bet on the
Bulls, we'd bet on the Bulls."
"Oh those Bulls! They are some boys! I could watch them
forever, arms like iron, snuggling up against them is just like
snuggling against a tree trunk, really!"
There was a knock on the door.
"Come in!" yelled Ilina.
A man entered and stopped at once. He was tall and bony,
of middle age, with a brush mustache and light protruding eyes.
"I beg your pardon, I was looking for Rimeyer," he said.
"Everyone here wants to see Rimeyer," said Ilina. "Have a
chair and we'll all wait together."
The stranger bowed his head and sat down by the table,
crossing his legs.
Apparently he had been here before. He did not look
around, but stared at the wall directly in front of him.
However, perhaps he just was not a curious type. In any case,
it was clear that neither I nor Ilina was of any interest to
him. This seemed unnatural to me, since I felt that such a pair
as myself and Ilina should arouse interest in any normal
person. Ilina raised up on her elbow and scrutinized him in
detail.
"I have seen you somewhere," she said.
"Really?" said the stranger coldly.
"What's your name?"
"Oscar. I am Rimeyer's friend."
"That's fine," said Ilina. She was obviously irritated by
the stranger's indifference, but she kept herself in check.
"He's also a friend of Rimeyer." She stuck her finger at me.
"You know each other?"
"No," said. Oscar, continuing to look at the wall.
"My name is Ivan," said I. "And this is Rimeyer's friend,
Ilina. We just drank to our fraternal friendship."
Oscar glanced indifferently in Ilina's direction and
nodded his head politely. Ilina picked up the bottle without
taking her eyes off him.
"There's still a little left here," she said. "Would you
like a drink, Oscar?"
"No, thank you," he said, coldly.
"To fraternal friendship!" said Ilina. "No? You don't want
to? Too bad!"
She splashed some wine in my glass, poured the rest in
hers, and downed it at once.
"Never in my life would I have thought that Rimeyer could
have friends who refuse a drink. Still, I have seen you
somewhere before."
Oscar shrugged his shoulders.
"I doubt it," he said.
Ilina was visibly becoming enraged.
"Some sort of a fink," she said to me loudly. "Say there,
Oscar, you wouldn't be an Intel?"
"No."
"What do you mean, no?" said Ilina. "You're the one who
had a set-to with that baldy Leiz at the Weasel, broke a
mirror, and had your face slapped by Mody."
The stone visage of Oscar grew a shade pinker.
"I assure you," he said courteously, "I am not an Intel
and have never in my life been in the Weasel."
"Are you saying that I'm a liar?" said Ilina
At this point I took the bottle off the table and put it
under my armchair, just in case.
"I am a visitor," said Oscar. "A tourist."
"When did you arrive?" I said to discharge the tension.
"Very recently," replied Oscar. He continued to gaze at
the wall. Obviously here was a man with iron discipline.
"Oh, oh!" said Ilina suddenly. "Now I remember! I got it
all mixed up."
She burst out laughing, "Of course you're no Intel! You
were at our office the day before last. You're the salesman who
offered our manager some junk like... 'Dugong' or 'Dupont..."
"Devon," I prompted. "There is a repellent called Devon."
Oscar smiled for the first time.
"You are quite right, of course," he said. "But I am not a
salesman. I was only doing a favor for a relative."
"That's different," said Ilina and jumped up. "You should
have said so. Ivan, we all need to drink to a pledge of
friendship. I'll call... no, I'll go get it myself. You two can
have a talk, I'll be right back."
She ran out of the room, banging the door.
"A fun girl," said I.
"Yes, extremely. You live here?"
"No, I'm a traveler, too.... What a strange idea your
relative had!"
"What do you have in mind?"
"Who needs Devon in a resort town?"
Oscar shrugged.
"It's hard for me to judge; I'm no chemist. But you will
agree that it's hard for us to comprehend the actions of our
fellow men, much less their fancies.... So Devon turns out to
be - What did you call it, a res...?"
"Repellent," I said.
"That would be for mosquitoes?"
"Not so much for as against."
"I can see you are quite well up on it," said Oscar.
"I had occasion to use it."
"Well, well."
What the devil, thought I. What is he getting at? He was
no longer staring at the wall He was looking me straight in the
eyes and smiling. But if he was going to say something, it was
already said.
He got up.
"I don't think I'll wait any longer," he pronounced. "It
looks like I'll have to drink another pledge. But I didn't come
here to drink, I came here to get well. Please tell Rimeyer
that I will call him again tonight. You won't forget?"
"No," I said, "I won't forget. If I tell him that Oscar
was in to see him, he will know whom I am talking about?"
"Yes, of course. It's my real name."
He bowed, and walked out at a deliberate pace,
ramrod-straight and somehow unnatural-looking. I dipped my hand
in the ashtray, found a butt without lipstick, and inhaled
several times. I didn't like the taste and put out the stub. I
didn't like Oscar, either. Nor Ilina. And especially Rimeyer --
I didn't like him at all. I pawed through the bottles, but they
were all empty.
Chapter FOUR
In the end I didn't wait long enough to see Rimeyer. Ilina
never came back. Finally I got tired of sitting in the smoky,
stale atmosphere of the room and went down to the lobby. I
intended to have dinner and stopped to look around for a
restaurant. A porter immediately materialized at my side.
"At your service," he murmured discreetly. "An auto? Bar?
Restaurant? Salon?"
"What kind of salon?" I asked, my curiosity piqued.
"A hair-styling salon." He looked at my hairdo with
delicate concern. "Master Gaoway is receiving today. I
recommend him most strenuously."
I recollected that Ilina had called me a disheveled perch
and said, "Well, all right."
"Please follow me," said the porter.
Crossing the lobby, he opened a wide low door and said
into the spacious interior, "Excuse me, Master, you have a
client."
"Come in," replied a quiet voice.
I entered. The salon was light and airy and smelled
pleasantly. Everything in it shone -- the chrome, the mirrors,
the antique parquet floor. Shiny half-domes hung from the
ceiling on glistening rods. In the center stood a huge white
barber chair. The Master was advancing to meet me. He had
penetrating immobile eyes, a hooked nose, and a gray Van Dyke.
More than anything else he reminded me of a mature, experienced
surgeon. I greeted him with some timidity, He nodded and,
surveying me from head to foot, began to circle around me. I
began to feel uncomfortable.
"I would like you to bring me up to the current fashion,"
said I, trying not to let him out of my field of view.
But he restrained me gently by my sleeve and. stood
breathing softly behind my back for a few seconds. "No doubt!
No doubt at all", he murmured, then touched me lightly on my
shoulder. "Please," he said sternly, "take a few steps forward
-- five or six -- then turn abruptly to face me."
I obeyed. He regarded me pensively, pulling on his beard.
I thought he was hesitating.
"On the other hand," he said, "sit down."
"Where?" I said.
"In the chair, in the chair."
I lowered myself into its softness and watched him
approach me slowly. His intelligent face was suddenly suffused
with a look of profound chagrin.
"But how is such a thing possible?" he said. "It's
absolutely awful."
I couldn't find anything to say.
"Gross disharmony," he muttered. "Repulsive... repulsive."
"Is it really that bad?" I asked.
"I don't understand why you came to me," he said, "since
you obviously don't place any value at all on your appearance."
"I am beginning to, from this day on," I said.
He waved his hand.
"Never mind... I will work on you, but..." He shook his
head, turned impulsively, and went to a high table covered with
shiny devices. The back of the chair depressed smoothly, and I
found myself in a half-reclining position. A big hemisphere
descended toward me from above, radiating warmth, while
hundreds of tiny needles seemed to sink into the nape of my
neck, eliciting a strange combination of simultaneous pain and
pleasure.
"Is it gone yet?" he asked.
The sensation abated.
"It's gone," I said.
"Your skin is good," growled the Master with a certain
satisfaction.
He returned with an assortment of the most unlikely
instruments and proceeded to palpate my cheeks.
"And still Mirosa married him," he said suddenly. "I
expected anything and everything, except that. After all that
Levant had done for her. Do you remember that moment when they
were both weeping over the dying Pina? You could have bet
anything that they would be together forever. And now, imagine,
she is being wed to that literary fellow."
I have a rule: to pick up and sustain any conversation
that comes along. When you don't know what it's all about, this
can even be interesting.
"Not for long," I said with assurance. "Literary types are
very inconstant, I can assure you, being one myself."
For a moment his hands paused on my temples.
"That didn't enter my head," he admitted. "Still, it's
wedlock, even though only a civil one.... I must remember to
call my wife. She was very upset."
"I can sympathize with her," I said. "But it did always
seem to me that Levant was in love with that... Pina."
"In love?" exclaimed the Master, coming around from my
other side. "Of course he loved her! Madly! As only a lonely,
rejected-by-all man can love."
"And so it was quite natural that after the death of Pina,
he sought consolation with her best friend."
"Her bosom friend, yes," said the Master approvingly,
while tickling me behind the ear. "Mirosa adored Pina! It's a
very accurate term -- bosom friend! One senses a literary man
in you at once! And Pina, too, adored Mirosa."
"But, you notice," I picked up, "that. right from the
beginning Pina suspected that Mirosa was infatuated with
Levant."
"Well, of course! They are extremely sensitive about such
things. This was clear to everyone -- my wife noticed it at
once. I recollect that she would nudge me with her elbow each
time Pina alighted on Mirosa's tousled head, and so coyly and
expectantly looked at Levant."
This time I kept my peace.
"In general, I am profoundly convinced," he continued,
"that birds feel no less sensitively than people."
Aha, thought I, and said, "I don't know about birds in
general, but Pina was a lot more sensitive than let's say even
you or I."
Something bummed briefly over my head, and there was a
soft clink of metal.
"You speak like my wife, word for word," observed the
Master, "so you most probably must like Dan. I was overcome
when he was able to construct a bunkin for that Japanese
noblewoman... can't think of her name. After all, not one
person believed Dan. The Japanese king, himself..."
"I beg your pardon," I said. "A bunkin?"
"Yes, of course, you are not a specialist.... You remember
that moment when the Japanese noblewoman comes out of prison.
Her hair, in a high roller of blond hair, is ornamented with
precious combs..."
"Aah," I guessed. "It's a coiffure."
"Yes, it even became fashionable for a time last year.
Although a true bunkin could be made by a very few... even as a
real chignon, by the way. And, of course, no one could believe
that Dan, with his burned hands and half-blind .. Do you
remember how he was blinded?"
"It was overpowering," I said.
"Oh yes, Dan was a true Master. To make a bunkin without
electro-preparation, without biodevelopment... You know, I just
had a thought," he continued, and there was a note of
excitement in his voice. "It just struck me that Mirosa, after
she parts with that literary guy, should marry Dan and not
Levant. She will be wheeling him out on the veranda in his
chair, and they will be listening to the singing nightingales
in the moonlight -- the two of them together."
"And crying quietly out of sheer happiness," I said.
"Yes," the voice of the Master broke, "that would be only
right. Otherwise I just don't know, I just don't understand,
what all our struggles are for. No... we must insist. I'll go
to the union this very day...."
I kept quiet, again. The Master was breathing uneasily by
my ear.
"Let them go and shave at the automates," he said suddenly
in a vengeful tone, "let them look like plucked geese. We let
them have a taste once before of what it's like; now we'll see
how they appreciate it."
"I am afraid it won't be simple," I said cautiously, not
-- having the vaguest idea of what this was about.
"We Masters are used to the complicated. It's not all that
simple -- when a fat and sweaty stuffed shirt comes to you, and
you have to make a human being out of him, or at the very best,
something which under normal circumstances does not differ too
much from a human being... is that simple? Remember what Dan
said: 'Woman gives birth to a human being once in nine months,
but we Masters have to do it every day.' Aren't those
magnificent words?"
"Dan was talking about barbers?" I said, just in case.
"Dan was talking about Masters. 'The beauty of the world
rests on our shoulders,' he would say. And again, do you
remember: 'In order to make a man out of an ape, Darwin had to
be an excellent Master.'"
I decided to capitulate and confess.
"This I don't remember."
"How long have you been watching 'Rose of the Salon'?"
"Well, I have arrived just recently."
"Aah, then you have missed a lot. My wife and I have been
watching the program for seven years, every Tuesday. We missed
only one show; I had an attack and lost consciousness. But in
the whole town there is only one man who hasn't missed even one
show -- Master Mille at the Central Salon."
He moved off a few paces, turned various colored lights on
and off, and resumed his work.
"The seventh year," he repeated. "And now -- can you
imagine -- the year before last they kill off Mirosa and throw
Levant into a Japanese prison for life, while Dan is burned at
the stake. Can you visualize that?"
"It's impossible," I said. "Dan? At the stake? Although
it's true that they burned Bruno at the stake, too."
"It's possible," he said with impatience. "In any case, it
became clear to us that they want to fold up the program fast.
But we didn't put up with that. We declared a strike and
struggled for three weeks. Mille and I picketed the barber
automates. And let me tell you that quite a lot of the
townspeople sympathized with us."
"I should think so," I said. "And what happened? Did you
win?
"As you see. They grasped very well what was involved, and
now the TV center knows with whom they are dealing. We didn't
give one step, and if need be, we won't. Anyway we can rest on
Tuesdays now just like in the old days -- for real."
"And the other days?"
"The other days we wait for Tuesday and try to guess what
is awaiting us and what you literary fellows will do for us. We
guess and make bets -- although we Masters don't have much
leisure."
"You have a large clientele?"
"No, that's not it. I mean homework. It's not difficult to
become a Master, it's difficult to remain one. There is a mass
of literature, lots of new methods, new applications, and you
have to keep up with it all and constantly experiment,
investigate and keep track of allied fields -- bionics, plastic
medicine, organic medicine. And with time, you accumulate
experience, and you get the urge to share your knowledge. So
Mille and I are writing our second book, and practically every
month, we have to update the manuscript. Everything becomes
obsolete right before your eyes. I am now completing a treatise
on a little-known characteristic of the naturally straight
nonplastic hair; and do you know I have practically no chance
of being the first? In our country alone, I know of three
Masters who are occupied with the same subject. It's only to be
expected -- the naturally straight nonplastic hair is a real
problem. It's considered to be absolutely
nonaestheticizable.... However, this may not be of interest to
you? You are a writer?"
"Yes," I said.
"Well, you know, during the strike, I had a chance to run
through a novel. That would not be yours, by any chance?"
"I don't know," I said, "What was it about?"
"Well, I couldn't say exactly.... Son quarrels with
father. He has a friend, an unpleasant fellow with a strange
name. He occupies himself by cutting up frogs."
"Can't remember," I lied -- poor Ivan Sergeyevitch.
"I can't remember either. It was some sort of nonsense. I
have a son, but he never quarrels with me, and he never
tortures animals -- except perhaps when he was a child"
He backed away again and made a slow circuit around me.
His eyes were burning; he seemed to be very pleased.
"It looks as though we can stop here," he said.
I got out of the chair. "Not bad. Not bad at all,"
murmured the Master. I approached the mirror. He turned on
spotlights, which illuminated me from all sides so that there
were no shadows on my face.
In the first instant I did not notice anything unusual
about myself. It was my usual self. Then I felt that it was not
I at all. That it was something much better than I. A whole lot
better. Better looking than I. More benevolent than I.
Appreciably more significant than I. I experienced a sense of
shame, as though I were deliberately passing myself off as a
man to whom I couldn't hold a candle.
"How did you do this thing?" I said in a strangled tone.
"It's nothing," said the Master, smiling in a very special
way. "You turned out to be a fairly easy client, albeit quite
neglected."
I stood before the mirror like Narcissus and couldn't tear
myself away. Suddenly, I felt awed. The Master was a magician,
and an evil one at that, although he probably didn't realize it
himself. The mirror reflected an extremely attractive lie. An
intelligent, good-looking, monumental vapidity. Well, perhaps
not a total vacuum, for after all I didn't have that low an
opinion of myself. But the contrast was too great. All of my
inner world, everything I valued in myself -- all that could
just as well have not existed. It was no longer needed. I
looked at the Master. He was smiling.
"You have many clients?" I asked.
He did not grasp my meaning, but after all, I didn't
really want him to understand me.
"Don't worry," he replied, "I'll always work on you with
pleasure. The rawest material is the most intriguing."
"Thank you," said I, lowering my eyes so as not to see his
smile. "Thank you. Goodbye."
"Just don't forget to pay," he said placidly. "We Masters
value our work very highly."
"Yes, of course," I caught myself. "Naturally. How much do
I owe you?"
He stated how much I owed.
'What?" said I regaining my equilibrium.
He repeated with satisfaction.
"Madness", I said forthrightly.
"Such is the price of beauty," he explained. "You came
here as an ordinary tourist, and you are leaving a king of this
domain."
"An impersonator is what I am leaving as," I muttered,
extracting the money.
"No, no, not that bad!" he said confidentially. "Even I
don't know that for sure. And even you are not convinced of it
entirely.... Two more dollars, please. Thank you. Here is 50
pfennigs change. You don't mind pfennigs?"
I had nothing against pfennigs. I wanted to leave as fast
as possible.
I stood in the lobby for a while, becoming myself again,
and gazing at the metallic figure of Vladimir Sergeyevitch.
After all, all this is not new. After all, millions of people
are not what they pass themselves for. But the damnable barber
had made me over into an empiriocritic. Reality was masked with
gorgeous hieroglyphics. I no longer believed what I saw in this
city. The plaza covered with stereo-plastic was probably in
reality not beautiful at all. Under the elegant contours of the
autos lurked ominous and ugly shapes. And that beautiful
charming woman is no doubt in fact a repulsive malodorous
hyena, a promiscuous dull-witted sow. I closed my eyes and
shook my head. The old devil!
Two meticulously groomed oldsters stopped nearby and began
to debate heatedly the relative merits of baked pheasant
compared with pheasant broiled with feathers. They argued,
drooling saliva, smacking their lips and choking, snapping
their bony fingers under each other's noses. No Master could
help these two. They were Masters themselves and they made no
bones about it. At any rate, they restored my materialist
viewpoint. I went to a porter and inquired about a restaurant.
"Right in front of you," said he and smiled at the arguing
oldsters. "Any cuisine in the world."
I could have mistaken the entrance to the restaurant for
the gates to a botanical garden. I entered, parting the
branches of exotic trees, stepping alternately on soft grass
and coral flagstones. Unseen birds twittered in the luxuriant
greenery, and the discreet clatter of utensils was mixed with
the sound of conversation and laughter. A golden bird flew
right in front of my nose, barely able to carry the load of a
caviar tartine in its beak.
"I am at your service," said the deep velvety voice.
An imposing giant of a man with epaulettes stepped toward
me cut of a thicket.
"Dinner," I said curtly. I don't like maitres-d'hotel.
"Dinner," he said significantly. "In company? Separate
table?"'
"Separate table. On second thought..."
A notebook instantaneously appeared in his hand.
"A man of your age would be welcome at the table of
Mrs. and Miss Hamilton-Rey."
"Go on," I said.
"Father Geoffrois..."
"I would prefer an aborigine."
He turned the page.
"Opir, doctor of philosophy, just now has sat down at his
table."
"That's a possibility," said I.
He put away the book and led me along a path paved with
limestone slabs. Somewhere around us there were people eating,
talking, swishing seltzer. Hummingbirds darted like
multicolored bees in the leaves. The maitre-d'hotel inquired
respectfully, "How would you like to be introduced?"
"Ivan. Tourist and litterateur."
Doctor Opir was about fifty. I liked him at once because
he immediately and without any ceremony sent the maitre-d'hotel
packing after a waiter. He was pink and plump, and moved and
talked incessantly.
"Don't trouble yourself," he said when I reached. for the
menu. "It's all set already. Vodka, anchovies under egg -- we
call them pacifunties -- potato soup..."
"With sour cream," I interjected.
"Of course!... steamed sturgeon a la Astrakhan... a patty
of veal..."
"I would prefer pheasant baked in feathers."
"No -- don't; it's not the season... a slice of beef, eel
in sweet marinade."
"Coffee," I said.
"Cognac," he retorted.
"Coffee with cognac."
"All right, cognac and coffee with cognac. Some pale wine
with the fish and a good natural cigar."
Dinner with Doctor Opir turned out to be most congenial.
It was possible to eat, drink, and listen. Or not to listen.
Doctor Opir did not need a conversation. He required a
listener. I did not have to participate in the talking, I
didn't even supply any commentaries, while he orated with
enthusiastic delight, almost without interruption, waving his
fork, while plates and dishes nonetheless became empty in front
of him with mystifying speed. Never in my life have I met a man
who was so skilled in conversation while his mouth was so fully
packed and so busy masticating.
"Science! Her Majesty!" he exclaimed. "She matured long
and painfully, but her fruits turned out to be abundant and
sweet. Stop, Moment, you are beautiful! Hundreds of generations
were born, suffered, and died, and not one was impelled to
pronounce this incantation. We are singularly fortunate. We
were born in the greatest of epochs, the Epoch of the
Satisfaction of Desires. It may be that not everybody
understands this as yet, but ninety-nine percent of my fellow
citizens are already living in a world where, for all practical
purposes, a man can have all he can think of. O, Science! You
have finally freed mankind. You have given us and will
henceforth provide for us everything -- food -- wonderful food
-- clothing of the best quality and in any quantity, and to
suit any taste! -- shelter -- magnificent shelter. Love, joy,
satisfaction, and for those desiring it, for those who are
fatigued by happiness -- tears, sweet tears, little saving
sorrows, pleasant consoling worries which lend us significance
in our own eyes.... Yes, we philosophers have maligned science
long and angrily. We called forth Luddites, to break up
machines, we cursed Einstein, who changed our whole universe,
we vilified Wiener, who impugned our godlike essence. Well, so
we really lost that godlike substance. Science robbed us of it.
But in return! In return, it launched men to the feasting
tables of Olympus. Aha! Here is the potato soup, that heavenly
porridge. No, no, do as I do... take this spoon, a touch of
vinegar... a dash of pepper... with the other spoon, this one
here, dip some sour cream and... no, no... gently, gently mix
it.... This too is a science, one of the most ancient, older in
any cue than the ubiquitous synthetic.... By the way, don't
fail to visit our synthesizers, Amalthea's Horn, Inc. You
wouldn't be a chemist? Oh yes, you are a litterateur! You
should write about it, the greatest mystery of our times,
beefsteaks out of thin air, asparagus from clay, truffles from
sawdust.... What a pity that Malthus is dead'! The whole world
would be laughing at him! Of course, he had certain reasons for
his pessimism. I am prepared to agree with those who consider
him a genius. But he was too ill-informed, he completely missed
the possibilities in the natural sciences. He was one of those
unlucky geniuses who discover laws of social development
precisely at that moment when these laws cease to operate. I am
genuinely sorry for him. The whole of humanity was but billions
of hungrily gaping mouths to him. He must have lost sleep from
the sheer horror of it. It is a truly monstrous nightmare -- a
billion gaping maws and not one head. I turned back and see
with bitterness how blind they were, the shakers of souls and
the masters of the minds of the recent past. Their awareness
was dimmed by unbroken horror. Social Darwinists! They saw only
the press of the struggle for survival: mobs of hunger-crazed
people, tearing each other to pieces for a place in the sun, as
though there was only that one single place, as though the sun
wasn't sufficient for all! And Nietzsche... maybe he was
suitable for the hungry slaves of the Pharaohs' times, with his
ominous sermons about the master race, with his supermen beyond
good and evil... who needs to be beyond now? It's not so bad on
this side, don't you suppose? There were, of course, Marx and
Freud. Marx, for example, was the first to understand that it
all depended on economics. He understood that to rip the
economics out of the hands of greedy nincompoops and
fetishists, to make it part of the state, to develop it
limitlessly, was the very way to lay the foundations of a
Golden Age. And Freud showed us for what, after all, we needed
this Golden Age. Recollect the source of all human misery.
Unsatisfied instincts, unrequited love, and unsated hunger --
isn't that right? But here comes Her Majesty, Science, and
presents us with satisfactions. And how rapidly all this has
come to pass! The names of gloomy prognosticators are not yet
forgotten, and already... How do you like the sturgeon? I am
under the impression that the sauce is synthetic. Do you see
the pinkish tint? Yes, it is synthetic. In a restaurant we
should be able to expect natural sauce. Waiter! On second
thought -- the devil take it, let's not be so finicky. Go on,
go on... Now what was I saying? Yes! Love and hunger. Satisfy
love and hunger, and you'll see a happy man. On condition, of
course, that your man is secure about the next day. All the
utopias of all times are based on this simplest of
considerations. Free a man of the worry about his daily bread
and about the morrow, and he will become truly free and happy.
I am deeply convinced that children, yes, precisely the
children, are man's ideal. I see the most profound meaning in
the remarkable similarity between a child and the carefree man
who is the object of utopia. Carefree means happy -- and we are
so close to that ideal! Another few decades, or maybe just a
few more years, and we will attain the automated plenty, we
will discard science as a healed man discards his crutches, and
the whole of mankind will become one huge happy family of
children. The adults will be distinguished from the children
only by their ability to love, and this ability will, again
with the help of science, become the source of new and
unheard-of joys and pleasures.... Excuse me, what is your name?
Ivan? So, you must be from Russia. Communist? Aha... well,
everything is different there I know.... And here is the
coffee! Mm, not bad. But where is the cognac? Well, thank you!
By the way, I hear that the Great Wine Taster has retired. The
most grandiose scandal befell at the Brussels contest of
cognacs, which was suppressed only with the greatest of
difficulties. The Grand Prix is awarded to the White Centaur
brand. The jury is delighted! It is something totally
unprecedented! Such a phenomenal extravaganza of sensations!
The declaratory packet is opened, and, oh horrors, it's a
synthetic! The Great Wine Taster turned as white as a sheet of
paper and was physically ill. By the way, I had an opportunity
to try this cognac, and it's really superb, but they run it
from crude and it doesn't even have a proper name. H ex
eighteen naphtha fraction and it's cheaper than hydrolyzed
alcohol.... Have a cigar. Nonsense, what do you mean you don't
smoke? It's not right not to have a cigar after a dinner like
this.... I love this restaurant. Every time I come here to
lecture at the university, I dine at the Olympic. And before
returning, I invariably visit the Tavern. True, they don't have
the greenery, nor the tropical birds, and it's a bit stuffy and
warm and smells of smoke, but they have a genuine, inimitable
cuisine. The Assiduous Tasters gather nowhere but there -- at
the Gourmet. In that place you do nothing but eat. You can't
talk, you can't laugh, it's totally nonsensical to go there
with a woman -- you only eat there! Slowly, thoughtfully..."
Doctor Opir finally ran down, leaned back in his chair,
and inhaled deeply with total enjoyment. I sucked on the mighty
cigar and contemplated the man. I had him well pegged, this
doctor of philosophy. Always and in all times there have been
such men, absolutely pleased with their situation in society
and therefore absolutely satisfied with the condition of that
society. A marvelously well-geared tongue and a lively pen,
magnificent teeth and faultless innards, and a well-employed
sexual apparatus.
"And so the world is beautiful, Doctor?"
"Yes," said the doctor with feeling, "it is finally
beautiful."
"You are a gigantic optimist," said I.
"Our time is the time of optimists. Pessimists go to the
Good Mood Salon, void the gall from their subconscious, and
become optimists. The time of pessimists has passed, just as
the time of tuberculars, of sexual maniacs, and of the military
has passed. Pessimism, as an intellectual emotion, is being
extirpated by that self-same science. And that not indirectly
through the creation of affluence, but concretely by way of
invasion of the dark world of the subcortex. Let's take the
dream generator, currently the most popular diversion of the
masses. It is completely harmless, unusually well adopted to
general use, and is structurally simple. Or consider the
neurostimulators...."
I attempted to steer him into the desired channel.
"Doesn't it seem to you that right there in the
pharmaceutical field science is overdoing it a bit sometimes?"
Doctor Opir smiled condescendingly and sniffed at his
cigar.
"Science has always moved by trial and error," he said
weightily. "And I am inclined to believe that the so-called
errors are always the result of criminal application. We
haven't yet entered the Golden Age, we are just in the process
of doing so, and all kinds of throwbacks, mobsters, and just
plain dirt are under foot. So all kinds of drugs are put out
which are health-destroying, but which are created, as you
know, from the best of motives; all kinds of aromatics ... or
this... well, that doesn't suit a dinner conversation." He
cackled suddenly and obscenely "You can guess my meaning -- we
are mature people! What was I saying? Oh yes, all this
shouldn't disturb you. It will pass just like the atom bombs."
"I only wanted to emphasize," I remarked, "that there is
still the problem of alcoholism, and the problem of narcotics."
Doctor Opir's interest in the conversation was visibly
ebbing. Apparently he imagined that I challenged his thesis
that science is a boon. To conduct an argument on this basis
naturally bored him, as though, for instance, he had been
affirming the salubriousness of ocean swimming and I was
contradicting him on the basis that I had almost drowned last
year.
"Well, of course..." he mumbled, studying his watch, "we
can't have it all at once.... You must admit, after all, that
it is the basic trend which is the most important.... Waiter!"
Doctor Opir had eaten well, had a good conversation --
professing progressive philosophy -- felt well-satisfied, and I
decided not to press the matter, especially as I really didn't
give a hang about his progressive philosophy, while in the
matters which interested me the most, he probably would not be
concretely informed at all in the final analysis.
We paid up and went out of the restaurant. I inquired, "Do
you ]mow, Doctor, whose monument that is? Over there on the
plaza."
Doctor Opir gazed absent-mindedly. "Sure enough, it's a
monument," he said. "Somehow I overlooked it before.... Shall I
drop you somewhere?"
"Thank you, I prefer to walk."
"In that case, goodbye. It was a pleasure to meet you....
Of course it's hard to expect to convince you." He grimaced,
shifting a toothpick around his mouth. "But it would be
interesting to try. Perhaps you will attend my lecture? I begin
tomorrow at ten."
"Thank you," I said. "What is your topic?"
"Neo-optimist Philosophy. I will be sure to touch upon a
series of questions which we have so pithily discussed today."
"Thank you," I said again. "Most assuredly."
I watched as he went to his long automobile, collapsed in
the seat, puttered with the auto-driver control, fell back
against the seat back, and apparently dozed off instantly. The
car began to roll cautiously across the plaza and disappeared
in the shade and greenery of a side street.
Neo-optimism... Neo-hedonism... Neo-cretinism...
Neo-capitalism... "No evil without good," said the fox. So, I
have landed in the Country of the Boobs. It should he recorded
that the ratio of congenital fools does not vary as a function
of time. It should be interesting to determine what is
happening to the percentage of fools by conviction. Curious --
who assigned the title of Doctor to him? He is not the only
one! There must have been a whole flock of doctors who
ceremoniously granted that title to Neo-optimist Opir. However,
this occurs not only among philosophers.
I saw Rimeyer come into the hall and forgot Doctor Opir at
once. The suit hung on Rimeyer like a sack. Rimeyer stooped,
and his face was flabby. I thought he wavered in his walk. He
approached the elevator and I caught him by the sleeve there.
He jumped violently and turned on me.
"What in hell?" he said. He was clearly unhappy to see me.
"Why are you still here?"
"I waited for you."
"Didn't I tell you to come tomorrow at noon?"
"What's the difference?" I said. "Why waste time?"
He looked at me, breathing laboriously.
"I am expected. A man is waiting for me in my room, and he
must not see you with me. Do you understand?"
"Don't shout," I said. "People are noticing."
Rimeyer glanced sideways with watery eyes.
"Go in the elevator," he said.
We entered and he pressed the button for the fifteenth
floor.
"Get on with your business quickly," he said.
The order was startlingly stupid, so that I was
momentarily disoriented.
"You mean to say that you don't know why I am here?"
He rubbed his forehead, and then said, "Hell, everything's
mixed up.... Listen, I forgot, what is your name?"
"Zhilin."
"Listen, Zhilin, I have nothing new for you. I didn't have
time to attend to that business. It's all a dream, do you
understand? Matia's inventions. They sit there, writing papers,
and invent. They should all be pitched the hell out."
We arrived at the fifteenth floor and he pressed the
button for the first.
"Devil take it," he said. "Five more minutes and he'll
leave.... In general I am convinced of one thing, there is
nothing to it. Not in this town, in any case." He looked at me
surreptitiously, and turned his eyes away. "Here is something I
can tell you. Look in at the Fishers. Just like that, to clear
your conscience."
"The Fishers? What Fishers?"
"You'll find out for yourself," he said impatiently. "But
don't get tricky with them. Do everything they ask." Then, as
though defending himself, he added, "I don't want any
preconceptions, you understand."
The elevator stopped at the first floor and he signaled
for the ninth.
"That's it," he said. "Then we'll meet and talk in detail.
Let's say tomorrow at noon."
"All right," I said slowly. He obviously did not want to
talk to me. Maybe he didn't trust me. Well, it happens!
"By the way," I said, "you have been visited by a certain
Oscar."
It seemed to me that he started.
"Did he see you?"
"Naturally. He asked me to tell you that he will be
calling tonight."
"That's bad, devil take it, bad...." muttered Rimeyer.
"Listen... damn, what is your name?"
"Zhilin."
The elevator stopped.
"Listen, Zhilin, it's very bad that he has seen you....
However, what the hell is the difference. I must go now." Re
opened the elevator door, "Tomorrow we'll have a real good
talk, okay? Tomorrow... and you look in on the Fishers. Is that
a deal?"
He slammed the door with all his strength.
"Where will I look for them?" I asked.
I stood awhile, looking after him. He was almost running,
receding down the corridor with erratic steps.
Chapter FIVE
I walked slowly, keeping to the shade of the trees. Now
and then a car rolled by. One of these stopped and the driver
threw open the door, leaned out, and vomited on the pavement.
He cursed weakly, wiped his mouth with his palm, slammed the
door, and drove off. He was on the elderly side, red-faced,
wearing a loud shirt with nothing under it.
Rimeyer apparently had turned into a drunkard. This
happens fairly often: a man tries hard, works hard, is
considered a valuable contributor, he is listened to and made
out as a model, but just when he is needed for a concrete task,
it suddenly turns out that he has grown puffy and flabby, that
wenches are running in and out of his place, and that he smells
of vodka from early morning.... Your business does not interest
him, while at the same time, he is frightfully busy, is
constantly meeting someone, talks confusingly and murkily, and
is of no help whatsoever. And then he turns up in the alcoholic
ward, or a mental clinic, or is involved in a legal process. Or
he gets married unexpectedly -- strangely and ineptly -- and
this marriage smells strongly of blackmail. ... One can only
comment: "Physician, heal thyself."
It would still be nice to hunt up Peck. Peck is hard as
flint, honest, and he always knows everything. You haven't even
finished the rundown on the tech control, and haven't had a
chance to get off the ship, before he is buddy-buddy with the
cook, is already fully informed and involved in the
investigation of the dispute between the Commander of the
Pathfinders and the chief engineer, who didn't settle the
matter of some prize; the technicians are already planning an
evening in his honor, and the deputy director is listening to
his advice in a quiet corner... Priceless Peck! He was born in
this city and has spent a third of his life here.
I found a telephone booth, and rang information for Peck
Xenai's number and address. I was asked to wait. As usual, the
booth smelled of cats. The plastic shelf was covered with
telephone numbers and obscene images. Someone had carved quite
deeply, as with a knife, the strange word "SLUG." I opened the
door, to lighten the string atmosphere, and watched the
opposite shady side of the street, where a barman stood in
front of his establishment in a white jacket with rolled-up
sleeves, smoking a cigarette. Then I was told that according to
the data at the beginning of the year, Peck resided at No. 31
Liberty Street, number 11-331. I thanked the operator and
dialed the number at once. A strange voice told me that I had a
wrong number. Yes, the number was correct, and so was the
address, but no Peck lived there, and if he had, they didn't
know when he left or where he had gone. I hung up, left the
booth, and crossed the street to the shady side.
Catching my eye, the barman came to life and said from
afar, "Come in, why don't you?"
"Don't know that I'd like to," I said.
"So you won't be friendly, eh?" he said. "Come in anyway.
We'll have a talk. I feel bored."
I stopped.
"Tomorrow morning," I said, "at ten o'clock, at the
university, there will be a philosophy lecture on Neo-optimism.
It will be given by the renowned Doctor Opir from the capital.
The barman listened with avid interest -- he even stopped
inhaling.
"How do you like that!" he said. "So they have come to
that! The day before yesterday, they chased all the girls out
of a night club, and now they'll be having lectures. We'll show
them lectures!"
"It's about time," I said.
"I don't let them in," he continued, getting more
animated. "I have a sharp eye for them. A guy could be just
approaching the door, when I can spot him for an Intel
'Fellows,' I say, 'an Intel is coming.' And the boys are all
well picked; Dodd himself is here every night after training.
So, he gets up and meets this Intel at the door, and I don't
even know what goes on between them, but be passes him on
elsewhere. Although it's true that sometimes they travel in
bunches. In that case, so there wouldn't be a to-do, we lock
the door -- let them knock. That's the right way, isn't it?"
'That's okay by me," I said. I had had enough of him.
There are people who pall unusually quickly. "Let them."
"What do you mean -- let them?"
"Let them knock. In other words, knock on any door."
The barman looked at me with growing alertness.
"What say you move on," he said.
"How about a quick one," I offered.
"Move along, move along," he said. "You won't get served
here."
We looked at each other awhile,, then he growled
something, backed up, and slid the glass door in front of him.
"I am no Intel," I said. "I am a poor tourist. A rich
one."
He looked at me w
