The Final Circle of Paradise

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 with his nose flattened against the glass.

I made a motion as though knocking a drink back. Re mumbled something and went back into the darkness of the place — I could see him wandering aimlessly among empty tables. The place was called the Smile. I smiled and went on.

Around the corner was a wide main thoroughfare. A huge van, plastered with advertisements, was parked by the curb. Its back was swung down for a counter, on which were piled mountains of cans, bottles, toys, and stacks of cellophane-wrapped clothing and underwear. Two teenage girls twittered some sort of nonsense while selecting blouses.

“Pho-o-ny,” squeaked one. The other, turning the blouse this way and that, replied, “Spangles, spangles and not phony.”

“Here by the neck it phonies.”

“Spangles.”

“Even the star doesn’t glimmer.”

The driver of the van, a gaunt man with huge, horn-rimmed dark glasses, sat on the step of the advertising rotunda. His eyes were not visible, but, judging by his relaxed mouth and sweat-beaded nose, he was asleep. I approached the counter. The girls stopped talking and stared at me with parted mouths. They must have been about sixteen, and their eyes were vacant and blue, like those of young kittens.

“Spangles,” I said. “No phonying and lots of sparkle.”

“And around the neck?” asked the one who was trying on the blouse.

“Around the neck it’s practically a masterpiece.”

“Spangles,” said the other uncertainly.

“OK, let’s look at another one,” offered the first peacefully. “This one here.”

“This one is better, the silvery one with the frame.”

I saw books. They were magnificent books. There was a Strogoff with such illustrations as I had never even heard of. There was Change of Dream with an introduction by Saroyan. There was a Walter Mintz in three volumes. There was almost an entire Faulkner, The New Politics by Weber, Poles of Magnificence by Ignatova, The Unpublished Sian She-Cuey, History of Fascism in the “Memory of Mankind” edition. There were current magazines, and almanacs, pocket Louvres, Hermitage, and Vatican. There was everything!

“It phonies too but it has a frame.” “Spangles.” I grabbed the Mintz. Holding the two volumes under my arm, I opened the third. Never have I seen such a complete Mintz. There were even the émigré letters.

“How much will that be?” I called.

The girls gaped again; the driver sucked in his lips and sat up.

“What?” he said huskily.

“Who is the owner here?” I said.

He got up and came to me.

“What would you like?”

“I want this Mintz. How much is it?”

The girls giggled. He stared at me in silence, then removed his glasses.

“You are a foreigner?”

“Yes, I am a tourist.”

“It’s the most complete Mintz.”

“Of course, I can see that. I was stunned when I saw it.”

“Me too,” he said, “when I saw what you were after.”

“He is a tourist,” twittered one of the girls. “He doesn’t understand.”

“It’s all free,” said the driver. “Personal needs fund. To take care of personal needs.”

I looked back at the bookshelf.

“Did you see Change of Dream?” asked the driver.

“Yes, thank you, I have it.”

“About Strogoff I will not even inquire.”

“How about the History of Fascism?”

“An excellent edition.”

The girls giggled again. The driver’s eyes popped in sudden wrath.

“Scram, snot faces,” he barked.

The girls jumped. One of them thievishly grabbed several blouse packages. They ran across the street, where they stopped and continued to gaze at us.

“With frames!” said the driver. His thin lips twitched. “I should drop this whole idea. Where do you live?”

“On Second Waterway.”

“Aha, in the thick of the mire… Let’s go — I will drop you off. I have a complete Schedrin in the van, which I don’t even exhibit; I have the entire classics library; the whole Golden Library, the complete Treasures of Philosophic Thought.”

“Including Doctor Opir’s?”

“Bitch tripe,” said the driver. “Salacious bum! Amoeba!

Rut do you know Sliy?”

“Not much,” I said. “I don’t like him. Neo-individualism, as Doctor Opir would say.”

“Doctor Opir stinks,” said the driver. “While Sliy is a real man. Of course, there is the individualism. But at least he says what he thinks and does what he says. I’ll get some Sliy for you… Listen, did you see this? And this!”

He dug himself up to his elbows in books. He stroked them tenderly and his face shone with rapture.

“And this,” he kept on. “And how about this Cervantes?”

An oldish lady of imposing bearing approached and started to pick over the canned goods.

“You still don’t have Danish pickles… didn’t I ask you to get some?”

“Go to hell,” said the driver absent-mindedly.

The woman was stunned. Her face slowly turned crimson.

“How dare you!” she hissed.

The driver looked at her bullishly.

“You heard what I said. Get out of here!”

“Don’t you dare!” said the woman. “What is your number?”

“My number is ninety-three,” said the driver, “Ninety-three — is that clear enough? And I spit on all of you. Is that clear? Any other questions?”

“What a hooliganism!” said the woman with dignity. She took two cans of delicacies, scanned the counter, and with great precision, ripped the cover off the Cosmic Man magazine. “I’ll remember you, number ninety-three! These aren’t the old times for you.” She wrapped the two cans in the cover.

“We’ll see each other in the municipal court.”

I took a firm hold on the driver’s arm. His rigid muscles gradually relaxed.

“The nerve!” said she majestically and departed.

She stepped along the sidewalk, proudly carrying her handsome head, which was topped with a high cylindrical coiffure. She stopped at the corner, opened one of the cans, and proceeded to pick out chunks with elegant fingers.

I released the driver’s arm.

“They ought to be shot,” he said suddenly. “We ought to strangle them instead of dispensing pretty books to them.” He turned toward me, and I could see his eyes were tortured.

“Shall I deliver your books?”

“Well, no,” I said. “Where will I put them?”

“In that case, shove off,” said the driver. “Did you take your Mintz? Then go and wrap your dirty pantaloons in it.”

He climbed up into the cab. Something clicked and the back door began to rise. You could hear everything crashing and rolling inside the van. Several books and some shiny packets, boxes, and cans fell on the pavement. The rear panel had not yet closed completely when the driver shut his door and the van took off with a jerk.

The girls had already disappeared. I stood alone on the empty street and watched the wind lazily turn the pages of History of Fascism at my feet. Later a gang of kids in striped shorts came around the corner. They walked by silently, hands stuck in their pockets. One jumped down on the pavement and began to kick a can of pineapple, with a slick pretty cover, like a football down the street.