The Final Circle of Paradise Page 14

  “Bartender!” called the bandaged one in a metallic voice.

  “Would you call us a taxi.”

  “Have you been here long?” asked the ruddy man.

  “Second day,” I replied.

  “Do you like it?”

  “A beautiful city.”

  “Mm — yes,” he mumbled.

  We were silent. The man with the bandage impudently inserted his monocle and pulled out a cigar.

  “Does it hurt?” I asked sympathetically.

  “What, exactly?”

  “The jaw,” I said. “And the liver should hurt, too.”

  “Nothing ever hurts me,” he replied, monocle glinting. “Are you two acquainted?” the ruddy one asked in astonishment.

  “Slightly,” I said. “We had an argument about art.”

  The bartender called out that the taxi had arrived. The man with the bandage immediately got up.

  “Let’s go, Senator,” he said.

  The ruddy one smiled at me abstractedly and also got up.

  They set off for the exit. I followed them with my eyes and went to the bar.

  “Brandy?” asked the bartender.

  “Quite,” I said. I shuddered with rage. “Who are those people I just spoke to?”

  “The baldy is a municipal counselor, his field are cultural affairs. The one with the monocle is the city comptroller.”

  “Comptroller,” I said. “A scoundrel is what he is.”

  “Really?” said the barman with interest.

  “That’s right, really,” I said. “Is Buba here?”

  “Not yet. And how about the comptroller, what is he up to?”

  “A scoundrel, an embezzler, that’s what he is,” I said.

  The bartender thought awhile.

  “It could well be,” he said. “In fact he’s a baron — that is, he used to be, of course. His ways, sure enough, are unsavory. Too bad I didn’t go vote or I would have voted against him. What’s he done to you?”

  “It’s you he’s done. And I’ve given him some back. And I’ll give him some more in due time. Such is the situation.”

  The bartender, not understanding anything, nodded and said, “Hit it again?”

  “Do,” I said.

  He poured me more brandy and said, “And here is Buba, coming in.”

  I turned around and barely managed to keep the glass in my grip. I recognized Buba.

  CHAPTER TEN

  He stood by the door looking about him as though trying to remember where he had come and what he was to do there. His appearance was very unlike his old one, but I recognized him at once anyway, because for four years we sat next to each other in the lecture halls of the school, and then there were several years when we met almost daily.

  “Say,” I addressed the bartender. “They call him Buba?”

  “Uhuh,” said the bartender.

  “What is it — a nickname?”

  “How should I know? Buba is Buba, that’s what they all call him.”

  “Peck,” I cried.

  Everyone looked at me. He too slowly turned his head and his eyes searched for the caller. But he paid no attention to me. As though remembering something, he suddenly started to shake the water out of his cape with convulsive motions, and then, dragging his heels, hobbled over to the bar and climbed with difficulty on the stool next to mine.

  “The usual,” he said to the bartender. His voice was dull and strangled, as though someone held him by the throat.

  “Someone has been waiting for you,” said the barman, placing before him a glass of neat alcohol and a deep dish filled with granulated sugar.

  Slowly he turned his head and looked at me, saying, “Well, what is it you want?”

  His drooping eyelids were inflamed red, with accumulated slime in the corners. He breathed through his mouth as though suffering with adenoids.

  “Peck Xenai,” I said quietly. “Undergraduate Peck Xenai, please return from earth to heaven.”

  He continued to regard me without a change in his manner.

  Then he licked his lips and said, “A classmate, perhaps?”

  I felt numb and terrified. He turned around, picked up his glass, drank it down, gagging in revulsion, and began to eat the sugar with a large soup spoon. The bartender poured him another glass.

  “Peck,” I said, “old friend, don’t you remember me?”

  He looked me over again.

  “I wouldn’t say that. I probably did see you somewhere.”

  “Saw me somewhere!” I said in desperation. “I am Ivan Zhilin. Could it be you have completely forgotten me?”

  His hand holding the glass quivered almost imperceptibly, and that was all.

  “No, friend,” he said, “forgive me, please, but I don’t remember you.”

  “And you don’t remember the ‘Tahmasib’ or Iowa Smith?”

  “This heartburn has really got to me today,” he informed the bartender. “Let me have some soda, Con.”

  The bartender, who had listened with curiosity, poured him a soda.

  “Bad day, today, Con,” he said. “Can you imagine, two automates failed on me today.”

  The bartender shook his head and sighed.

  “The manager is bitching,” continued Buba, “called me on the carpet and bawled me out. I am going to quit that place. I told him to go to hell and he fired me.”

  “Complain to the union,” the bartender advised.

  “To hell with them.” He drank his soda and wiped his mouth with the palm of his hand. He did not look at me.

  I sat as though spat upon, forgetting completely what it was I wanted Buba for. I needed Buba, not Peck — that is, I needed Peck too. But not this one. This was not Peck, this was some strange and repulsive Buba, and I watched in horror as he sucked up the second glass of alcohol and again set to shoveling spoonfuls of sugar into himself. His face effloresced with red spots, and he kept gagging and listening to the bartender as he animatedly recounted the latest football exploits. I wanted to cry out, “Peck, what has happened to you? Peck, you used to hate all this!” I put my hand on his shoulder and said imploringly, “Peck, dear friend, hear me out, please.”

  He shied away.

  “What’s the matter, friend?” His eyes were now completely unseeing. “I am not Peck, I am Buba, do you understand? You are confusing me with someone else, there isn’t any Peck here… So what did the Rhinos do then, Con?”

  I reminded myself where I was, and forced myself to understand that there was no more Peck, and that there was a Buba, here, an agent of a criminal organization, and this was the only reality, while Peck Xenai was a mirage — a memory which must be quickly extirpated if I intended to press on with my work.

  “Hold on, Buba,” I said. “I want to talk business to you.”

  He was quite drunk by now.

  “I don’t talk business at the bar,” he announced. “And anyway I am through with work. Done. I have no more business of any kind. You can apply to the city hall, friend. They’ll help you out.”

  “I am applying to you, not the city hall,” I said. “Will you listen to me!”

  “You I hear all the time, as it is. To the detriment of my health.”

  “My business is quite simple,” I said. “I need a slug.”

  He shuddered violently.

  “Are you out of your mind, pal?”

  “You should be ashamed,” said the bartender. “Right out in front of people… you have lost all sense of decency.”

  “Shut up,” I told him.

  “You be quiet,” the barman said menacingly. “It must be some time since you’ve been busted? Watch your step or you’ll get exported.”

  “I don’t give a damn about the exportation,” I said insolently. “Don’t stick your snoot in other people’s business.”

  “Lousy sluggard,” said the bartender.

  He was visibly incensed, but spoke in a low voice. “A slug he wants. I’ll call an officer right now and he’ll give you a slug.
”

  Buba slid off the stool and hurriedly hobbled toward the door.

  I left off with the bartender and hurried after him. He shot out into the rain, and forgetting to cover himself with his cape, started to look around in search of a taxi. I caught up with him and grasped him by the sleeve.

  “What in God’s name do you want from me?” he said miserably. “I’ll call the police.”

  “Peck,” I said. “Come out of it, Peck. I am Ivan Zhilin, and you must remember me.”

  He kept looking around and wiping the streaming water from his face with the palm of his hand. He looked pitiful and run down, and I, trying to suppress my irritation, kept insisting to myself that this was my Peck, priceless Peck, irreplaceable Peck, good, intelligent, joyful Peck, kept trying to remember him as he was in front of the Gladiator’s control console, and I couldn’t because I couldn’t imagine him anywhere except at the bar over a glass of alcohol.

  “Taxi,” he screeched, but the car flew by, full of people.

  “Peck,” I said, “come with me. I’ll tell you all about it.”

  “Leave me alone,” he said, his teeth chattering. “I won’t go anywhere with you. Leave off! I didn’t bother you, I didn’t do anything to you, leave me be, for God’s sake.”

  “All right,” I said, “I’ll let you alone. But you must give me a slug and also your address.”

  “I don’t know of any slugs,” he moaned. “God, what kind of a day is this!”

  Favoring his left leg, he wandered off and suddenly dove into a basement under an elegant and restrained sign. I followed. We sat down at a table and a waiter immediately brought us hot meat and beer, although we hadn’t ordered anything. Buba was shivering and his wet face turned blue. He pushed the plate away with revulsion and began to swallow the beer, both hands around the mug. The basement was quiet and empty. Over the sparkling counter hung a white sign with gold letters reading, “Paid Service Only.”

  Buba raised his head from the beer and said pleadingly, “Can I go, Ivan? I can’t… What’s the point of all this talk?

  Let me go, please.”

  I put my hand on his.

  “What’s happening to you, Peck? I searched for you. There is no address listed anywhere. I met you quite by accident, and I don’t understand anything. How did you get involved in this mess? Can I help you possibly, with anything? Maybe we could -”

  Suddenly he jerked his hand away in a rage.

  “What an executioner,” he hissed. “The devil lured me to that Oasis… Stupid chatter, drivel. I have no slug, do you understand? I have one, but I won’t give it to you. What’ll I do then — like Archimedes? Don’t you have any conscience? Then don’t torture me, let me go.”

  “I can’t let you go,” I said, “until I get the slug. And your address. We must talk.”

  “I don’t want to talk to you, can’t you understand? I don’t want to talk to anyone about anything. I want to go home.

  I won’t give you my slug. What am I — a factory? Give it to you and then chase all over town?”

  I kept silent. It was clear that he hated me now. That if he thought he had the strength he would kill me and leave. But he knew that he did not have the strength.

  “Scum,” he said in a fury. “Why can’t you buy one yourself? Don’t you have the money? Here! Here!” he began to search convulsively in his pockets, throwing coppers and crumpled bills on the table. “Take it, there’s plenty.”

  “Buy what? Where?”

  “There’s a damned jackass! It’s… what is it? Hmm… how do you call it… Oh hell!” he cried. “May you drop straight to hell!”

  He stuck his fingers into his shirt pocket and pulled out a flat plastic case. Inside it was a shiny metal tube, similar to a pocket radio local oscillator-mixer subassembly. “Here -

  get fat!” He proffered me the tube. It was quite small, less than an inch long and a millimeter thick.

  “Thank you,” I said. “And how do I use it?”

  Peck’s eyes opened wide. I think he even smiled.

  “Good God!” he said almost tenderly. “Can it be you really don’t know?”

  “I know nothing,” I said.

  “Well then, you should have said so from the start. And I thought you were tormenting me like a torturer. You have a radio? Insert it in place of the mixer, hang it, stand it somewhere in the bath, and go to!”

  “In the tub?”

  “Yes.”

  “It must be in the bath?”

  “But yes! It is absolutely necessary that your body be immersed in water. In hot water. What an ass you are!”

  “And how about Devon?”

  “The Devon goes in the water. About five tablets in the water and one orally. The taste is awful, but you won’t regret it later. And one more thing, be sure to add bath salts to the water. And before you start, have a couple of glasses of something strong. This is required so that… how shall I say? — so you can loosen up, sort of.”

  “So,” I said. “I got it. Now I’ve got everything.” I wrapped the slug in a paper napkin and put it in my pocket. “So it’s electric wave psychotechnics?”

  “Good Lord, now what do you care about that?”

  He was up already, pulling the hood over his head.

  “No matter,” I said. “How much do I owe you?”

  “A trifle, nonsense! Let’s go quickly… what the hell are we losing time for?”

  We went up into the street.

  “You made the right decision,” said Peck. What kind of world is this? Are we men in it? Trash is what it is and not a world. Taxi!” he yelled. “Hey, taxi!”

  He shook in sudden excitement. “What possessed me to go to that Oasis… Oh no… from now on I’ll go nowhere… nowhere.”

  “Let me have your address,” I said.

  “What do you want with my address?”

  A taxi drew up and Buba tore at the door.

  “Address,” I said, grabbing him by the shoulder.

  “What a dumbhead,” said Buba… “ Sunshine Street, number eleven… Dumbhead!” he repeated, seating himself.

  “I’ll come to see you tomorrow.”

  He paid no more attention to me.

  “Sunshine,” he threw at the driver. “Through downtown, and hurry, for God’s sake.”

  How simple, I thought, looking after his car. How simple everything turned out to be. And everything fits. The bath and Devon. Also the screaming radios, which irritated us so, and to which we never paid any attention. We simply turned them off. I took a taxi and set out for home.

  But what if he deceived me, I thought. Simply wanted to be rid of me sooner. But I would determine that soon enough. He doesn’t look like a runner, an agent, at all, I thought. After all, he is Peck. However, no, he is no longer Peck. Poor Peck.

  You are no agent, you are simply a victim. You know where to buy this filth, but you are only a victim. I don’t want to interrogate Peck, I don’t want to shake him down like some punk. True, he is no longer Peck. Nonsense, what does that mean, that he is not Peck. He is Peck, and still I’ll have to… Electric wave psychotechnics… But the shivers they’re wave psychotechnics too… Somehow, it’s a bit too simple. I haven’t passed two days here yet, while Rimeyer has been living here since the uprising. We left him behind, and he had gone native and everyone was pleased with him, although in his latest reports he wrote that nothing like what we were looking for existed here. True, he has nervous exhaustion… and Devon on the floor. Also there is Oscar. Further, he did not beg me to leave him be, but simply pointed me in the direction of the Fishers.

  I didn’t meet anyone either in the front yard or in the hall… It was almost five. I went to my rooms and called Rimeyer. A quiet female voice answered.

  “How is the patient?” I asked.

  “He is asleep. He shouldn’t be disturbed.”

  “I won’t do that. Is he better?”

  “I told you he fell asleep. And don’t call too often, please. The phon
e disturbs him.”

  “You will be with him all the time?”

  “Till morning, at least. If you call again, I’ll have the phone disconnected.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Just, please, don’t leave him till morning, I’ll not trouble you again.”

  I hung up and sat awhile in the big comfortable chair in front of the huge absolutely bare table. Then I took the slug out of my pocket and laid it in front of me. A small shiny tube, inconspicuous and completely harmless to all outward appearances, an ordinary electronic component. Such can be made by the millions. They should cost pennies.

  “What’s that you got there?” asked Len, right next to my He stood alongside and regarded the slug.

  “Don’t you know?” I asked.

  “It’s from a radio. I have one like it in my radio and it’s breaking all the time.”

  I pulled my radio out of my pocket and extracted its mixer and laid it alongside the slug. The mixer looked like the slug, but it was not a slug.

  “They are not the same,” said Len. “But I have seen one of those gadgets, too.”

  “What gadget?”

  “Like the one you have.”

  All at once, his face clouded over and he looked grim.

  “Did you remember?”

  “No, I didn’t,” he said. “I didn’t remember anything.”

  “All right, then.” I picked up the slug and inserted it in place of the mixer in the radio. Len grabbed me by the hand.

  “Don’t,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  He didn’t reply, eyeing the radio warily.

  “What are you afraid of?” I asked.

  “I’m not afraid of anything. Where did you get that idea?”

  “Look in the mirror,” I said. “You look as though you are afraid for me.” I put the radio in my pocket.

  “For you?” he said in astonishment.

  “Obviously for me. Not for yourself, of course, though you are still scared of those… necrotic phenomena.”

  He looked sideways.

  “Where did you get that idea,” he said. “We’re just playing.”

  I snorted in disdain.

  “I am well acquainted with these games. Rut one thing I don’t know: where in our time do necrotic phenomena come from?”