Travels in Nihilon

Chapter 13

Benjamin, having lost a litre of blood, a complete repair kit, and his windscreen, was at least glad to know that all formalities were at last behind him, and that he was now well and truly inside Nihilon. Experience with other countries told him that the worst was over, as he took a large bar of chocolate from the glove-box and ate it as if it were meat. This immediately made him feel better, and he decided to get as far into the country as he could before nightfall.

The road climbed in hairpin curves towards a pass, which he could see ahead, formed by two enormous jutting walls of mountain. The cold Alpine air flowed icily into his car, so he stopped by the roadside to put on a leather trench-coat, thick scarf, and woollen hat, cursing the customs bandits for the loss of his windscreen, which both cut down his speed and made him cold.

Beyond the pass the road became a mere trail of mud and broken rocks, with tree trunks sometimes laid across, low down in the ground, so that riding over them was designed to corrugate his backbone. As if to mock him, traffic signs put the speed limit at a hundred kilometres per hour. Perhaps this deception, and such broken routes, were meant as obstacles to any Cronacian incursion, though he couldn’t see them doing the tourist trade much good.

Grey crags of cloud flew low across the sky, and spots of rain flicked into his cheeks and forehead. When the road inexplicably improved to a narrow but perfect surface, the speed-sign indicated only twenty kilometres per hour, but he decided to ignore this piece of Nihilonian mockery, and geared his engine up to a smooth sixty. Therefore, he did not see the deep trench splitting the road. Taken too fast, the jolt was almost hard enough to snap head from shoulders, and but for the miraculous suspension of his Thundercloud Estate car, he would have proceeded into Nether Nihilon on foot, if not on a stretcher.

He passed a roadmender’s house, with several modern highway construction machines rusting outside, and a score of ragged children clambering happily over them. A circle of men sat on chairs, engrossed in some primitive gambling game. One knocked out his pipe on a pile of road signs, and waved at Benjamin as he went by.

Around the next bend, at the edge of a flat upland zone, was a garage. A prominent poster advertised in several languages that windscreens were for sale, so Benjamin thought he would attempt to buy one.

The service station was a group of large sheds set back from the road, with a single petrol pump at the exit end, towards which he drove his car. A sheet of cardboard fastened to the pump with a piece of string had: DO SMOKE written on it, which pleased him because he wouldn’t have to put out his cigar. Beyond the sheds were fields and gardens, in which young men and women were toiling.

A young garage proprietor of medium height, wearing rimless spectacles above pimpled cheeks, smartly dressed in a pin-striped suit, his fat neck held together by a white shirt-collar and sober grey tie, a ring on his left middle finger, a clipboard in one hand and a pen in the other, an expression of worried concern on his face, whose blue eyes and brown wavy hair nevertheless reflected an inspired blaze of commerce, walked towards him in bare feet, and leaned against the car door to ask how many windscreens he wanted.

‘Only one,’ said Benjamin. ‘I don’t wipe my nose on them.’

‘My customers usually buy six, sir.’

‘I’ve got one car,’ Benjamin retorted, restarting his engine and ready to leave, ‘not six. If you won’t sell me one I’ll go to the next garage.’

The proprietor stepped away for fear the wheels should run over his bare feet. ‘I didn’t say I wouldn’t sell you one.’

‘But you started to argue,’ Benjamin shouted, ‘and I’m tired of arguing in this damned country. All I want is a new windscreen, and if you haven’t got one, say so.’

‘Will you be needing any petrol sir?’ he asked, as if no exchange had so far taken place.

He got out of the car. ‘No, I don’t want petrol. Just a windscreen. All right?’

‘Tyres?’

‘No tyres. How long will it take to fix the windscreen?’

‘Not long at all. Oil?’

‘No. Can I get coffee, or food?’

He pointed to an adjoining hut. ‘What about a new fanbelt? Things get more expensive further on, as well as non-existent.’

Benjamin loomed against him, accidentally treading on one of his bare feet so that the young man sprang back with pain: ‘That’s why I don’t wear shoes. Everyone gets angry with me, and so my shoes get all dirty and ruined. It’s better to get my feet hurt. At least that’s what I tell myself when I’m being reasonable about it beforehand.’

‘You shouldn’t run such a cheating scheme,’ Benjamin said, though sorry for him.

‘What else can I do?’ the man cried. ‘Our regular customers never pay their bills, so we have to earn money somehow. What profit we make comes from selling windscreens to foreigners, but we pay a lot of it to the savage, rapacious, extortionate customs men. That’s why I’d like you to kindly buy at least six windscreens, otherwise we shan’t even cover our running costs this month. You can strap them on your luggage rack, and perhaps sell them at a profit in the interior.’ He ran across the space between the car and the nearest hut, as Benjamin prised a muddy stone loose to throw at him: ‘No, please, my suit!’

‘If my windscreen isn’t repaired by the time I get back from coffee,’ Benjamin called out, ‘I’ll throw a match into your petrol pump and blow it sky-high like a true Nihilist.’

The café was ruthlessly clean, and a shining coffee-machine hissed at the far end of the counter. A little old man attended to it, and as soon as Benjamin entered he put a large cup under one of the taps. ‘Not very busy today?’ Benjamin said, affably.

The man came over with his coffee, carrying the cup in his hand without a saucer. ‘It’s a pity you can’t even rely on a foreigner to be polite these days. I hate spite. It’s the one quality of human nature that really angers me. I can always do without it.’

‘If you aren’t careful,’ Benjamin laughed, ‘I’ll use a bit of subtle irony.’

‘It’s easy to see,’ sneered the old man, ‘that someone like you wouldn’t think twice about it. You haven’t even tasted the coffee, and you’re already making threatening remarks.’

He sipped it. ‘You’ve put in too much acorn-dust, you senile cheat.’

The old man smiled in triumph at having been caught out. ‘Yes, but not enough. Next time I’ll put all ground acorn in, since you’re so objectionable.’

‘I asked for coffee, though. Aren’t you ashamed?’

‘Shame is only for those who want to make an honest living,’ said the old man. ‘Cheating is normal and natural, so why should I be ashamed of that? Cheating is good commerce, and to cheat a foreigner is even better: it’s patriotic.’

‘I thought there was no patriotism in Nihilon.’

‘There is against foreigners. But Nihilists don’t need it. We get on very well among ourselves. I’ve got to go back to my coffee-machine now, so when you’ve finished you can come up to the counter and pay me.’

Benjamin was beginning to feel at home in Nihilon, easily able to fend for himself against the ill-tempered peremptory barefaced extortion. He saw a leaflet on the table entitled Instructions for Motorists in Nihilon, and read it:

‘1) All motorists are warned that they are not permitted to drive unless drunk. The importance of this rule cannot be too highly emphasized, and it is brought to the notice of tourists that highway police on motorcycles make frequent checks to ensure that the tourist has enough alcohol to drink. Police are equipped with breathing apparatus which registers the alcoholic content of their blood, and should this turn out to be negative, they are immediately constrained to drink a quantity of alcohol from the miniature sidecar-bowser attached to the highway policeman’s motorbicycle. Needless to say, the motorist will be called upon to pay for the amount of drink consumed (generally the finest quality Nihilitz) at the current commercial rates. All motorists, properly drunk and driving, must carry at least one bottle of Nihilitz in their car, to be presented on request to any highway policeman who demands it.

‘2) Motorists caught driving on the right side of the road will be fined three hundred krats — krats being the currency at present in mode with the highway police. If the traveller does not have any krats with which to pay his fine, the police will oblige by changing his money at an appropriate rate. The right side of the road is that which causes you to encounter other traffic on the same side coming towards you from the opposite direction.

‘3) Anti-social motorists caught in possession of driving licences or insurance documents will be contravening the Highway Code, and will be thrown into prison until tried in a court of law.

‘4) No motorist will be in possession of repair or tool kits. There are numerous garages and service stations in Nihilon, staffed by competent mechanics. Anyone caught repairing his car by the roadside shall be condemned to have his vehicle broken up before his own eyes by a competent mechanic, and at the motorist’s expense.

‘5) All motor vehicles of whatever description shall conform to Nihilonian lighting regulations — that is to say, that one front headlight shall be red, and the other blue. This matter must be attended to at the nearest service station, which work will be completed at the official tariff price.

‘6) The export of all cars from Nihilon is absolutely prohibited. This rule need not worry foreign motorists, however, as dealers waiting at each exit-point of the frontier will be sure to pay a fair price for your vehicle.

‘7) Motorists are kindly requested to exceed the speed limit, especially in villages and built-up areas. In case of accident to a pedestrian, the motorist should obtain the signature of the doctor and the victim’s next-of-kin in order to confirm it, and to state whether the victim is only slightly injured, seriously injured, dangerously ill but likely to recover, or dead. Points will be awarded to the motorist, and at the end of his trip the total score will be added up by the policeman on duty at the frontier, to see if the drive can qualify for the Most Deadly Motorist of the Year Award. The first prize is a fortnight at our luxurious beach-resort of Troser, with three eighteen-year-old nubile girls over which he has absolute control.

‘8) Happy motoring, motorist!’

Benjamin put down the leaflet with feelings of intense disapproval, knowing again how right he had been to spend part of his youth trying to prevent this vile system of nihilism from blasting the fair fields of Damascony — renamed Nihilon. The old waiter put a large bottle of Nihilitz on his table. ‘Take it back,’ said Benjamin, ‘I don’t want it.’

‘I know my Highway Code as well as you do,’ said the man.

‘I’m drunk already,’ he exclaimed, spitting in his empty cup and throwing a few klipps down, ‘on this rotten Nihilonian air, and acorn coffee.’

‘It’s not enough,’ screamed the old man, but Benjamin picked up the bottle and walked outside.

A mechanic was polishing his new windscreen: ‘She’s all ready, sir.’

‘How much?’

‘The manager’s coming now, sir,’ said the mechanic, running to the safety of a shed. Benjamin saw the revolver half-concealed under the clipboard that the manager carried, and, in spite of his smiling face, guessed that he would use it in claiming for the new windscreen some preposterous price that he’d not otherwise be able to get.

He sprang to his car and started the engine. A bullet whizzed through the open window, fired by the manager who crouched barefoot by the door of his office.

Benjamin grabbed his own revolver from the glove-box and fired three quick shots, sending the manager back under cover. There was a pause in the battle, while he drove to the far end of the asphalt, then stopped, but left his engine still running. When he leaned out of the other window to see what was happening, a bullet shattered his back window and buried itself among the luggage. Another shot passed close to the top of his head, and made a neat but large hole in the newly installed windscreen.

Benjamin leapt out and crouched on the ground, setting his sights at a drum of petrol resting near the pump. A deep and fearful rage clarified his aim, and he emptied his revolver, then got back speedily into the car. The garage manager and his attendants, mechanics, and clerks, as well as the old man from the coffee shop, began running for safety across the open fields.

His rear mirrors turned orange, as if the sun itself were exploding. Pumps, storage tanks, and shed after shed went showering and billowing into the air, and as he drove along the road he didn’t bother to wonder whether he was on the right or the wrong side of it, for the sound of explosions still going on behind made him more drunk than could any Nihilitz.