The Final Circle of Paradise Read online

  She was not in the least startled.

  “You don’t say!” she exclaimed. “Can it be my watch is so slow?”

  It was the very same woman who had the altercation with the van driver, but of course she did not recognize me. Women with such disdainful-looking lower lips never remember chance meetings. I took her by the arm, and we mounted the wide stone steps. The door turned out to be as heavy as a reactor-well cover. There was no one in the entrance hall. The woman, without turning, flung the cloak on my arm and went ahead, and I paused for a second to look at myself in the huge mirror.

  Good man, Master Gaoway, but it still behooved me to stay in the shadows. We entered the ballroom.

  No, this was anything but a subway. The room was enormous and incredibly old-fashioned. The walls were lined with dark wood, and fifteen feet up, there was a gallery with a railing.

  Pink blond-curled angels smiled down with only their blue lips from a far-flung ceiling. Almost the entire floor of the room was covered with rows of soft massive chairs covered with embossed leather. Elegantly dressed people, mostly middle-aged men, sat in them in relaxed and negligent poses. They were looking at the far end of the room, where a brightly lit picture blazed against a background of black velvet.

  No one turned to look at us. The woman glided toward the front rows, and I sat down near the door. By now, I was almost sure that I had come here for nothing. There was silence and some coughs, and lazy streams of smoke curled upward from the fat cigars; many bald pates glistened under the chandeliers. My attention turned to the picture. I am an indifferent connoisseur of paintings, but it looked like a Raphael, and if it was not genuine, it was certainly a perfect copy.

  There was a deep brassy gong, and simultaneously a tall, thin man in a black mask appeared by the side of the picture. A black leotard covered his body from head to toe. He was followed by a limping, hunchbacked dwarf in a red smock. In his short, extended pawlike arms, he held a dully glinting sword of a most wicked appearance. He went to the right of the picture and stood still, while the masked individual stepped forward and spoke in a measured tone: “In accordance with the bylaws and directives of the Honorable Society of Patrons, and in the name of Art, which is holy and irreproducible, and the power granted me by you, I have examined the history and worth of this painting and now -”

  “Request a halt,” sounded a curt voice behind me.

  Everyone turned around. I also turned around and saw that three young, obviously very powerful, and immaculately dressed men were looking at me full in the face. One had a monocle in his right eye. We studied each other for a few seconds, and the man with the monocle twitched his cheek and let it drop. I got up at once. They moved toward me together, stepping softly and soundlessly. I tried the chair, but it was too massive. They jumped me. I met them as best I could and at first everything went well, but very quickly it became evident that they wore brass knuckles, and I barely managed to evade them. I pressed my back against the wall and looked at them while they, breathing heavily, looked at me. There were still two of them left. There was the usual coughing in the auditorium. Four more were coming down the gallery steps, which squeaked and groaned loudly enough to reverberate in the hall. Bad business, thought I, and launched myself to force a breach.

  It was hard going, just like the time in Manila, but then there were two of us. It would have been better if they were armed, as I would have had a chance to expropriate a gun.

  But all six of them met me with knuckles and truncheons.

  Luckily for me it was very crowded. My left arm went out of commission, and then the four suddenly jumped back, while the fifth drenched me with a clammy liquid from a flat container.

  Simultaneously, the lights were extinguished.

  These tricks were well known to me: now they could see me, but I could not see them. In all probability that would have been the end of me, were it not that some idiot threw open the door and announced in a greasy basso, “I beg forgiveness, I am terribly late and so sorry…” I charged toward the light, over some bodies, mowed down the latecomer, flew across the entrance hall, threw open the front door, and pelted down the sandy path holding my left arm with my right hand. No one was pursuing me, but I traversed two blocks before it dawned on me to stop.

  I flung myself down on a lawn and lay for a long time in the short grass, grabbing lungfuls of the warm moist air. In no time, the curious gathered around me. They stood in a semicircle and ogled me avidly, not saying a word. “Take off,” I said, getting up finally. Hurriedly, they scooted away. I stood awhile, figuring out where I was, and began a stumbling journey homeward. I had had enough for today. I still didn’t get it, but I had had quite enough. Whoever they were, these members of the Honorable Society of Art Patrons — secret art worshippers, extant aristocrat-conspirators or whoever else — they fought cruelly and without quarter, and the biggest fool in that hall of theirs was still apparently none other than I.

  I passed by the square, where again the color panels pulsed rhythmically, and hundreds of hysterical voices screamed, “Shi-vers! Shi-vers!” Of this too I had had enough.

  Pleasant dreams are, of course, more attractive than unpleasant ones, but after all, we do not live in a dream. In the establishment where Vousi had taken me, I had a bottle of ice-cold soda water, observed with curiosity a squad of police peacefully camped by the bar, and went out, turning into Second Waterway.

  A lump the size of a tennis ball was rising behind my left ear. I weaved badly and walked slowly, keeping close to the fences. Later, I heard the tap of heels behind me and voices: “… Your place is in the museum, not in a cabaret.”

  “Nothing of the sort, I am not drunk. Can’t you und-derstand, only one measly bottle of wine…”

  “How disgusting! Soused and picking up a wench.”

  “What’s the girl got to do with it? She is a m-model!”

  “Fighting over a wench. Making us fight over her.”

  “Why in hell d-do you believe them and don’t believe me?”

  “Just because you’re drunk! You’re a bum, just like they all are, maybe worse…”

  “That’s all right. I’ll remember that scoundrel with the bracelet quite well… Don’t hold me! I’ll walk by myself!”

  “You’ll remember nothing, friend. Your glasses were knocked off in the first instant, and without them, you aren’t even a man, but a blind sausage… Stop kicking, or it will be the fountain for you…”

  “I’m warning you, one more stunt like that, and we’ll throw you out. A drunken kulturfuhrer — it’s enough to make you sick.”

  “Stop preaching at him, give a man a chance to sleep it off.”

  “Fellows! There he is, the l-louse!”

  The street was empty, and the louse was clearly me. I could bend my left arm already, but it hurt like the devil, and I stepped back to let them pass. There were three of them. They were young, in identical caps, pushed over their eyes. One, thickset and low-slung, was obviously amused and held the other one, a tall, open-faced, loose-jointed fellow, with a powerful grip, restraining his violent and sporadic movements. The third, long and skinny, with a narrow and darkish face, was following at some distance with his hands behind his back. As he got alongside me, the loose-jointed one braked determinedly.

  The short one attempted to nudge him off the spot, but in vain.

  The long one passed by and then stopped, looking back impatiently over his shoulder.

  “Thought you were gonna get away, pig!” he yelled drunkenly, attempting to seize me by the chest with his free hand.

  I retreated to the fence and said, addressing myself to the short fellow, “I had no business with you.”

  “Stop being a rowdy,” said the distant one sharply.

  “I remember you very well indeed,” yelled the drunk.

  “You’re not going to get away from me! I’ll get even with you!”

  He advanced upon me in surges, dragging the short one, who hung on with bulldog grimne
ss, behind him.

  “It’s not him,” cajoled the low-slung one, who was still very merry. “That guy went off to the shivers and this one is sober.”

  “You won’t fool me.”

  “I’m warning you for the last time. We are going to expel you.”

  “Got scared, the bum! Took off his bracelet.”

  “You can’t even see him. You’re worthless without your glasses.”

  “I can see everything pe-erfectly!… And even if he isn’t the one…”

  “Stop it! Enough is enough!”

  The long one finally came back and grasped the drunk from the other side.

  “Will you move on!” he said to me with irritation, “Why the devil are you stopping here! Haven’t you ever seen a drunk?”

  “Oh, no! You aren’t going to get away from me.”

  I continued on my way. I had not far to go by now. The trio dragged along behind me noisily.

  “I can see right through him, if you please. King of Nature! Drunk enough to retch, and to beat up whoever comes along. Got beat up himself, and that’s all he needs… Let go of me, I’ll hang a few good ones on his mug…”

  “What have you come to, we have to walk you along like a hood.”

  “So don’t walk me!… I loathe them… Shivers, wenches, whiskey… brainless jelly…”

  “Sure, sure, take it easy, just don’t fall.”

  “Enough of your reproofs… I am sick of your hypocrisy, your puritanism. We should blow them up, shoot them! Raze everything off the face of the earth!”

  “Drunk as a coot, and I thought he was sobered up!”

  “I am sober. I remember everything… the twenty-eighth, right?”

  “Shut up, you fool.”

  “Shh! Right you are! The enemy is on the alert…

  Fellows, there was a spy here somewhere… Didn’t I talk to him?… The son of a bitch took off his bracelet… but I’ll get that dick before the twenty-eighth!”

  “Will you be quiet!”

  “Shh! And not another word. That’s it! And don’t worry, the grenade launchers are my baby.”

  “I am going to kill him right now, the bum!”

  “Lay it on the enemies of civilization… Fifteen hundred meters of tear gas — personally… six sectors… awk!”

  I was already by the gate to my house. When I turned around to look, the burly man was lying face down, the short one was squatting alongside, while the long fellow stood rubbing the edge of his right hand.

  “Why did you do that?” said the short man. “You must have maimed him.”

  “Enough prattle,” said the long one furiously. “We can’t seem to learn to stop prattling. We can’t learn to stop boozing. Enough!”

  Let us be as children, Doctor Opir, thought I, slipping into the yard as quietly as possible. I held the latch to keep it from clicking into place.

  “Where did he go?” said the long one, lowering his voice.

  “Who?”

  “The guy who went ahead of us.”

  “Turned off somewhere.”

  “Where? Did you notice?”

  “Listen, I wasn’t concerned about him.”

  “Too bad. But all right, pick him up, and let’s go.”

  Stepping into the shadow of the apple trees, I watched them drag the drunk by the gate. He was wheezing horribly.

  The house was quiet. I went to my quarters, undressed, and took a hot shower. My shirt and shorts smelled of tear gas and were covered with the greasy spots of the luminous liquid. I threw them into the hamper. Next, I inspected myself in the mirror and marveled once more at how lightly I had gotten away: a bump behind the ear, a sizable contusion on the left shoulder, and some scraped ribs. Also skinned knuckles.

  On the night table, I discovered a notice which respectfully suggested that I deposit a sum to cover the rent for the apartment for the first thirty days. The sum was quite considerable, but tolerable. I counted out a few credits and stuffed them into the thoughtfully provided envelope, and then lay down on the bed with my hands behind my head. The sheets were cool and crisp, and a salty sea breeze blew in through the open window. The phonor susurrated cozily behind my ear. I intended to think awhile before falling asleep, but was too exhausted and quickly dozed off.

  Later, some noise in the background awakened me, and I grew alert and listened with eyes wide open.

  Somewhere nearby, someone either cried or sang in a thin childish voice. I got up cautiously and leaned out the open window. The thin halting voice was intoning: “… having stayed in the grave but a short time, they come out and live among the living as though alive.” There was the sound of sobs. From far away like the keening of a mosquito came the chant “Shi-vers! Shi-vers!” The pitiable little voice went on — “Blood and earth mixed together they can’t eat.” I thought that it was Vousi, drunk and lamenting upstairs in her room, and called out softly, “Vousi!” No one replied, The thin voice cried out: “Hence from my hair, hence from my flesh, hence from my bones,” and I knew who it was. I climbed over the window sill, jumped onto the lawn, and went to the apple grove, listening to the sobbing. Light appeared through the trees, and soon I came to a garage. The doors were cracked open and I looked in. Inside was a huge shiny Opel. Two candles were burning on the workbench.

  There was a smell of gasoline and hot wax. Under the candles, seated on a work stool, was Len, dressed in a full-length white gown, in bare feet, with a thick, well-worn book on his knees. He regarded me with wide-open eyes, his face completely white and frozen with terror.

  “What are you doing here?” I said loudly and entered.

  He continued to look at me in silence and started to tremble. I could hear his teeth chattering.

  “Len, old friend,” I said, “I guess you didn’t recognize me. It’s me — Ivan.”

  He dropped the book and hid his hands in his armpits. As earlier today, in the morning, his face beaded with cold sweat.

  I sat down alongside of him and put my arm around his shoulders. He collapsed against me weakly. He shook all over. I looked at the book. A certain Doctor Neuf had blessed the human race with An Introduction to the Science of Necrological Phenomena. I kicked the book under the bench.

  ’Whose ear is that?” I asked loudly.

  “Mo… Mama’s…”

  “A very nice Ford.”

  “It’s not a Ford. It’s an Opel.”

  “You’re right — it is an Opel… a couple of hundred miles per hour I would guess…”

  “Yes.”

  “Where did you get the candles?”

  “I bought them.”

  “Is that right! I didn’t know that they sold candles in our time. Is your bulb burned out? I went out in the garden, you know, to get an apple off a tree, and then I saw the light in the garage.”

  He moved closer to me and said, “Don’t leave for a while yet, will you?”

  “OK. What do you say we blow out the lights and go to my place?”

  “No, I can’t go there.”

  “Where can’t you go?”

  “In the house and to your place.” He was talking with tremendous conviction. “For quite a while yet. Until they fall asleep.”

  “Who?”

  “They.”

  “Who are — they?”

  “They — you hear?”

  I listened. There was only the rustle of branches in the wind and somewhere very far away the cry of: “Shi-vers! Shi-vers!"’

  “I don’t hear anything special,” I said.

  “That’s because you don’t know. You are new here and they don’t bother the new ones.”

  “But who are they, after all?”

  “All of them. You’ve seen the fink with the buttons?”

  “Pete? Yes, I saw him. But why is he a fink? In my opinion, he’s an entirely respectable man.”

  Len jumped up.

  “Come on,” he said in a whisper, “I’ll show you. But be quiet.”

  We came out of the garage, crept up
to the house, and turned a corner. Len held my hand all the time; his palm was cold and wet…

  “There — look,” he said.

  Sure enough, the sight was frightening. My customs friend was lying on the porch with his head stuck at an unnatural angle through the railing. The mercury vapor light from the street fell on his face, which looked blue and swollen, and covered with dark welts. Through half-open lids, the eyes could be seen, crossed toward the bridge of the nose.

  ’They walk among the living, like living people in the daytime,” murmured Len, holding on to me with both hands. “They bow and smile, but at night their faces are white, and blood seeps through their skin.” I approached the veranda. The customs man was dressed in pajamas. He breathed noisily and exuded a smell of cognac. There was blood on his face, as though he’d fallen on his face into some broken glass.

  “He’s just drunk,” I said loudly. “Simply drunk and snoring. Very disgusting.”

  Len shook his head.

  “You are a newcomer,” he whispered. “You see nothing. But I saw.” He shook again. “Many of them came. She brought them…

  and they carried her in… there was a moon… they sawed off the top of her head… and she screamed and screamed… and then they started to eat with spoons. She ate, too, and they all laughed when she screamed and flopped around…”

  “Who? Who was it?”

  “And then they piled on wood and burned it and danced around the fire… and then they buried everything in the garden… she went out to get the shovel in the car… I saw it all… do you want to see where they buried her?”

  “You know what, friend?” I said. “Let’s go to my place.”

  “What for?”

  “To get some sleep, that’s what for. Everyone is sleeping — only you and I are palavering here.”

  “Nobody is sleeping. You really are new. Right now no one is sleeping. You must not sleep now.”

  “Let’s go, let’s go,” said I, “over to my place.”

  “I won’t go,” he said. “Don’t touch me. I didn’t say your name.”

  “I am going to take a belt,” I said menacingly, “and I will strap your behind.”

  Apparently this calmed him. He clutched my hand again and became silent.