The Final Circle of Paradise Read online

  The Final Circle of Paradise

  Arkady Strugatsky

  Boris Strugatsky

  FLAWED UTOPIA

  When Ivan Zhilin, interplanetary engineer, returned after years of space work, he wanted a quiet vacation on some sunny restful spot on Earth. At first it seemed he had found the place—a charming seaside city in a “liberated” country.

  But somehow, since his long sojourn in far orbits, things had subtly gone wrong. He got disquieting hints of irrational actions, of secret societies of a destructive nature, of events of mass madness… and a constant reference to a mysterious product available only through the “right” connections.

  When he pursued the enigmas, he found himself projected into THE FINAL CIRCLE OF PARADISE—the ultimate electronic “high”.

  It’s unusual and thought-provoking novel by the talented authors of HARD TO BE GOD. Never before translated, this is truly a DAW international event!

  — DAW DISCOVERY—

  Arkady & Boris Strugatsky

  THE FINAL CIRCLE OF PARADISE

  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?”r />
  “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.”