Roadside Picnic Page 6

  “OK by me,” I said. But I was angry. The sons of bitches think I’m such a simpleton, eh? “Hey, Gutalin,” I said. “Gutalin! Wake up, let’s drink!”

  Gutalin was fast asleep. His black cheek lay on the black tabletop and his hands drooped down to the floor. Dick and I had a drink without him.

  “All right, now,” I said. “Simple soul or complicated, I’ll tell you what I would do about that guy. You know how much love I have for the police, but I’d turn him in.”

  “Sure. And the police would ask you why this guy turned to you rather than someone else. Then what?”

  I shook my head.

  “It doesn’t matter. You, you fat jerk, you’ve only been in the city three years and haven’t been in the Zone once. You’ve only seen the witches’ jelly in the movies. You should see it in real life and what it does to a human being. It’s a horrible thing and it shouldn’t be brought out of the Zone. You know yourself that stalkers are a rough bunch, all they want is money and more money, but even the late Slimy wouldn’t have gone in on a deal like that. Buzzard Burbridge wouldn’t go for it either. I hate to think who would need witches’ jelly and for what.”

  “Well, you’re right about all that,” said Dick. “But you see, I’d hate to be found one morning in bed having committed suicide. I’m not a stalker, but I am a practical person anyway, and I like living, you know. I’ve been doing it for a long time and I’ve gotten into the habit.”

  Ernest shouted from the bar:

  “Mr. Noonan! Telephone!”

  “What the hell!” Dick said angrily. “Must be Shipping Adjustment again. They find you everywhere. Excuse me, Red.”

  He got up and went to the phone. I stayed behind with Gutalin and the bottle, and since Gutalin was of no help at all, I attacked the bottle on my own. Goddamn that Zone. You can’t get away from it. Wherever you go, whoever you talk to, it’s always the Zone, the Zone, the Zone. It’s easy for Kirill to talk about the eternal peace and harmony that will come from the Zone. Kirill is a fine fellow and no fool—on the contrary, he’s really bright—but he doesn’t know a damn thing about life. He can’t even imagine what kind of scum and criminals hang around the Zone. Now somebody wants to get his hands on the witches’ jelly. Gutalin may be a drunk and a religious nut, but maybe he’s got something there. Maybe we should leave the devil’s things to the devil? Hands off.

  Some punk in a bright scarf sat in Dick’s chair.

  “Mr. Schuhart?”

  “So what?”

  “My name is Creon. I’m from Malta.”

  “So how are things in Malta?”

  “Things are fine in Malta, but that’s not what I wanted to talk about. Ernest put me on to you.”

  So, I thought. That Ernest really was a bastard. Not a drop of pity in him. Here’s this young guy—tan, and clean, and pretty. Hasn’t ever shaved or kissed a girl. But Ernest doesn’t care. He just wants to send more people into the Zone. One out of three will come back with swag, and that’s money for him.

  “So how’s old Ernest?” I asked.

  He looked over at the bar.

  “He looks well. I wouldn’t mind trading places with him.”

  “I would. Want a drink?”

  “Thanks, I don’t drink.”

  “A smoke?”

  “Forgive me, but I don’t smoke, either.”

  “Damn you then. What the hell do you need the money for?”

  He blushed and stopped smiling.

  “Probably,” he said in a low voice, “that concerns only me, doesn’t it, Mr. Schuhart?”

  “You’re absolutely right,” I said and poured myself another four fingers. My head was beginning to buzz and I was feeling a nice looseness in my limbs. The Zone had let go of me completely. “I’m drunk right now. I’m celebrating, as you can see. I went into the Zone and came back alive and with money. It doesn’t happen very often that people come back alive and even more rarely that they come back with money. So why don’t we postpone any serious discussions.”

  He jumped up and excused himself. I saw that Dick was back. He was standing by his chair and I could see in his face that something had happened.

  “Your tanks losing their vacuum again?”

  “Yep,” he said. “Again.”

  He sat down, poured himself a drink, freshened mine, and I could see that whatever it was, it had nothing to do with faulty goods. To tell the truth, he couldn’t care less about the shipments—a model worker!

  “Let’s have a drink, Red.” Without waiting for me he gulped down his drink and poured himself another. “You know Kirill Panov died.”

  I was so stoned that I didn’t quite understand. Someone died. So what.

  “Well, let’s drink to the departed.”

  He looked at me with his round eyes and only then did I feel as if a string had snapped inside my body. I remember that I got up and leaned against the table. I looked down at him.

  “Kirill?” The silver web was before my eyes and I could hear it cracking again as it tore. And through the eerie sound of the cracking I could hear Dick’s voice as though he were in another room.

  “Heart attack. They found him in the shower, naked. Nobody knows what’s happened. They asked about you. I told them you were in perfect shape.”

  “What’s to understand? It’s the Zone.”

  “Sit down. Sit down and have a drink.”

  “The Zone,” I repeated. I couldn’t stop saying it. “The Zone, the Zone…”

  I couldn’t see anything around me except for the silver web. The whole bar was caught in the web and as people moved around, the web crackled softly as they touched it. The Maltese boy was standing in the middle. His childlike face was surprised—he didn’t understand a thing.

  “Little boy,” I said gently. “How much do you need? Will a thousand be enough? Here, take it. Take it!” I shoved the money at him and started shouting: “Go to Ernest and tell him that he’s a bastard and scum. Don’t be afraid! Tell him! He’s a coward, too. Tell him and then go straight to the station and buy a ticket for Malta! Don’t stop anywhere.”

  I don’t remember what else I shouted. I do remember ending up in front of the bar and Ernest giving me a glass of soda.

  “You’re in the money today?” he asked.

  “Yes, I’ve got some.”

  “How about a little loan? I have to pay my taxes tomorrow.”

  I realized that I had a bundle of money in my hand. I looked at the wad and muttered:

  “That means he didn’t take it. Creon of Malta is a proud young man, it seems. Well, it’s out of my hands. Whatever happens now is fate.”

  “What’s the matter with you?” my pal Ernie asked. “Had a little too much?”

  “Nope, I’m fine,” I said. “Perfect shape. Ready for the showers.”

  “Why don’t you head on home? You’ve had a little too much.”

  “Kirill died.” I said to him.

  “Which Kirill? The one-armed one?”

  “You’re one-armed yourself, you bastard. You couldn’t make one man like Kirill from a thousand like you. You rat, you son of a bitch, you lousy scum bastard. You’re dealing in death, you know that? You bought us all with your dough. You want to see me tear your little shop apart?”

  And just when I reared back to lay a good one on him I was grabbed and hauled off somewhere. I couldn’t understand anything then and I didn’t want to. I was shouting and fighting and kicking and when I came to I was in the John, all wet, and my face was in lousy shape. I didn’t even recognize myself in the mirror. My cheek was twitching, I’d never had that before. Outside I could hear a racket, dishes breaking, the girls squealing, and Gutalin roaring louder than a grizzly: “Repent, you good-for-nothings! Where’s Red? What have you done with him, you seeds of the devil?” And the wail of the police siren.

  As soon as I heard it, everything became crystal clear in my brain. I remembered everything, knew everything, and understood everything. And there was nothing l
eft in my soul but icy hatred. So, I thought, I’ll give you a party! I’ll show you what a stalker is, you lousy bloodsucker! I pulled out an itcher from my watch pocket. It was brand new, never used. I squeezed it a couple of times to get it going, opened the door into the bar and tossed it quietly into the spittoon. Then I opened the window and climbed out into the street. I really wanted to stick around and see it all happen, but I had to get out of there as fast as possible. The itchers give me nosebleeds.

  I ran across the backyard. I could hear my itcher working full blast. First all the dogs in the neighborhood started howling and barking—they sense the itcher before humans do. Then someone in the bar started yelling so loud that my ears clogged even at that distance. I could just see the crowd going wild in there—some fall into deep depression, others freak out, and some panic with fear. The itcher is a terrifying thing. Ernest will have a long wait before he can get a full house in his place again. The bastard will guess of course that it was me, but I don’t give a damn. It’s over. There is no more stalker named Red. I’ve had enough. Enough of risking my own life and teaching other fools how to risk theirs. You were wrong, Kirill, my old buddy. I’m sorry, but you were wrong and Gutalin was right. This was no place for humans. The Zone was evil.

  I climbed over the fence and headed home. I was biting my lip. I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t. All I saw was emptiness and sadness. Kirill, my buddy, my only friend, how could it have happened? How will I get on without you? You painted vistas for me, about a new world, a changed world. And now what? Someone in far-off Russia will cry for you, but I can’t. And it was all my fault. No one else but me, a good-for-nothing. How could I take him into the garage when his eyes hadn’t adjusted to the dark? I’d lived my whole life like a wolf, caring only about myself. And suddenly I decided to be a benefactor and give him a little present. Why the hell did I ever mention that empty to him? When I thought about it, I felt a pain in my throat and I wanted to howl. Maybe I did. People were avoiding me on the street. And then things got easier: I saw Guta coming.

  She was coming toward me, my beauty, my darling girl, walking with her pretty little feet, her skirt swaying over her knees. Eyes followed her from every doorway. But she was walking a straight line, looking at no one, and I realized that she was looking for me.

  “Hello,” I said. “Guta, where are you going?”

  She took me in in one glance—my bashed-in face, my wet jacket, my scraped hands—but she didn’t say a thing.

  “Hello, Red. I was just coming to see you.”

  “I know. Let’s go to my place.”

  She turned away and said nothing. Her head is so pretty on her long neck, like a young mare’s, proud but submissive to her master.

  “I don’t know, Red. You may not want to see me any more.”

  My heart contracted. What now? But I spoke calmly.

  “I don’t understand what you’re getting at, Guta. Forgive me, I’m a little drunk today, so I’m not thinking straight. Why wouldn’t I want to see you any more?”

  I took her hand and we walked slowly toward my place. Everybody who had been eyeing her before was hurrying to hide his mug now. I’ve lived on this street all my life and everybody knows Red very well. And anyone who doesn’t will get to know me fast enough, and he can sense that.

  “Mother wants me to have an abortion,” she said suddenly. “I don’t want to.”

  I had walked several steps before I understood what she was saying.

  “I don’t want an abortion. I want to have your child. You can do what you want, go off to the four corners of the world. I won’t keep you.”

  I listened to her and watched her get heated up. And I was feeling more and more stunned. I just couldn’t make head or tail of it. There was this nonsensical thought buzzing in my head: one man less, one man more.

  “She keeps telling me that a baby by a stalker will be a freak, that you’re a wanderer, that we’ll have no real family. Today you’re free, tomorrow you’re in jail. But I don’t care, I’m ready for anything. I can do it alone. I’ll have him alone, I’ll raise him alone, and make him into a man alone. I can manage without you, too. But don’t you come around to me any more. I won’t let you through the door.”

  “Guta, my darling girl,” I said. “Wait a minute…” I couldn’t go on talking. A nervous, idiotic laugh was welling and breaking me up. “My honeypie, why are you chasing me away then?”

  I was laughing like a village idiot, and she was bawling on my chest.

  “What will happen to us now, Red?” she asked through her tears. “What will happen to us now?”

  2. REDRICK SCHUHART, AGE 28, MARRIED, NO PERMANENT OCCUPATION

  Redrick Schuhart lay behind a gravestone and looked at the road through a branch of the ash tree. The searchlights of the patrol car were combing the cemetery and once in a while one caught him in the eyes. Then he would squint and hold his breath.

  Two hours had passed and things were still the same on the road. The car was still parked, its motor throbbing evenly, and kept scanning with its three searchlights the rundown graves, the lopsided, rusty crosses and headstones, the overgrown bushy ash trees, and the crest of the ten-foot-thick wall that broke off on the left. The border patrol guards were afraid of the Zone. They didn’t even get out of the car. Near the cemetery, they were even too scared to shoot. Redrick could hear their lowered voices once in a while, and once in a while he could see the light of a cigarette butt fly out of the car window and roll down the highway, skipping along and scattering weak red sparks. It was very damp, it had just rained, and Redrick could feel the dank cold through his waterproof jumpsuit.

  He carefully released the branch, turned his head, and listened. Somewhere to the right, not too far, but not too close either, there was someone else in the cemetery. The leaves rustled there once more and soil crumbled, and then there was the soft thud of something hard and heavy falling. Redrick started crawling backward, carefully and without turning around, hugging the wet grass. The beam of light swung over his head. He froze, following its silent movement, and he thought he saw a man in black sitting motionless on a grave between the crosses. He was sitting there openly, leaning against a marble obelisk, turning his white face with its black sunken holes toward Redrick. Actually Redrick did not see him clearly, nor was it possible in the split second he had, but he filled in the details with his imagination. He crawled away a few more steps and felt for his flask inside his jacket. He pulled it out and lay with its warm metal against his cheek for a while. Then still holding onto the flask, he crawled on. He stopped listening and looking around.

  There was a break in the wall and Burbridge was lying there in a lead-lined raincoat with a bullet hole in it. He was still on his back, pulling at the collar of his sweater with both hands and moaning painfully. Redrick sat next to him and unscrewed the flask’s cap. He carefully held Burbridge’s head, feeling the hot, sticky, sweaty bald spot with his palm, and brought the flask to the old man’s lips. It was dark, but in the weak reflections of the searchlights Redrick could see Burbridge’s wide-open, glassy eyes and the dark stubble that covered his cheeks. Burbridge greedily took several gulps and then nervously felt for his sack with the swag.

  “You came back… Good fellow… Red. You won’t leave an old man to die.”

  Redrick threw back his head and took a deep swallow.

  “It’s still there. Like it was nailed to the highway.”

  “It’s no accident,” Burbridge said. He spoke in spurts, on the exhale. “Someone must have squealed. They’re waiting for us.”

  “Maybe,” said Redrick. “Want another swallow?”

  “No. That’s enough for now. Don’t abandon me. If you don’t leave me, I won’t die. You won’t be sorry. You won’t leave me, will you? Red?”

  Redrick did not answer. He was looking over at the highway and the flashes of light. He could see the marble obelisk, but he couldn’t tell if he was sitting there or not.

  “Liste
n, Red. I’m not fooling. You won’t be sorry. Do you know why old Burbridge is still alive? Do you know? Bob the Gorilla blew it. Pharaoh the Banker kicked the bucket. And what a stalker he was! And he was killed. Slimy, too. And Norman Four-Eyes. Culligan. Pete the Scab. All of them. I’m the only who’s survived. Why? Do you know?”

  “You were always a rat,” said Red, never taking his eyes off the road. “A son of a bitch.”

  “A rat. That’s true. You can’t get by without being one. But all of them were. Pharaoh. Slimy. But I’m the only one left. Do you know why?”

  “I know,” said Red to end the conversation.

  “You’re lying. You don’t know. Have you heard about the Golden Ball?”

  “Yes.”

  “You think it’s a fairy tale?”

  “You’d better keep quiet. Save your strength.”

  “It’s all right. You’ll carry me out. We’ve gone to the Zone so many times. Could you abandon me? I knew you when. You were so small. Your father…”

  Redrick said nothing. He wanted a cigarette badly. He took one out, crumpled the tobacco in his hand, and sniffed it. It didn’t help. “You have to get me out. I got burned because of you. You’re the one who wouldn’t take the Maltese.”

  The Maltese was itching to go with them. He had treated them all evening, offering a good percentage, swore that he would get a special suit, and Burbridge, who was sitting next to him, kept winking to Red behind his leathery hand. Let’s take him, we won’t go wrong. Maybe that was why Red said no.

  “You got it because you were greedy,” Red said coldly. “I had nothing to do with it. You’d better be quiet.”

  For a while, Burbridge moaned. He had his fingers in his collar again and his head was thrown back.

  “You can have all the swag,” he gasped. “Just don’t leave me.”

  Redrick looked at his watch. There wasn’t much time until dawn, and the patrol car was still there. Its spotlights were still searching the bushes, and their camouflaged jeep was quite close to the police car. They could find it any minute.