Every quarter hour a clock tower chimed more of the night away. Sitting alone in the Café de la Fée Blanche, he could hear the distant carnival noises: sirens, the flat clanging of cheap metal bells, the music of small silver bells, shrill organ melodies, gunshots, voices singing, voices laughing. In the immediate area of the café, however, there were few people about—only those who had exhausted their money or their interest and were returning home. Occasionally, the wind brought tenuous hints of strange smells and noises. Still, Ernst had no desire to discover what they might be. Over the years, his route to the city had been long, and these days he was tired.
“I have returned,” said Kebap. Ernst regarded him with some boredom. Kebap leaned casually over the iron rail of the café; Ernst realized that this was the first time in quite a while that he had actually seen the boy, though their conversations had been growing increasingly bizarre for several hours.
“There is no such town in Hindoostan,” said Ernst. “There is no such perfect imitation of this corrupted city. The Lord of Heaven would not allow two pits of damnation in one world.”
“Of course not,” said Kebap, with a wink. “Wherever did you get the idea that there might be another?”
“From the pigeons, of course,” said Ernst, greatly irritated. “The pigeons have to come from somewhere.”
“Why?”
“Have you ever seen a baby pigeon?” asked Ernst. “I don’t believe I ever have. I always wondered where the fledgling pigeons were. We easily view the number of adult birds around; there must be a proportionate mass of immature young. It is a great mystery. And one never sees a dead or dying bird, unless it has been the victim of some accident, generally caused by cruel or careless human agency. I theorize that pigeons are immortal, and the actual carriers and disseminators of all human knowledge. This town of yours in Hindoostan is the product of unimaginative pigeons.”
“You ask dangerous questions, akkei,” said Kebap, his expression fearful. “We had wrens in Armenia, I recall. There were many newly hatched chicks, chirping pleasantly before dusk. But here, about the pigeons, you must learn to keep silent.”
“I believe I know who your mother might be,” said Ernst. “At least, if she is not, Eugenie would be proud to call you her son.”
“My mother stands over there,” said Kebap. “She has not clothed her breasts, as she should in the evening, only because she hopes to intrigue you. She is a very energetic person, akkei, and even though the hour grows late, she still reserves a place in her heart for you.”
Ernst shook his head. The liquor had made him sick. “No, I am sorry. I have ceased hunting after hearts. Indeed, I thought no one followed that fruitless sport any longer.”
“Then there is my older sister. That is her, on the far side of the square, pretending that she is an armless beggar.”
“No, tactless procurer. You have much to learn.”
“I am sorry again,” said Kebap with a cruel grin. “My own body will not be available for perhaps another three years. These are the days of my carefree childhood.”
Ernst stood up and screamed at the child. Kebap laughed and ran toward his mother.
There were few customers in the Fée Blanche after dark. Ernst did not mind; his nights were entrusted to solitude. He actually looked forward to night, when he ceased performing for the benefit of the passersby. Now, his only audience was himself. His thoughts grew confused, and he mistook that quality for complexity. By this time, he was taking his bourbon straight.
There had been a woman, Ernst thought, later in his life than either of his juvenescent calamities; this woman had brought a great settling of his rampant doubts, a satisfaction of his many needs. There had been a time of happiness, he thought. The idea seemed to fit, though the entire memory was clouded in the haze of years and of deliberate forgetfulness. There was a large open space, an asphalt field with painted lines running in all directions. Ernst was dressed differently, was speaking another language, was frantically trying to hide something. He couldn’t see the picture any more clearly. He couldn’t decide whether or not he was alone.
Somehow, it seemed now as if it hadn’t even been his own experience, as though he were recalling the past of another person. He had forgotten very well indeed.
“Your passport, sir?” he whispered, remembering more.
“Yes, here it is,” he answered himself. “I’m sure you’ll find it all in order.” He spoke aloud in German, and the words sounded odd in the hot African night.
“You are Ernst Weinraub?”
“With a T. My name is Weintraub. A rather commonplace German name.”
“Yes. So. Herr Weintraub. Please step over here. Have a seat.”
“Is something wrong?”
“No, this is purely formality. It won’t take a moment to clear it up.”
Ernst recalled how he had taken a chair against the gray and green wall. The official disappeared for a short time. When he returned, he was accompanied by another man. The two spoke quietly in their own language, and quickly enough so that Ernst understood little. He heard his name mentioned several times, each time mispronounced as “Weinraub”.
Ernst stared at the hotel across the avenue. He took a long swallow of bourbon. Now the Fée Blanche was empty again except for himself and M. Gargotier, who sat listening to a large radio inside the dark cave of the bar. Ernst shook his head sadly. He had never gone through such a scene with administrative officials. He had never spelled his name with a “t”. Unless, perhaps, in his youth, when he…
“Monsieur Weinraub! You’re certainly dependable. Always here, eh? What an outpost you’d make.” It was Czerny, his gray uniform soiled, his tunic hanging unbuttoned on his thin frame. He staggered drunkenly; he supported a drunken woman with the aid of another uniformed man. Ernst’s own eyes were not clear, but he recognized Ieneth. He did not answer.
“Don’t be so moody,” said the woman. “You don’t have any more secrets, do you, akkei Weinraub?” Czerny and the other man laughed.
Ernst looked at her as she swayed on the sidewalk. “No,” he said. He took some more of his liquor and waved her away. She paid no attention.
“Here,” said Czerny, “try some of this. From the amusement quarter. A little stand by the Pantheon. The man makes the best stuffed crab I’ve ever had. Do you know Lisbon? The Tavares has a name for stuffed crab. Our local man should steal that honor.”
“Alfama,” said Ernst.
“What is that?” asked Ieneth.
“Alfama,” said Ernst. “Lisbon. The old quarter.”
“Yes,” said Czerny, They were all silent for a few seconds. “Oh, I’m sorry, M. Weinraub. You have the acquaintance of my companion, do you not?”
Ernst shook his head and raised his hand for M. Gargotier, forgetting that the proprietor had retired inside his bar and could not see.
“We have met before,” said the stranger in the uniform of the Gaish. “Perhaps M. Weinraub does not recall the occasion. It was at a party at the home of Safety Director Chanzir.”
Ernst smiled politely but said nothing. “Then may I present my friend?” said Czerny. “M. Weinraub, I am honored to introduce Colonel Sandor Courane.”
Czerny grinned, waiting to see how Ernst would react. Courane reached over the railing to shake hands, but Ernst pretended not to see. “Ah, yes,” he said. “Forgive me for not recognizing you. You write verses, do you not?”
Czerny’s grin vanished. “Do not be more of a fool, M. Weinraub. You see very little from your seat here, you know. You cannot understand what we have done. Tonight the city is ours!”
Ernst drained the last drop of bourbon from his glass. “To whom did it belong previously?” he said softly.
“M. Weinraub,” said Ieneth, “we’ve had some pleasant talks. I like you, you know. I don’t want you to be hurt.”
“How can I be hurt?” asked Ernst. “I’m carefully not taking sides. I’m not going to offend anyone.”
“You offend me,” said Czern
y, beckoning to Ieneth and Courane. The woman and the two uniformed men tottered away down the sidewalk. Ernst got up and took his glass into the bar for more bourbon.
CHAPTER 13
Ernest wandered spiritlessly now, with only a few minutes left to all their lives. So many had already died, victims of the energies of the crowd, or of their own fatal dread. There was no hope. If he could find a token station now, would there be any more tokens? Certain that the disaster was only minutes away, he doubted that he could get to a bunker before midnight.
Where would the death come from? Why wouldn’t they tell him? As he walked, his earlier fantasies returned; his panic grew and spread from him to touch the whole surrounding world. He could not look into the sky, for his fear told him that he would see a blazing comet come screaming down to consume him, explode his ashes, vaporize the last traces of his life. He could not look down, either, for fear of seeing the street begin to break up, right beneath his feet, the pavement crack and thrust and fissure, and he would fall into the earth and burn. The air might suddenly turn poison, or hang in space while the Earth turned out from under it, leaving him to choke in the instant of space. He had lost, but so had all these other millions, and nothing that anyone said could make him feel sad for them.
“It’s not so bad,” said a quiet voice. Ernest looked around, searching through the shrieking crowd for the single calm person. He would have to impress on that man how futile the conditions were. “All you need is the proper attitude. You’ve just been too self-centered.”
Ernest squinted; he saw his father standing on the sidewalk, ignoring the furious riot around him. “Dad?” asked Ernest.
“It’s all right, Ernie,” said his father. “I have Grandpa Ernst with me.” The old man was standing behind Ernest’s father, bent over, coughing and spitting on the ground.
“I’m sorry about how this all turned out,” said Ernest. “I wish I could have been more help.”
“You never thought about us much before,” said his father, smiling sadly. “Anyway, we’re doing all right. Look.” He held up a pair of shiny tokens.
“We were lucky,” said Grandpa Ernst. Before Ernest could grab a token away, his father and grandfather looked different.
“That’s no way to act,” said Old Man Jennings with a hoarse cackle. “Grab ‘em from behind. It always gives ‘em a thrill.”
“That’s my dad,” said Robert L. Jennings, Jr. “The girls in the secretary pool have a nickname for him.”
“I know,” said Ernest. “Leave me alone.”
“They call me the Old Man,” said the elder Jennings. “But I show ‘em who’s old. There’s a lot of life in the old geezer yet.”
“Not for long,” said Ernest. “Anyway, I wanted to talk to you about the Assurance deduction last month. I think somebody in the front office got carried away.”
“It’s really the wrong time to make trouble,” said Sokol.
“I’m not making trouble,” said Ernest. “You guys are ganging up on me. It’s like you’re taking the last chance to throw a little dirt. I don’t think that’s such a terrific thing to do. I’m going to be dead in a few minutes. The least you could do, I’d think, is try to help us all through it.”
“I heard what you said to your father, you cruddy hypocrite,” said Sokol. “You tried to snatch his token, didn’t you? And you’re yelling at me. Well, forget it. I’ll see you soon enough, in Hell.”
“Wait a minute, Sokol,” shouted Ernest, tears stinging his eyes. “Hey, wait. You’re the only person who ever made any sense to me.”
“Listen, Weinraub,” said Sokol as he turned away, walking back into the mob, “sense doesn’t make any sense anymore.”
“Sure,” said Ernest, weeping, “I didn’t like that job. But that’s no reason to leave me alone.”
“You’re not alone,” said the old black woman who gathered Ernest’s finished front panels. “I don’t see how you can stand here in this damn street and say you’re alone. We’re all together, here. You got to open up your eyes, boy.”
“We old women are sticking together, eh?” said Mrs. Capataz, the grocery store owner’s mother. “Old women. The world would have ended a million years ago if it hadn’t been for old women. Young man, you’re a filthy hoodlum. Your face is scarred and bloated. Somebody gave you what you deserved, eh? How do you feel about that? But look at me. I’m an old woman. I’m healthy, thank God, and I’m not beaten. You laugh at old women, but we go on. Our voices are heard.”
“Until you die,” screamed Ernest. A few in the crowd turned to look at him, but he didn’t really appear very different than most of the other people. The city was filled with them now; it was a carnival of lunatics.
“Certainly, she’ll die,” said the old woman’s son. “But so will you. So will all of us. You young jackals are always taunting old women with death. But let me tell you something.” Capataz reached forward boldly; Ernest hoped the man would grab an arm, just so Ernest could feel the truth of physical contact again. But Capataz withdrew, sneering. “Let me tell you something,” he said. “Old women are less afraid of death than you are of life.”
Another woman pushed through the crowd, stopped, and looked startled when she recognized Ernest. “Ah,” she said pleasantly, “it’s Bill, isn’t it? Bill Smith? The young man who caresses automobile licenses?” It was the crazy lady Ernest had met in the crowd a short while before.
“Not any more, I don’t,” he said.
“It’s Elizabeth Costanza. You remember, I was saying that I thought God was going to be run ragged trying to get us all fitted into Heaven.”
“Of course I remember,” said Ernest, waving at her impatiently. “I was just a little amused by your idea of a ‘ragged God.’ These friends of mine don’t want to let me play with thoughts like those, now.”
“I suppose not, considering,” said Mrs. Costanza. “Never mind, then. Would you rather talk about automobiles?”
“Lady,” said Ernest, “I just want to go home.” His breath was raw in his chest; he felt like he had just run a great distance for no purpose.
A clock in the window of a dry cleaning store told Ernest that it was six minutes to twelve. He stood against the iron bars before the window and tried to touch the clock. He wanted to drag the hands back, move the day back to morning, give himself another chance. He slumped against the bars and closed his eyes. He felt a soft, cold touch on his neck. The young naked black woman was standing very near him, still moving in a slow coital rhythm, her eyes shut, smiling, lost in a certain dream of her own. She was shaking her head, saying no to whatever words Ernest might utter.
“She just isn’t your type,” said Eileen. Ernest turned to face her.
“When you get to a certain age,” he said, “you stop having ‘types.’ “
“Well, I like that, I suppose I was just another warm chance for you?”
“You know you were. When women get to a certain age, they know what they are.”
Eileen nodded. “What a pair we are,” she said, sighing.
“We’re not a pair. We never were, for God’s sake. But if it will make you feel better for the next four minutes, pretend that we had one of the great lost loves of western civilization. It’s all right. Just don’t bother me with it.”
“Nothing bothers you, Ernie,” she said. “You’re just not there.”
“He’s just not there,” said Brenda Vaurigny, the fuser. “You didn’t miss a thing. It was like being alone with a corpse that smelled like beer. It was definitely not the kind of thing I would have chosen to top off my lifetime.”
“All right, you morons,” said Ernest angrily. “You don’t have anything better to do than stand around and makes jokes, huh? And you,” he said to Brenda, “as I recall, you didn’t say a single word. You didn’t make a sound. I’ve had better time lying on my stomach getting a suntan.”
“It’s not my job to entertain you,” said Brenda sarcastically. “I’m just around to help you thro
ugh these rough times. When you don’t have anyone else to turn to. And if you’re such a resourceful individual, why is it that in these last three and a half minutes you don’t have anyone else to turn to?”
“I like it that way,” he said, weeping again.
“No, you don’t,” said Eileen.
“No, I don’t,” he whispered.
“Be careful,” said Vladieki’s voice. “It’s very dangerous getting around in crowds like this. Especially tonight. I think it’s going to clear up, don’t you?”
Ernest looked up into the sky and winced. A tremor of fear shook him. “Things ought to be settled soon,” he said.
“That’s good,” said the small old man. “Things haven’t been settled for such a long while. Now, don’t you wish you’d stayed last night? We could have had such a good time. I could have played my tapes for you. I have a whole drawer filled with priceless mementos. You would have loved to have seen them. But, instead, you had to go. And now you’ve spent a thoroughly unprofitable day out here. No rainbows, no blue birds, no ruby slippers to get you out of this vision.”
“Do you have anything planned for yourself?” asked Ernest.
“It’s too late to try to seduce me now,” said Vladieki with a smile. “I think you’re a nice fellow, but your methods are very obvious.”
“You can drop dead, too,” said Ernest.
“Most assuredly. In about, ah, two minutes and forty seconds.” Vladieki shrugged and made his way among the people nearby. Ernest watched him for a few seconds, then waited nervously. The crowd thinned and gradually disappeared. He glanced around, and found that everyone but himself had moved back against the sides of the buildings, leaving the street and sidewalks free. Their expressions were eager; a few people began clapping in slow cadence. Ernest saw three figures approaching. He recognized the youthful Judy Garland, dressed like Dorothy, Phil Gatelin, Gretchen’s singing idol, and the ancient Roberta Quentini, Vladieki’s spurious lover. The three entertainers marched down the middle of the avenue, waving to the people. Ernest spat in disgust. He wondered if there would be a float with Santa following them.
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