The Final Circle of Paradise Read online

  “Exactly,” said Ahmad. “Or else you buy a dumbbell, cut off one ball and there you are, ready to go. But the guys are not what they used to be. Now you get deported for such stuff.”

  “Yes. And what else did you occupy yourself with in your youth?”

  “And you?”

  “I planned on joining the interplanetary force and trained to withstand overstress. We also played at who could dive the deepest.”

  “We too,” said Ahmad. “We went down ten meters for automatics and whiskey. Over by the piers they lay on the seabed by the case. I used to get nosebleeds. But when the fire fights started, we began to find corpses with weights around their necks, so we quit that game.”

  “It’s a very unpleasant sight, a corpse under water — especially if there is a current,” said I.

  Ahmad chuckled “I’ve seen worse. I had occasion to work with the police.”

  “This was after the fracas?”

  “Much later. When the anti-gangster laws were passed.”

  “They were called gangsters here too?”

  “What else would you call them? Not brigands, certainly. ‘A group of brigands, armed with flame throwers and gas bombs, have laid siege to the municipal buildings,’” he pronounced expressively. “It doesn’t sound right, you can feel that. A brigand is an ax, a bludgeon, a mustache up to the ears, a cleaver—”

  “A lead pipe,” I offered.

  Ahmad gurgled.

  “What are you doing tonight?” he asked.

  “Going for a walk.”

  “You have friends here?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Well… then it’s different.”

  “How come?”

  “Well, I was going to suggest something to you, but since you have friends…”

  “By the way, “ I said, “who is your mayor?”

  “Mayor? The devil knows, I don’t remember. Somebody was elected.”

  “Not Peck Xenai, by any chance?”

  “I don’t know.” He sounded regretful. “I wouldn’t want to mislead you.”

  “Would you know the man anyway?”

  “Xenai… Peck Xenai… No, I don’t knew him; haven’t heard of him. What is he to you — a friend?”

  “Yes, an old friend. I have some others here, but they are all visitors.”

  “Well,” said Ahmad, “if you should get bored and all kinds of thoughts begin to enter your head, come on over for a visit. Every single day from seven o’clock on I am at the Chez Gourmet. Do you like good eating?”

  “Quite,” said I.

  “Stomach in good shape?”

  “Like an ostrich’s.”

  “Well, then, why don’t you come by? We’ll have a fine time, and it won’t be necessary to think about a thing.”

  Ahmad braked and turned cautiously into a driveway with an iron gate, which silently swung open before us. The car rolled into the yard.

  “We have arrived,” announced Ahmad. “Here is your home.”

  The house was two-storied, white with blue trim. The windows were draped on the inside. A clean, deserted patio with multi-colored flagstones was surrounded by a fruit-tree garden, with apple branches touching the walls.

  “And where is the widow?” I said.

  “Let’s go inside,” said Ahmad.

  He went up the steps, leafing through his notebook I was following him while looking around. I liked the mini-orchard.

  Ahmad found the right page and set up the combination on the small disc by the doorbell. The door opened. Cool, fresh air flowed out of the house. It was dark inside, but as soon as we stepped into the hall, it lit up with concealed illumination.

  Putting away his notebook, Ahmad said, “To the right is the landlord’s half, to the left is yours. Please come in. Here is the living room, and there is the bar. In a minute we’ll have a drink. And now here is your study. Do you have a phonor?”

  “No.”

  “It’s just as well. You have everything you need right here. Come on over here. This is the bedroom. There is the control board for acoustic defense. You know how to use it?”

  “I’ll figure it out.”

  “Good. The defense is triple, you can have it quiet as a tomb or turn the place into a bordello, whatever you like… Here’s the air-conditioning control, which, incidentally, is not too convenient, as you can only operate it from the bedroom.”

  “I’ll manage,” I said.

  “What? Well, okay. Here is the bathroom and powder room.”

  “I am interested in the widow,” I said, “and the daughter.”

  “All in good time. Shall I open the drapes?”

  “What for?”

  “Right you are, for no reason. Let’s go have a drink.”

  We returned to the living room and Ahmad disappeared up to his waist in the bar.

  “You want it on the strong side?” he asked.

  “You have it backwards.”

  “Would you like an omelette? Sandwiches?”

  “How about nothing?”

  “No,” said Ahmad, “an omelette it shall be — with tomatoes.” He rummaged in the bar. “I don’t know what does it, but this autocooker makes an altogether astonishingly good omelette with tomatoes. While we are at it, I will also have a bite.”

  He extracted a tray from the bar and placed it on a low table by a semicircular couch. We sat down.

  “Now about the widow,” I reminded him. “I would like to… present myself.”

  “You like the rooms?”

  “They’ll do.”

  “Well, the widow is quite all right, too. And the daughter is not bad either.”

  He extracted a flat case from an inside pocket. Like a cartridge clip it was stacked with a row of ampoules filled with colored liquids. Ahmad ran his index finger over them, smelled the omelette, hesitated, and finally selected one with a green fluid, broke it carefully, and dripped a few drops on the tomatoes. An aroma pervaded the room. The smell was not unpleasant, but, to my taste, bore no particular relation to the food.

  “Right now,” continued Ahmad, “they are still asleep.” His gaze turned abstracted. “They sleep and see dreams.”

  I looked at my watch.

  “Well, well!”

  Ahmad was enjoying his food.

  “Ten-thirty!” I said.

  Ahmad was enjoying his food. His cap was pushed back on his head, and the green visor stuck up vertically like the crest of an aroused mimicrodon. His eyes were half-closed. I regarded him with interest.

  Having swallowed the last bit of tomato, he broke off a piece of the crust of white bread and carefully wiped the pan with it. His gaze cleared.

  “What were you saying?” he asked. “Ten-thirty? Tomorrow you too will get up at ten-thirty or maybe even at twelve. I, for one, will get up at twelve.”

  He got up and stretched luxuriously, cracking his joints.

  “Well,” he said, “it’s time to go home, finally. Here’s my card, Ivan. Put it in your desk, and don’t throw it out until your very last day here.” He went over to the flat box and inserted another card into its slot. There was a loud click.

  “Now this one,” he said, examining the card against the light. “Please pass on to the widow with my very best compliments.”

  “And then what will happen?” said I.

  “Money will happen. I trust you are not a devotee of haggling, Ivan? The widow will name a figure, Ivan, and you shouldn’t haggle over it. It’s not done.”

  “I will try not to haggle,” I said, “although it would be amusing to try it.”

  Ahmad raised his eyebrows.

  “Well, if you really want to so much, then why not try it? Always do what you want to do. Then you will have excellent digestion. I will get your suitcase now.”

  “I need prospects,” I said. “I need guidebooks. I am a writer, Ahmad. I will require brochures on the economic situation of the masses, statistical references. Where can I get all that? And when?”

 
“I will give you a guidebook,” said Ahmad. “It has statistics, addresses, telephone numbers, and so on. As far as the masses are concerned, I don’t think we publish any such nonsense. Of course, you can send an inquiry to UNESCO, but what would you want with it? You’ll see everything for yourself. Just hold on a minute. I’ll get the suitcase and the guidebook.”

  He went out and quickly returned with my suitcase in one hand and a fat bluish-looking little tome in the other.

  I stood up.

  “Judging by the look on your face,” he announced, smiling, “you are debating whether it’s proper to tip me or not.”

  “I confess,” I said.

  “Well then, would you like to do it or not?”

  “No, I must admit.”

  “You have a healthy, strong character,” Ahmad approved. “Don’t do it. Don’t tip anybody. You could collect one in the face, especially from the girls. But, on the other hand, don’t haggle either. You could walk into one that way too. Anyway, that’s all a lot of rot. For all I know you may like to have your face slapped, like that Jonathan Kreis. Farewell, Ivan, have fun, and come to Chez Gourmet. Any evening at seven. But most important of all, don’t think about a thing.”

  He waved his hand and left. I picked up the mixture in the dewy glass and sat down with the guidebook.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The guidebook was printed on bond paper with a gilt edge.

  Interspersed with gorgeous photographs, it contained some curious information. In the city there were fifty thousand people, fifteen hundred cats, twenty thousand pigeons, and two thousand dogs (including seven hundred winners of medals). The city had fifteen thousand passenger cars, five thousand helis, a thousand taxis (with and without chauffeurs), nine hundred automatic garbage collectors, four hundred permanent bars, cafes, and snack bars, eleven restaurants, and four first-class hotels, and was a tourist establishment which served over one hundred thousand visitors every year. The city had sixty thousand TV sets, fifty movie theaters, eight amusement parks, two Happy Mood salons, sixteen beauty parlors, forty libraries, and one hundred and eighty automated barber shops. Eighty percent of the population were engaged in services, and the rest worked in two syntho-bakeries and one government shipyard.

  There were six schools and one university housed in an old castle once the home of crusader Ulrich da Casa. In the city there were also eight active civilian societies, among them the Society of Diligent Tasters, the Society of Connoisseurs and Appraisers, and the Society for the Good Old Country Against Evil Influences. In addition, fifteen hundred citizens were members of seven hundred and one groups where they sang, learned to act, to arrange furniture, to breast-feed, and to medicate cats. As to per-capita consumption of alcoholic beverages, natural meat, and liquid oxygen, the city was sixth, twelfth, and thirteenth highest in Europe respectively. The city had seven men’s clubs and five women’s clubs, as well as sport clubs named the Bulls and Rhinos. By a majority of forty-six votes, someone by the name of Flim Gao had been elected mayor. Peck was not among the municipal officials.

  I put the guidebook aside, took off my jacket, and made a thorough examination of my domain. I approved of the living room. It was done in blue, and I like that color. The bar was full of bottled and refrigerated victuals so that I could at a moment’s notice entertain a dozen starving guests.

  I went into the study. There was a large table in front of the window and a comfortable chair. The walls were lined with shelves tightly filled with collected works. The clean bright bindings were arranged with great skill so that they formed a colorful and appealing layout. The top shelf was occupied by the fifty-volume encyclopedia of UNESCO. Lower shelves were kaleidoscopic with the shiny wrappers of detective novels.

  As soon as I saw the telephone on the table, I dialed Rimeyer’s number, perching on the chair arm. The receiver sounded with prolonged honkings and I waited, twirling a small dictaphone which someone had left on the table. Rimeyer did not answer. I hung up and inspected the dictaphone. The tape was half-used-up, and after rewinding, I punched the playback button.

  “Greetings and more greetings,” said a merry male voice. “I clasp your hand heartily or kiss you on the cheek, depending on your sex and age. I have lived here two months and bear witness that it was most enjoyable. Allow me a few points of advice. The best institution in town is the Hoity Toity in the Park of Dreams. The best girl in town is Basi in the House of Models. The best guy in town is me, but I have already left. On television just watch Program Nine; everything else is chaff.

  Don’t get involved with Intels, and give the Rhinos a wide berth. Don’t buy anything on credit — there’ll be no end to the runaround. The widow is a good woman but loves to talk and in general… As for Vousi, I didn’t get to meet her, as she had left the country to visit her grandmother. In my opinion she is sweet, and there was a photograph of her in the widow’s album, but I took it. There’s more: I expect to come back next March, so be a pal, if you decide to return, pick another time. Have a—”

  Music followed abruptly. I listened awhile and turned off the machine.

  There wasn’t a single tome I could extract from the shelves, so well were they stuck in, or maybe even glued on, and as there was nothing else of interest in the study, I went into the bedroom.

  Here it was especially cool and cozy. I have always wanted just such a bedroom, but somehow never had the time to get around to setting one up. The bed was big and low. On the night table stood an elegant phonor and a tiny remote-control box for the TV. The screen stood at the foot of the bed, while at the head the widow had hung a very natural-looking picture of field flowers in a crystal vase. The picture was painted with luminous paints and the dewdrops glistened in the darkened room.

  I punched the TV control at random and stretched out on the bed. It was soft yet somehow firm. The TV roared loudly. An inebriated-looking man launched himself out of the screen, crashed through some sort of railing, and fell from a great height into a colossal fuming vat. There was a loud splash and the phonor exuded a smell. The man disappeared in the bubbling liquid and then reappeared, holding in his teeth something reminiscent of a well-boiled boot. The unseen audience broke out in a storm of horse laughs. Fade out… soft lyrical music.

  A white horse pulling a phaeton appeared out of green woods and advanced toward me. A pretty girl in a bathing suit sat in the carriage. I turned off the TV, got up, and went to look at the bathroom.

  There was a piny smell and flickering of germicidal lamps.

  I undressed, threw the underwear into the hopper, and climbed into the shower. Taking my time, I dressed in front of the mirror, combed my hair, and shaved. The shelves were loaded with rows of vials, hygienic devices, antiseptics, and tubes with pastes and greases. At the edge of one shelf there was a pile of flat colorful boxes with the logo “ Devon.” I switched off the razor and took one of the boxes. A germicidal lamp flickered in the mirror, just as it did that day in Vienna, when I stood just like this studiously regarding just such a little box, because I did not want to go out to the bedroom, where Raffy Reisman loudly argued about something with the doctor; while the green oily liquid still oscillated in the bath, over which hung the steamy vapor and a screeching radio receiver, attached to a porcelain hook for towels, howled, hooted, and snorted until Raffy turned it off in irritation.

  That was in Vienna, and just as here, it was very strange to see in a bathroom a box of Devon — a popular repellent which did an excellent job of chasing mosquitoes, chiggers, gnats, and other bloodsucking insects which were long forgotten in Vienna and here in a seaside resort town. Only in Vienna there had been an overlay of fear.

  The box which I held in my hand was almost empty, with only one tablet remaining. The rest of the boxes were still scaled. I finished shaving and returned to the bedroom. I felt like calling Rimeyer again, but abruptly the house came to life. The pleated drapes flew open with a soft whine, the windowpanes slid away in their frames, and the bedroom was flooded
with warm air, laden with the scent of apples. Someone was talking somewhere, light footsteps sounded overhead, and a severe-sounding female voice said, “Vousi — at least eat some cake, do you hear?”

  Thereupon I imparted a certain air of disorder to my clothes (in accordance with the current style), smoothed my temples, and went into the hall, taking one of Ahmad’s cards from the living room.

  The widow turned out to be a youthful plump woman, somewhat languid, with a pleasant fresh face.

  “How nice!” she said, seeing me. “You are up already? Hello, my name is Vaina Tuur, but you can call me Vaina.”

  “My pleasure,” I said, shuddering fashionably. “My name is Ivan.”

  “How nice,” said Aunt Vaina. “What an original soft-sounding name! Have you had breakfast, Ivan?”

  “With your permission, I intended to have breakfast in town,” I said, and proffered her the card.

  “Ah,” said Aunt Vaina, looking through the card at the light. “That nice Ahmad, if you only knew what a nice responsible fellow he is. But I see you did not have breakfast.

  Lunch you can have in town, but now I will treat you to some of my croutons. The major general always said that nowhere else in the world could you have such wonderful croutons.”

  “With pleasure,” said I, shuddering for the second time.

  The door behind Aunt Vaina was flung open and a very pretty young girl in a short blue skirt and an open white blouse flew in on clicking high heels. In her hand she held a piece of cake, which she munched while humming a currently popular song. Seeing me, she stopped, flung her pocketbook on its long strap over her shoulder with a show of abandon, and swallowed, bending down her head.

  “Vousi!” said Aunt Vaina, compressing her lips. “Vousi, this is Ivan.”

  “Not bad!” said Vousi. “Greetings.”

  “Vousi,” reproached Aunt Vaina.

  “You came with your wife?” said Vousi, extending her hand.

  “No,” said I. Her fingers were soft and cool. “I am alone.”