Roadside Picnic Page 8

“What are you talking about?”

  “The swings, was it you who set them up?”

  “I did.”

  “What for?”

  Redrick did not answer and went over to unlock the garage door. The super followed.

  “I asked you why you set up the swings. Who asked you to?”

  “My daughter,” he answered very calmly. He rolled back the door.

  “I’m not asking you about your daughter!” He raised his voice. “That’s another question. I’m asking you who gave you permission? I mean who let you take over the park?”

  Redrick turned to him and stared at the bridge of his nose, pale and covered with spidery veins. The super stepped back and spoke more softly.

  “And don’t you repaint the terrace. How many times have I…”

  “Don’t bother. I’m not going to move out.”

  He got back in the car and started the engine. As he took the wheel, he saw how white his knuckles were. Then he leaned out the window and no longer controlling himself, said:

  “But if I am forced to move, you creep, you’d better say your prayers.”

  He drove into the garage, turned on the light, and closed the door. He pulled the swag from the false gas tank, fixed up the car, put the bag in an old wicker basket, put the fishing gear, still damp and covered with grass and leaves, on top, and put the fish that Burbridge had bought in a store in the, suburbs last night on top of everything. Then he checked the car one more time. Out of habit. A flattened cigarette butt had stuck to the right rear fender. Redrick pulled it away—it was Swedish. He thought about it and put it into the matchbox. There were three butts in it already.

  He didn’t meet anyone on the stairs. He stopped in front of his door and it flew open before he had time to get his keys. He walked in sideways, holding the heavy basket under his arm, and immersed himself in the warmth and familiar smells of home. Guta threw her arms around his neck and froze with her face on his chest. He could feel her heart beating wildly even through his jumpsuit and heavy shirt. He didn’t rush her—he stood patiently and waited for her to calm down, even though he fully sensed for the first time just then how tired and worn out he was.

  “All right,” she finally said in a low husky voice and let go of him. She turned on the light in the entry and went into the kitchen. “I’ll have the coffee ready in a minute,” she called.

  “I’ve brought some fish,” he said in an artificially hearty tone. “Fry it up, won’t you, I’m starved.”

  She came back, hiding her face in her loosened hair; he set the basket on the floor, helped her take out the net with the fish, and they both carried the net to the kitchen and dumped the fish into the sink.

  “Go wash up,” she said. “By the time you’re ready, the fish will be done.”

  “How’s Monkey?” Redrick asked, pulling off his boots.

  “She was babbling all evening,” Guta replied. “I barely got her to go to bed. She keeps asking, where’s daddy, where’s daddy? She wants her daddy all the time.”

  She moved swiftly and quietly in the kitchen, strong and graceful. The water was boiling in the pan on the stove and the scales were flying under her knife, and the butter was sizzling in the largest pan, and there was the exhilarating smell of fresh coffee in the air.

  Redrick walked in his bare feet to the entry hall, took the basket and brought it to the storeroom. Then he looked into the bedroom. Monkey was sleeping peacefully, her crumpled blanket hanging on the floor. Her nightie had ridden up. She was warm and soft, a little animal breathing heavily. Redrick could not resist the temptation to stroke her back covered with warm golden fur, and was amazed for the thousandth time by the fur’s silkiness and length. He wanted to pick up Monkey badly, but he was afraid it would wake her up—besides, he was as dirty as hell and permeated with death and the Zone. He came back into the kitchen and sat down at the table.

  “Pour me a cup of coffee. I’ll wash up later.”

  A bundle of evening mail was on the table: The Harmont Gazette, Sports, Playboy—there was a whole bunch of magazines—and the thick gray-covered Reports of the International Institute of Extraterrestrial Cultures, issue 56. Redrick took a mug of steaming coffee from Guta and reached for the Reports. Squiggles and markings, blueprints of some kind, and photographs of familiar objects from strange angles. Another posthumous article by Kirill: “An Unexpected Property of the Magnetic Trap Type-77b.” The surname Panov was framed in black and below in tiny type it said: “Dr. Kirill A. Panov, USSR, perished tragically during an experiment in April 19…” Redrick tossed away the journal, gulped some coffee, burning his mouth, and asked: “Did anyone drop by?”

  “Gutalin was here,” Guta said, after a slight pause. She was standing by the stove and looking at him. “He was stinking drunk, I sobered him up.”

  “How about Monkey?”

  “She didn’t want to let him go, of course. She started bawling. But I told her that Uncle Gutalin wasn’t feeling very well. And she told me, ‘Gutalin’s smashed again.’”

  Redrick laughed and took another sip. Then he asked another question.

  “What about the neighbors?”

  Guta hesitated again before answering. “Like always,” she finally said. “All right, don’t tell me.”

  “Ah!” she said, waving her hand in disgust. “The woman from below knocked at our door last night. Her eyes were bulging and she was practically spitting with anger. Why are we sawing in the bathroom in the middle of the night?”

  “The dangerous old bitch,” Redrick said through his teeth. “Listen, maybe we should move? Buy a house somewhere out in the country, where there’s no one else, some old abandoned cottage?”

  “What about Monkey?”

  “God, don’t you think the two of us could make her life good?” Guta shook her head.

  “She loves children. And they love her. It’s not their fault that…”

  “No, it’s not their fault.”

  “There’s no use talking about it!” Guta said. “Somebody called you. Didn’t leave a name. I told him you were out fishing.”

  Redrick put down the mug and got up. “OK. I’ll go wash up. I’ve got lots of things to take care of.” He locked himself in the bathroom, threw his clothes in the pail, and placed the brass knuckles, the remaining nuts and bolts, and his cigarettes on the shelf. He turned himself under the boiling hot shower for a long time, rubbing his body with a rough sponge until it was bright red. He shut off the shower and sat on the edge of the tub, smoking. The pipes were gurgling and Guta was clattering dishes out in the kitchen. Then there was the smell of frying fish and Guta knocked, bringing him fresh underwear.

  “Hurry it up,” she ordered. “The fish is getting cold.” She was completely back to normal—and back to being bossy. Redrick chuckled as he dressed—that is, put on his shorts and T-shirt—and went to the table.

  “Now I can eat,” he said as he seated himself.

  “Did you put your underwear in the pail?”

  “Uh-huh,” he said with his mouth full. “Good fish.”

  “Did you cover it with water?”

  “No-ope. Sorry, sir, it won’t happen again, sir. Will you sit still? Forget it!” He caught her hand and tried to pull her into his lap, but she pulled away and sat across from him.

  “You’re neglecting your husband,” Redrick said, his mouth full again. “Too squeamish?”

  “Some husband you are now. You’re just an empty bag, not a husband. You have to be stuffed first.”

  “What if I could?” Redrick asked. “Miracles do happen, you know.”

  “I haven’t seen miracles like that from you before. How about a drink?”

  Redrick played with his fork indecisively.

  “N-no, thanks.” He looked at his watch and got up. “I’m off now. Get my dress-up outfit ready. First class. A shirt and tie.”

  Enjoying the sensation of the cool floor under his clean bare feet, he went into the storeroom and barred the door. He p
ut on a rubber apron and rubber gloves up to his elbows and started unloading the swag on the table. Two empties. A box of pins. Nine batteries. Three bracelets. Some kind of hoop, sort of like the bracelets, but of white metal, lighter, and bigger in diameter by an inch. Sixteen black sprays in a polyethylene case. Two marvelously preserved sponges the size of a fist. Three itchers. A jar of carbonated clay. There was still a heavy porcelain container carefully wrapped in fiberglass in the bag, but Redrick didn’t touch it. He smoked and examined the wealth spread out on the table.

  Then he opened a drawer and took out a piece of paper, a pencil stump, and a calculator. He kept the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, and squinting in the smoke, he wrote number after number, making three columns in all. He added up the first two. The numbers were impressive. He put out the butt in an ashtray and carefully opened the box and spilled out the pins on the paper. In the electric light the pins looked slightly blue and occasionally sputtered with other colors—yellow, red, and green. He picked up a pin and carefully squeezed it between his thumb and index finger, avoiding being pricked. Then he put out the light and waited a bit, getting accustomed to the dark. But the pin was silent. He put it aside and found another one, which he also squeezed. Nothing. He squeezed harder, risking a pinprick, and the pin spoke: weak red flashes ran along the pin and were suddenly replaced by slower green pulses. Redrick enjoyed this strange light play for a few seconds. He had learned from the Reports that the lights were supposed to mean something, maybe something very important. He put the pin in a different spot from the first and picked up another.

  He ended up with seventy-three pins, twelve of which spoke. The rest were silent. Actually they too could speak, but fingers were not enough to get them started. You needed a special machine the size of the table. Redrick put on the light and added two more numbers to his list. And only then did he decide to do it.

  He stuck both hands into the bag and holding his breath brought out a soft package and placed it on the table. He stared at it for a while, thoughtfully rubbing his chin with the back of his hand. Then he picked up the pencil, played with it with his clumsy rubbery fingers, and put it aside. He took another cigarette and smoked the entire thing without taking his eyes off the package.

  “What the hell!” he said out loud and decisively stuffed the package back into the bag. “That’s it. Enough.”

  He quickly gathered all the pins into the box and got up. It was time to go. He probably could get a half hour’s sleep to clear his head, but on the other hand, it was probably a much better idea to get there early and check out the situation. He took off the gloves, hung up the apron, and left the storeroom without turning out the light.

  His suit was ready and laid out on the bed. Redrick got dressed. He was doing his tie in front of the mirror when the floor creaked behind him, and he heard heavy breathing, and he made a face to keep from laughing.

  “Ha!” a tiny voice shouted next to him and someone grabbed his leg.

  “Oh-oh!” Redrick exclaimed, falling back onto the bed.

  Monkey, laughing and squealing, immediately clambered up on him. She trampled him, pulled his hair, and inundated him with an endless stream of news. The neighbor’s boy Willy tore off dolly’s leg. There was a new kitten on the third floor—all white and with red eyes, he probably didn’t listen to his mama and went into the Zone. She had porridge and jam for dinner. Uncle Gutalin was smashed again and was sick. He even cried. Why don’t fish drown if they live in water? Why didn’t mama sleep at night? Why are there five fingers, and and only two hands, and only one nose? Redrick carefully hugged the warm creature that was crawling all over him and looked into the huge dark eyes that had no whites at all, and cuddled his cheek against the plump little cheek covered with silky golden fleece.

  “Monkey. My little Monkey. You sweet little Monkey, you.”

  The phone rang by his ear. He picked up the receiver.

  “I’m listening.”

  Silence.

  “Hello! Hello!”

  No answer. There was a click and then short repeated tones. Redrick got up, put Monkey on the floor, and put on his trousers and jacket, no longer listening to her. Monkey chattered on nonstop, but he only smiled with his lips in a distracted way. Finally she announced that daddy had bit off his tongue and swallowed it and left him in peace.

  He went back into the storeroom, put everything from the table into a briefcase, got his brass knuckles from the bathroom, came back to the storeroom, took the briefcase in one hand and the basket with the bag in the other, went out, carefully locked the door, and called out to Guta.

  “I’m leaving.”

  “When will you be back?” Guta came out of the kitchen. She had done her hair and put on makeup. She was no longer wearing her robe, either, but a house dress, his favorite one, bright blue and low-cut.

  “I’ll call,” he said, looking at her. He walked over and kissed her cleavage.

  “You’d better go,” Guta said softly.

  “What about me? Kiss me?” Monkey whined, pushing between them.

  He had to bend down even lower. Guta watched him steadily.

  “Nonsense,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’ll call.”

  On the landing below theirs, Redrick saw a fat man in striped pajamas fussing with the lock to his door. A warm sour smell was coming from the depths of his apartment. Redrick stopped.

  “Good day.”

  The fat man looked at him cautiously over his fat shoulder and muttered something.

  “Your wife dropped by last night,” Redrick said. “Something about us sawing. It’s some kind of misunderstanding.”

  “What do I care?” the man in the pajamas said.

  “My wife was doing the laundry last night,” Redrick continued. “If we disturbed you, I apologize.”

  “I didn’t say anything. Be my guest.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear it.”

  Redrick went outside, dropped into the garage, put the basket with the bag into the corner, covered it with an old seat, looked over his work, and went out into the street.

  It wasn’t a long walk—two blocks to the square, then through the park and one more block to Central Boulevard. In front of the Métropole, as usual, there was a shiny array of cars gleaming chrome and lacquer. The porters in raspberry red uniforms were lugging suitcases into the hotel, and some foreign-looking people were standing around in groups of two and three, smoking and talking on the marble steps. Redrick decided not to go in yet. He made himself comfortable under the awning of a small cafe across the street, ordered coffee, and lit up a cigarette. Not two feet from his table were three undercover men from the international police force, silently and quickly eating grilled hot dogs Harmont style and drinking beer from tall glass steins. On the other side, some ten feet away, a sergeant was gloomily devouring French fries, his fork in his fist. His blue helmet was set upside down on the floor by his chair and his shoulder holster draped on the chair back. There were no other customers. The waitress, an elderly woman he didn’t know, stood behind the counter and yawned, genteelly covering her painted mouth with her hand. It was twenty to nine.

  Redrick saw Richard Noonan leave the hotel, chewing something, and arranging his soft hat on his head. He boldly strode down the steps—short, plump, and pink, still lucky, well-off, freshly washed, and confident that the day would bring him no unpleasantness. He waved to someone, flung his raincoat over his right shoulder, and walked over to his Peugeot. Dick’s Peugeot was also plump, short, freshly washed, and seemingly confident that no unpleasantness threatened it.

  Covering his face with his hand, Redrick watched Noonan bustle, get comfortable in the front seat, move something from the front seat to the back, bend down to pick something up, and adjust the rearview mirror. The Peugeot expelled a puff of blue smoke, beeped at an African in a burnoose, and jauntily drove out into the street. It looked like Noonan was headed for the institute, in which case he had to go around the fountain and drive pas
t the cafe. It was too late to get up and leave, so Redrick covered his face completely and hunched over his cup. It didn’t help. The Peugeot beeped in his ear, the brakes squealed, and Noonan’s hearty voice called:

  “Hey! Schuhart! Red!”

  Redrick swore under his breath and looked up. Noonan was walking toward him, hand outstretched. Noonan was beaming.

  “What are you doing here at the crack of dawn?” he asked as he approached. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said to the waitress. “Nothing for me. I haven’t seen you in a hundred years. Where’ve you been? What are you up to?”

  “Nothing special,” Redrick said unwillingly. “Just unimportant things.”

  He watched Noonan bustle and establish himself in the chair opposite and move the glass with the napkins in one direction with his plump hands and the plate with sandwiches in another. And he listened to Noonan gab.

  “You look kind of peaked. Not sleeping enough? You know, lately, I’ve been very busy with this new automation stuff, but I never miss my sleep, that’s for sure. The automation can go hang.” He suddenly looked around. “I’m sorry, maybe you’re expecting someone. Have I interrupted? Am I in the way?”

  “No, no,” Redrick said lamely. “I just had some time and thought I’d have a cup of coffee, that’s all.”

  “Well, I won’t keep you long,” Dick said, looking at his watch. “Listen, Red, why don’t you drop your unimportant things and come back to the institute. You know they’ll take you back whenever you want. You want to work with another Russian? There’s a new one.” Red shook his head.

  “Nope, a second Kirill hasn’t been born. Anyway, there’s nothing for me to do in your institute. It’s all automated now, you have robots going into the Zone and that means that the robots get all the bonuses. The lab assistants are paid peanuts. It wouldn’t even keep me in cigarettes.”

  “All that could be arranged.”

  “I don’t like having things arranged for me,” Redrick said. “I’ve taken care of myself all my life, and I intend to keep on doing it.”

  “You’ve become very proud,” Noonan said with condemnation.