Fantasy The Best of 2001

by Robert Silverberg

  “Another?” the bartender asked.

  “Sure.” Chemayev pushed the glass forward.

  “Two’s the limit, I’m afraid. It’s precious stuff.” The bartender lifted the glass that Chemayev had refused, offered a silent toast and drank. “Fuck, that’s good!” He dabbed at his mouth with a cocktail napkin. “Almost everyone who tries it comes back and offers to buy a couple of bottles. But it’s not for sale. You have to meet with Yuri to earn your two shots.”

  “Or work as a bartender in Eternity, eh?” Chemayev suggested.

  “Privileges of the job. I’m always delighted to serve a suspicious soul.”

  “I imagine you get quite a few.”

  “People have every right to be suspicious. This is a weird place. Don’t get me wrong—it’s great working here. But it takes getting used to.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t bet on it. You have no idea what goes on here after hours. But once you’ve met Yuri”—the bartender slung a towel over his shoulder—“you’ll probably be able to educate me. Everyone says it’s quite an experience.”

  Chemayev downed the second vodka. Yet another video was showing on the TV, and something was interfering with the transmission. First there was an intense flickering, then a succession of scenes skittered across the screen, as if the video were playing on an old-fashioned projector and the film was breaking free of the spool. He glanced at the bartender. The man was standing at the opposite end of the counter with his head thrown back, apparently howling with laughter; yet though his mouth was open and the ligature of his neck cabled, he wasn’t making a sound. His white hair glowed like phosphorus. Unnerved, Chemayev turned again to the TV. On screen, to the accompaniment of a gloomy folk song, two women in white jumpsuits were embracing on a couch, deep in a passionate kiss. As he watched, the taller of the two, a blond with sharp cheekbones, unzipped her lover’s jumpsuit to the waist, exposing the slopes of her breasts . . . . It was at this point that Chemayev experienced a confusing dislocation. Frames began flipping past too rapidly to discern, the strobing light causing him to grow drowsy yet dumbly attentive; then a veneer of opaque darkness slid in front of the screen, oval in shape, like a yawning mouth. There was a moment when he had a claustrophobic sense of being enclosed, and the next instant he found himself standing in the blackness beyond the mouth. He had the impression that this black place had reached out and enveloped him, and for that reason, though he remained drowsy and distanced from events, he felt a considerable measure of foreboding.

  From Chemayev’s vantage it was impossible to estimate the size of the room in which he stood—the walls and ceiling were lost in darkness—but he could tell it was immense. Illumination was provided by long glowing silvery bars that looked to be hovering at an uncertain distance overhead, their radiance too feeble to provide any real perspective. Small trees and bushes with black trunks and branches grew in disorderly ranks on every side; their leaves were papery, white, bespotted with curious, sharply drawn, black designs—like little leaf-shaped magical texts. This must be, he thought, the garden Polutin had mentioned, though it seemed more thicket than garden. The leaves crisped against his jacket as he pushed past; twigs clawed at his trouser legs. After a couple of minutes he stumbled into a tiny clearing choked with pale weeds. Beetles scuttered in amongst them. Fat little scarabs, their chitin black and gleamless, they were horrid in their simplicity, like official notifications of death. The air was cool, thick with the skunky scent of the vegetation. He heard no sound other than those he himself made. Yet he did not believe he was alone. He went cautiously, stopping every so often to peer between branches and to listen.

  After several minutes more he came to a ruinous path of gray cobblestones, many uprooted from their bed of white clay, milky blades of grass thrusting up among them. The path was little more than a foot wide, overhung by low branches that forced him to duck; it wound away among trees taller than those he had first encountered. He followed it and after less than a minute he reached what he assumed to be the center of the garden. Ringed by trees so tall they towered nearly to the bars of light was a circular plaza some forty feet in width, constructed of the same gray stones, here laid out in a concentric pattern. In its midst stood the remains of a fountain, its unguessable original form reduced to a headhigh mound of rubble, a thin stream of silvery water arcing from a section of shattered lead pipe, splashing, sluicing away into the carved fragments tumbled at its base. Sitting cross-legged beside it, his back to Chemayev, was a shirtless man with dark shoulder-length hair, his pale skin figured by intricate black tattoos, their designs reminiscent of those on the leaves.

  “March?” Chemayev took a step toward the man. “What are you doing here?”

  “What am I doing here?” March said in a contemplative tone. “Why, I’m feeling right at home. That’s what I’m doing. How about yourself?”

  “I have a meeting,” Chemayev said. “With Yuri Lebedev.”

  March maintained his yogi-like pose. “Oh, yeah? He was banging about a minute ago. Try giving him a shout. He might still be around.”

  “Are you serious?” Chemayev took another step forward. “Lebedev was here?”

  March came smoothly, effortlessly to his feet—like a cobra rising from a basket. He cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, “Hey, Yuri! Got a man wants to see ya!” He cocked his head, listening for a response. “Nope,” he said at length. “No Yuri.”

  Chemayev shrugged off his jacket and draped it over a shoulder. March’s disrespect for him was unmistakable, but he was uncertain of the Irishman’s intent. He couldn’t decide whether it would be safer to confront him or to walk away and chance that March would follow him into the thickets. “Do you know where the door to Yuri’s office is?”

  “I could probably find it if I was in the mood. Why don’t you just poke around? Maybe you’ll get lucky.”

  Confrontation, thought Chemayev, would be the safer choice—he did not want this man sneaking up on him.

  “What is this all about?” He gave a pained gesture with his jacket, flapping it at March. “This thing you’re doing. This . . . Clint Eastwood villain thing. What is it? Have you been sent to kill me? Does Polutin think I’m untrustworthy?”

  “My oh my,” said March. “Could it be I’ve made an error in judgment? Here I thought you were just another sack of fish eggs and potato juice, and now you’ve gone all brave on me.” He extended his arms toward Chemayev, rotated them in opposite directions. The tattoos crawled like beetles across his skin, causing his muscles to appear even more sinewy than they were. In the halflight the seamed lines on his face were inked with shadow, like ritual scarifications. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. Why don’t we have us a chat, you and I? A settling of the waters. We’ll pretend we’re a coupla old whores tipsy on lager and lime.” He dropped again into a cross-legged posture and with a flourish held up his right hand—palm on edge—by his head. Then he drew the hand across his face, pretending to push aside his dour expression, replacing it with a boyish smile. “There now,” he said. “What shall we talk about?”

  Chemayev lowered into a squat. “You can answer my questions for a start.”

  “Now that’s a problem, that is. I fucking hate being direct. Takes all the charm out of a conversation.” March rolled his neck, popping the vertebrae. “Wouldn’t you prefer to hear about my childhood?”

  “No need,” said Chemayev. “I used to work in a kennel.”

  “You’re missing out on a grand tale,” said March. “I was all the talk of Kilmorgan when I was a lad.” He gathered his hair behind his neck. “I foresee this is not destined to be a enjoyable conversation. So I’ll tell you what I know. Your Mister Polutin feels you’re on the verge of making a serious mistake, and he’s engaged me to show you the error of your ways.”

  “What sort of mistake?”

  “Ah! Now that, you see, I do not know.” March grinned. “I’m merely the poor instrument of his justice.”
r />   Chemayev slipped off his shoulder harness, folded it on top of his coat; he did the same with his money belt. “So Polutin has sent you to punish me? To beat me?”

  “He’s left the degree of punishment up to yours truly,” March said. “You have to understand, I like to think of myself as a teacher. But if the pupil isn’t capable of being taught . . . and you’d be surprised how often that’s the case. Then extreme measures are called for. When that happens there’s likely to be what you might call a morbid result.” He squinted, as if trying to make out Chemayev through a fog. “Are you afraid of me?”

  “Petrified,” said Chemayev.

  March chuckled. “You’ve every right to be confident. You’ve got about a yard of height and reach on me. And what . . .? Maybe a stone and a half, two stone in weight? By the looks of things I’m vastly overmatched.”

  “How much is Polutin paying you?”

  “Let’s not go down that path, Viktor. It’s unworthy of you. And disrespectful to me as well.”

  “You misunderstand.” Chemayev tossed his shirt on top of the money belt. “I simply wish to learn how much I’ll profit from breaking your neck.”

  March hopped to his feet. “You’re a hell of a man in your own back yard, I’m certain. But you’re in a harsher world now, Viktor old son.” He gave his head a shake, working out a tightness in his neck. “Yes, indeed. A world terrible, pitiless, and strange. With no room a’tall for mistakes and your humble servant, Niall March, for a fucking welcome wagon.”

  Chemayev took great satisfaction in resorting to the physical. In a fight all of the vagueness of life became comprehensible. Frustration made itself into a fist; nameless fears manifested in the flexing of a muscle. The pure principles of victory and defeat flushed away the muddle of half-truths and evasions that generally clotted his moral apparatus. He felt cleansed of doubt, possessed of keen conviction. And so when he smiled at March, dropping into a wrestler’s crouch, it was not only a show of confidence but an expression of actual pleasure. They began to circle one another, testing their footing, feinting. In the first thirty seconds March launched a flurry of kicks that Chemayev absorbed on his arms, but the force of each blow drove him backward. It had been plain from the outset that March was quick, but Chemayev hadn’t realized the efficiency with which he could employ his speed. The man skipped and jittered over the uneven terrain, one moment graceful, dancing, then shuffling forward in the manner of a boxer, then a moment later sinking into an apelike crouch and lashing out with a kick from ground level. Chemayev had intended to wait for the perfect moment to attack, but now he understood that if he waited, March was likely to land a kick cleanly; he would have to risk creating an opening. And when March next came into range he dove at the man’s back leg, bringing him down hard onto the stones.

  The two men grabbed and countered, each trying to roll the other and gain the upper position, their breath coming in grunts. March’s quickness and flexibility made him difficult to control. After a struggle Chemayev managed to turn him onto his back and started to come astride his chest; but March’s legs scissored his waist, forcing him into a kneeling position, and they were joined almost like lovers, one wobbling above, the other on his back, seemingly vulnerable. Chemayev found he was able to strike downward at March’s face, but his leverage was poor, the blows weak, and March blocked most of them with his arms, evaded others by twitching his head to the side. Soon Chemayev grew winded. He braced himself on his left hand, intending to throw a powerful right that would penetrate the Irishman’s guard; but with a supple, twisting movement, March barred Chemayev’s braced arm with his forearm, holding it in place, and levered it backward, dislocating the elbow.

  Chemayev screamed and flung himself away, clutching his arm above the elbow, afraid to touch the injury itself. The pain brought tears to his eyes, and for a moment he thought he might faint. Even after the initial burning shock had dissipated, the throbbing of the joint was nearly unbearable. He staggered to his feet, shielding the injury, so disoriented that when he tried to find March, he turned toward the trees.

  “Over here, Viktor!” March was standing by the fountain, taking his ease. Chemayev made to back away, got his feet tangled, and inadvertently lurched toward him—the jolt of each step triggered a fresh twinge in his arm. His brain was sodden, empty of plan or emotion, as if he were drunk to the point of passing out.

  “What d’ye think, sweetheart?” said March. “Am I man enough for you, or are you pining yet for young Tommy down at the pub?” He took a stroll away from the fountain, an angle that led him closer to Chemayev but not directly toward him. He spun in a complete circle, whirling near, and kicked Chemayev in the head.

  A white star detonated inside Chemayev’s skull and he fell, landing on his injured elbow. The pain caused him to lose consciousness and when he came to, when his eyes were able to focus, he found March squatting troll-like beside him, a little death incarnate with curses in the black language scrawled across his skin and long dark hair hiding his face like a cowl.

  “Jesus, boyo,” he said with mock compassion. “That was a bad’un. Couple more like that, we’ll be hoisting a pint in your honor and telling lies about the great deeds you done in your days of nature.”

  Chemayev began to feel his elbow again—that and a second pain in the side of his face. He tasted blood in his mouth and wondered if his cheekbone was broken. He closed his eyes.

  “Have you nothing to say? Well, I’ll leave you to mend for a minute or two. Then we’ll have our chat.”

  Chemayev heard March’s footsteps retreating. A thought was forming in the bottom of his brain, growing strong enough to sustain itself against grogginess and pain. It pushed upward, surfacing like a bubble from a tar pit, and he realized it was only a mental belch of fear and hatred. He opened his eyes and was fascinated by the perspective—a view across the lumpy rounded tops of the cobblestones. He imagined them to be bald gray midgets buried to their eyebrows in the earth. He pushed feebly at the stones with his good arm and after inordinate labor succeeded in getting to his hands and knees. Dizzy, he remained in that position a while, his head hung down. Blood dripping from his mouth spotted the stones beneath him. When he tried to stand his legs refused to straighten; he sat back clumsily, supporting himself with his right hand.

  “A beating’s a terrible thing,” said March from somewhere above. “But sometimes it’s the only medicine. You understand, don’t you, Viktor? I’ll wager you’ve handed out a few yourself. What with you being such a badass and all.” He was silent for a couple of ticks. “Polutin assures me you’re a bright lad. And I’m inclined to agree . . . though I’m not sure I’d go so far as saying you’re a bloody genius. Which is Polutin’s view of the matter. He’s an absolute fan of your mental capacities. If mental capacity was rock and roll he’d be front row at all your concerts, blowing kisses and tossing up his room key wrapped in a pair of knickers.” Another pause. “Am I getting through to you, Viktor?”

  Chemayev nodded, a movement that set his cheekbone to throbbing more fiercely.

  “That’s good.” March’s legs came into view. “According to Polutin, your talents lie in your ability to organize facts. He tells me you can take a newspaper, the Daily Slobova or whatever rag it is you boys subscribe to, and from the facts you’ve gathered in a single read, you’re able devise a money-making scheme no one’s thought of before. Now that’s impressive. I’m fucking impressed, and I don’t impress easy. So here’s what I’m asking, Viktor. I’m asking you to marshal that massive talent of yours and organize the facts I’m about to present. Can you handle that?”

  “Yes,” said Chemayev, not wanting to risk another nod. His elbow was feeling stronger and he wondered if the fall might not have jammed the bone back into its socket. He shifted his left arm, and though pain returned in force, he seemed to have mobility.

  “All right,” said March. “Here we go. First fact. Polutin loves you like a son. That may seem farfetched, considering the cra
p he rubs in your face. But it’s what he tells me. And it’s for certain fathers have treated sons a great deal worse than he treats you. Love’s too strong a word, perhaps. But there’s definitely paternal feelings involved. Why he’d want a son, now, I’ve no idea. The thought of fathering a child turns my stomach. The little bollocks start out pissing on your hand and wind up spitting in your face and stealing the rent money. But I had a troubled upbringing, so I’m not the best judge of these things.”

  He paced off to the side, moving beyond Chemayev’s field of vision. “Second fact. Whatever game you’ve been playing, it’s over. Terminated. Done. And by the way, I’ll be wanting you to tell me exactly what it was. Every last detail. But that can wait till you’ve got the roses back in your cheeks. Third fact. You’ve made one mistake. You can’t afford another. Are you following me, Viktor? You’re on the brink of oblivion with ten toes over the edge. No more mistakes or you’re going to fall a long, long way and hit the ground screaming.” March’s legs came back into view. “Fact number four. God is dead. The certain hope of the Resurrection is a pile of shite. You have my word on it. I’ve seen to the other side and I know.”

  Chemayev found he could make a fist with his left hand. To test his strength he tightened it, fingernails cutting into his palm. March’s voice was stirring up a windy noise inside his head, like the rush of traffic on a highway.

  “There you have it, Viktor. Four little facts. Organize away. Turn ’em over in your mind. See if you can come up with a scheme for living.”

  Chemayev wanted badly to satisfy March, to avoid further punishment; but the facts with which he had been presented offered little room for scheming. Instead they formed four walls, the walls of the lightless world in which he had been confined before meeting Larissa. It occurred to him that this was exactly what March wished him to conclude and that he could satisfy him by saying as much. But the thought of Larissa charged him with stubbornness. She was the fifth fact he could not ignore, the fact that had shattered those walls. Thanks to her there was a sixth fact, a seventh, an infinity of fact waiting to be explored.