Roadside Picnic Read online

  I shouldered my way through the crowd, I was almost past it when I heard someone shout “Hey, stalker!” Well, that had nothing to do with me, so I went on, rummaging for a cigarette in my pocket. Someone caught up with me and took me by the sleeve. I shook off the hand and half turned toward the man and said politely:

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing, mister?”

  “Hold it, stalker,” he said. “Just two questions.”

  I looked up at him. It was Captain Quarterblad. An old friend. He was all dried up and kind of yellow.

  “Ah, greetings, captain. How’s the liver?”

  “Don’t try to talk your way out of this, stalker.” He was angry and his eyes bored into me. “You’d be better off telling me why you don’t stop immediately when you’re called.”

  And right behind him were two blue helmets, hands on holsters. You couldn’t see their eyes, just their jaws working under the helmets. Where in Canada do they find these guys? Have they been sent out here to breed? In general I have no fear of the patrol guards in daytime, but they could search me, the toads, and I wasn’t too crazy about the idea just then.

  “Were you calling me, captain?” I said. “You were calling some stalker.”

  “Are you trying to tell me that you’re not a stalker?”

  “Once the time I spent thanks to you was over, I went straight. Quit stalking. Thanks to you, captain, my eyes were opened. If it hadn’t been for you…”

  “What were you doing in the Prezone Area?”

  “What do you mean, what? I work there. Two years now.” To bring the unpleasant conversation to a close, I showed Captain Quarterblad my papers. He took my book and examined it page by page, sniffing and smelling every stamp and seal on it. He returned the book and I could see how pleased he was. His eyes lit up and there was color in his cheeks.

  “Forgive me, Schuhart,” he said. “I didn’t expect it of you. I’m glad to see that my advice wasn’t wasted on you. Why, that’s marvelous. You can believe me or not, but even back then I knew that you would turn out all right. I just couldn’t believe that a fellow like you…” He went on and on like a record. Looked like I had saddled myself with another cured melancholic. Of course, I listened, eyes lowered modestly, nodding, spreading my arms innocently, and if I recall, shyly scuffing the sidewalk with my foot. The gorillas behind the captain’s back listened a bit, and then got bored and went off some place more exciting. Meanwhile the captain was painting glorious vistas for my future: education was the light, ignorance was darkness, and the Lord loves and appreciates honest labor, and so on and so forth. He was slinging the same bull the priest used to give us in prison every Sunday. And I really needed a drink—my thirst wouldn’t wait. All right, I thought to myself, Red, you can put up with this too. You have to, so be patient. He can’t keep it up for much longer. Look, he’s losing his breath already. A lucky break. One of the patrol cars started signaling. Captain Quarterblad looked around, heaved a sigh of dismay, and gave me his hand.

  “Well, I’m glad I met you, Honest Mr. Schuhart. I would have been happy to drink to this acquaintance. I can’t have whiskey, doctor’s orders, but I would have enjoyed a beer. But, duty calls. We’ll meet again,” he said.

  God forbid. But I shook his hand and blushed and shuffled my feet, just like he wanted me to. He finally left me and I headed swift as an arrow for the Borscht.

  It’s always empty that time of day in the Borscht. Ernest was behind the bar, wiping glasses, and holding them up to the light. It’s amazing, by the way, that whenever you come in, bartenders are always wiping glasses, as though their salvation depended on it or something. He’ll just stand there all day—pick up a glass, squint at it, hold it up to the light, breathe on it, and start rubbing. He’ll rub and rub, look it over again (this time from the bottom) and then rub some more.

  “Hi, Ernie! Leave the poor thing alone. You’ll rub a hole through it.”

  He looked at me through the glass, muttered something indistinct and without a further word poured me four fingers of vodka. I climbed up on a stool, took a sip, made a face, shook my head, and had another sip. The refrigerator was humming, the jukebox was playing something soft and low, Ernest was laboring over another glass. It was peaceful. I finished my drink and put the glass back down on the bar. Ernest immediately poured me another four fingers.

  “A little better?” he muttered. “Coming round, stalker?”

  “Stick to your wiping, why don’t you. You know, one guy rubbed until he got a genie. Ended up on easy street.”

  “Who was that?” Ernest asked suspiciously.

  “It was another bartender here. Before your time.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing. Why do you think the Visitation happened. It was all his rubbing. Who do you think the Visitors were?”

  “You’re a bum,” Ernie said with approval.

  He went to the kitchen and came back with a plate of grilled hot dogs. He put the plate in front of me, moved the catsup over toward me, and went back to his glasses. Ernest knows his stuff. His trained eye recognizes a stalker returned from the Zone with swag and he knows what a stalker needs after a visit to the Zone. Good old Ernie. A humanitarian.

  I finished the hot dogs, lit a cigarette, and started calculating how much Ernie must make on us. I’m not sure of the prices the loot goes for in Europe, but I’d heard that an empty can get almost 2,500, and Ernie only gives us 400. Batteries there cost at least 100 and we’re lucky if we can get 20 from him. Of course, shipping the loot to Europe must cost plenty. Grease this palm and that one… and the stationmaster must be on his payroll too. When you think about it, Ernest really doesn’t make that much, maybe fifteen or twenty percent, no more. And if he gets caught, it’s ten years at hard labor.

  Here my honorable meditations were interrupted by some polite type. I hadn’t even heard him walk in. He announced himself next to my elbow, asking permission to sit down.

  “Don’t mention it. Please do.”

  He was a skinny little guy with a sharp nose and a bow tie. His face looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him. He climbed up on the stool next to me and said to Ernest:

  “Bourbon, please!” And then turned to me. “Excuse me, but don’t I know you? You work in the International Institute, don’t you?”

  “Yes. And you?”

  He speedily whipped out his business card and set it in front of me. “Aloysius Macnaught, Agent Plenipotentiary of the Emigration Bureau.” Well, of course, I knew him. He bugs people to leave the city. As it is, there’s hardly half the population left in Harmont, yet he has to clear the place of us completely. I pushed away his card with my fingernail.

  “No thanks. I’m not interested. My dream is to die in my hometown.”

  “But why?” he jumped in quickly. “Forgive my indiscretion, but what’s keeping you here?”

  “What do you mean? Fond memories of childhood. My first kiss in the municipal park. Mommy and daddy. My first time drunk, right here in this bar. The police station so dear to my heart…” I took a heavily used handkerchief from my pocket and dabbed my eyes. “No, I can’t leave for any amount!”

  He laughed, took a tiny sip of bourbon, and spoke in a thoughtful way.

  “I just can’t understand you Harmonites. Life is tough in the city. There’s military control. Few amenities. The Zone right next to you—it’s like sitting on a volcano. An epidemic could break out any day. Or something worse. I can understand the old people. It’s hard for them to leave. But you, how old are you? Twenty-two, twenty-three? Can’t you understand that the bureau is a charitable organization, we don’t profit by this in any way. We just want people to leave this hellhole and get back into the mainstream of life. We underwrite the move, find you work. For young people like you, we pay for an education. No, I just don’t understand!”

  “Do you mean nobody wants to leave?”

  “Not nobody. Some are leaving, particularly the ones with families. But t
he young folk and the old people—what do you people want in this place? It’s a hick town, a hole.”

  I let him have it.

  “Mr. Aloysius Macnaught! You’re absolutely right. Our little town is a hole. It always has been and still is. But now it is a hole into the future. We’re going to dump so much through this hole into your lousy world that everything will change in it. Life will be different. It’ll be fair. Everyone will have everything that he needs. Some hole, huh? Knowledge comes through this hole. And when we have the knowledge, we’ll make everyone rich, and we’ll fly to the stars, and go anywhere we want. That’s the kind of hole we have here.”

  I broke off here, because I noticed Ernest watching me in amazement. I felt uncomfortable. I don’t usually like using other people’s words, even when I agree with them. Besides, it was coming out kind of funny. When Kirill speaks, you listen and forget to close your mouth. And even though I seem to be saying the same things, it doesn’t come out the same. Maybe it’s because Kirill never slipped Ernest any loot under the counter…

  Ernie snapped to attention and hurriedly poured me six fingers of booze at once, as if to bring me back to my senses. The sharp-nosed Mr. Macnaught took another sip of his bourbon.

  “Yes, of course. Eternal batteries, the blue panacea. But do you really believe things will be the way you described them?”

  “It’s none of your business what I really believe. I was speaking for the city. As for myself, what do you have in Europe that I haven’t seen? I know about your boredom. You knock yourself out all day, and watch TV all night.”

  “It doesn’t necessarily have to be Europe.”

  “It’s all the same, except that it’s cold in Antarctica.”

  The amazing part was that I believed it in my guts as I said it to him. Our Zone, the bitch, the killer, was a hundred times dearer to me at that second than all of their Europes and Africas. And I wasn’t drunk yet, I had just pictured for a minute how I would drag myself home in a herd of cretins just like myself, how I would be pushed and squeezed in the subway, and how I was sick and tired of everything.

  “And what about you?” he asked Ernest.

  “I have a business,” he replied self-importantly. “I’m no punk. I’ve invested all my money in this business. The base commander himself comes in once in a while, a general, you understand? Why should I leave here?”

  Mr. Aloysius Macnaught tried to make some point, quoting a lot of figures. But I wasn’t listening. I took a good long gulp, pulled out a lot of change from my pocket, got off the stool and pumped the jukebox. There’s a song on there: “Don’t Come Back If You’re Not Sure.” It has a good effect on me after a trip to the Zone. The jukebox was howling and rocking. I had taken my glass into the corner where I was hoping to even old scores with the one-armed bandit. And time flew like a bird. I was putting in my last nickel when Richard Noonan and Gutalin crashed into the hospitable arms of the bar. Gutalin was blotto, rolling his eyes and looking for a place to rest his fist. Richard Noonan was tenderly holding him by the elbow and distracting him with jokes. A pretty pair! Gutalin is a huge black ape with knuckles down to his knees, and Dick is a small round pink creature that all but glows.

  “Hey!” shouted Dick. “There’s Red! Come over and join us!”

  “R-r-right!” roared Gutalin. “There are only two real men in this whole city—Red and me! All the rest are pigs or Satan’s children. Red, you also serve the devil, but you’re still human.”

  I came over with my glass. Gutalin peeled off my jacket and seated me at the table.

  “Sit down, Red! Sit down, Satan’s servant. I like you. Let’s have a cry over the sins of mankind. A good long bitter wail.”

  “Let’s wail,” I said. “Let’s drink the tears of sin.”

  “For the day is nigh,” Gutalin announced “For the white steed is saddled and his rider has put his foot in the stirrup. And the prayers of those who have sold themselves to Satan are in vain. Only those who have renounced him will be saved. You, children of man who were seduced by the devil, who play with the devil’s toys, who dig up Satan’s treasures—I say unto you: you are blind! Awake, you bastards, before it’s too late! Trample the devil’s trinkets!” He stopped, as though he had forgotten what came next. “Can I get a drink here?” he suddenly asked in a different voice. “You know, Red, I’ve been canned again. Said I was an agitator. I keep explaining to them: Awake, blind ones, you’re falling into the pit and taking others with you! They just laughed. So I punched the shop leader in the nose and split. They’ll arrest me now. And for what?”

  Dick came over and put the bottle on the table.

  “It’s on me today!” I called to Ernest.

  Dick gave me a sidelong look.

  “It’s perfectly legal,” I said. “We’re drinking my bonus check.”

  “You went into the Zone?” Dick asked. “Bring anything out?”

  “A full empty,” I said. “For the altar of science. Are you going to pour that or not?”

  “An empty!” Gutalin echoed in sorrow. “You risked your life for some empty! You survived, but you brought another devil’s artifact into the world. How do you know, Red, how much of sorrow and sin…”

  “Can it, Gutalin,” I said severely. “Drink and rejoice that I came back alive. To success, my friends.”

  It went over well, the toast to success. Gutalin fell apart completely. He was weeping, the tears streaming like water from a spout. I know him well. It’s just a phase. Weeping and preaching that the Zone is the devil’s temptation. That we should take nothing out of it and return everything that we’ve taken. And go on living as though the Zone were not there. Leave the devil’s things to the devil. I like him. Gutalin, I mean. I usually like weirdos. When he has money, he buys up the swag without haggling, for whatever price the stalkers ask, and totes it back at night into the Zone and buries it. He was waiting. But he would be stopping soon.

  “What’s a full empty?” Dick asked. “I know what a plain empty is, but this is the first time I’ve ever heard of a full one.”

  I explained it to him. He nodded and smacked his lips.

  “Yes, that’s very interesting. Something new. Who did you go with? The Russian?”

  “Yes, with Kirill and Tender. You know, our lab assistant.”

  “They must have driven you crazy.”

  “Nothing of the kind. They behaved quite well. Especially Kirill. He’s a born stalker. He just needs a little more experience, to break him of his hurrying, and I’d go into the Zone every day with him.”

  “And every night?” he asked with a drunken smirk.

  “Drop it. A joke’s a joke.”

  “I know. A joke’s a joke, but it can get me into a lot of trouble. I owe you one.”

  “Who gets one?” Gutalin got excited. “Which one is it?”

  We grabbed him by the arms and got him back in his chair. Dick stuck a cigarette in his mouth and lit it. We calmed him down. Meanwhile more and more people were coming in. The bar was crowded and many of the tables were taken. Ernest had gotten his girls and they were bringing drinks to the customers—beer, cocktails, vodka. I noticed that there were a lot of new faces in town lately, mostly young punks with long bright scarves hanging to the floor. I mentioned it to Dick. Dick nodded.

  “What do you expect? They’re starting a lot of construction. The institute is putting up three new buildings and besides that they’re planning to wall off the Zone from the cemetery to the old ranch. The good times are over for the stalkers.”

  “When were the good old days for stalkers?” I said. There you go, I thought, what’s all this new stuff? I guess I won’t be able to make a few bucks on the side any more. Maybe it’s for the best. Less temptation. I’ll go into the Zone in the daytime, like a decent citizen. The money’s not the same, of course, but it’s a lot safer. The boot, the special suit, and so on, and no worries with the border patrol. I can live on my salary, and I’ll booze it up on the bonuses. Then I got rea
lly depressed. Penny-pinching again: I can afford this, I can’t afford that. I’d have to save up to buy Guta the crummiest rag, no more bars, just cheap movies. It was bleak. Every day was gray, and every evening, and every night.

  I was sitting there thinking, and Dick was yelling in my ear.

  “Last night at the hotel I went into the bar for a nightcap. There were some new guys there. I didn’t like their looks at all. One comes over to me and starts a conversation in a roundabout way, lets me know that he knows me, knows what I do, where I work, and hints that he’s ready to pay good money for various services.”

  “An informer,” I said. I wasn’t very interested. I’ve had my fill of informers and little talks about services.

  “No, buddy, not an informer. Listen. I chatted for a bit, carefully, of course, led him on. He’s interested in certain objects in the Zone. Serious ones, at that. Batteries, itchers, black sprays, and other such baubles do nothing for him. He only hinted at what he did want.”

  “What was it?”

  “Witches’ jelly, as far as I could understand,” Dick said and looked at me strangely.

  “Oh, so he wants the witches’ jelly, does he? How about some death lamps while he’s at it?”

  “I asked him the same thing.”

  “And?”

  “Would you believe that he wants some, too.”

  “Yes?” I said. “Well, let him go get it himself. It’s a snap. There are cellars full of witches’ jelly. Let him take a bucket and bail out as much as he wants. It’s his funeral.”

  Dick said nothing and watched me without even smiling. What the hell was he thinking? Was he thinking of hiring me? And then I got it.

  “Hold on,” I said. “Who was that guy? You’re not allowed to study the jelly even at the institute.”

  “Right.” Dick was speaking slowly and watching me. “It’s research that holds potential danger for mankind. Now do you understand who that was?”

  I understood nothing.

  “The Visitors, you mean?”

  He laughed, patted my hand, and said:

  “Why don’t we just have a drink instead. You’re such a simple soul!”