"I've been driving for days," he said. "I just can't keep my eyes open."
"All right," said Staefler. "Take Number Fourteen. Top of the stairs, to your left. Bathroom's at the end of the hall. I'll call you for supper. The kid got a chicken."
Moore's eyes widened. "Fresh chicken?" he said.
"Yeah." Staefler grinned. "Just don't tell anybody else."
"That's not the Utopia 3 way to talk," said Moore, smiling.
"You really bought that line, didn't you?" said Staefler. "You're not going to report me, are you?"
"No, but just remember, you're among friends." He turned and went slowly up the stairs.
Staefler watched him. "I remember," he thought. "All the time, I remember. I'm among nuts."
* * *
Two days later Norman Moore watched Staefler and the Arab kid drive away in their black Mercedes. He went into the inn and gathered his own belongings. He took four bottles of wine and a moldy round cheese from the cellar of the inn. He sat behind the wheel of his car, wondering where to go. He took out a map, but his eyes wouldn't focus on it. He felt very lonely. He realized that it was almost impossible to get in contact with another person, any other person. He had no way of knowing for sure where to find someone to talk to. There were always the Utopia 3 centers, of course, but he hated to go to them. The staff in the centers made him feel inadequate, as though he had admitted his failure, his inability to cope without outside help.
He shook his head and studied the map. He saw Metz to the north. He went there. Then he went to Luxembourg. From there he went to Koblenz, and then Frankfurt. He visited Heidelberg, Stuttgart, and Augsburg. He decided to return to Munich, but on the way he saw a roadsign pointing to Dachau. He gave a little shriek, stopped the car, and took out the map. At last he turned around and drove until he reached Stuttgart again. He was unhappy and very frustrated, but he couldn't identify the source of the feeling. Somehow the Utopia 3 experience was not delivering what he had hoped to find.
He settled for a while in Genoa, a city on the western boundary of Utopia 3. It was late November, and Moore sat in his hotel room staring out over the flat gray of the Ligurian Sea. Only a few hundred yards to the west, along the beach, was land that was beyond the jurisdiction of Utopia 3. In warmer weather he could have watched people sunning themselves or splashing in the ocean. They would have been free people. They would have been—free. Moore felt a tear tickling his cheek. Why did he suddenly feel bound? Why did he feel captured? He stared at the dull sea and the drab beach. The sun set slowly before his eyes, but he did not move.
Norman Moore was appearing as a contestant on a television game show. It was only a dream, of course, but nevertheless the sleeping man's hands were hot with sweat. The dream easily became a nightmare. Moore muttered to himself and stirred in his chair, but he did not awaken.
"Hello, Norman," said the television announcer in his dream, "and welcome back to our game. While you were off-stage, we asked your lovely wife how often she pretended ecstasy each month, just to make you feel more like a man. She's written her answer on her slate, and now we want you to tell the studio audience and the folks at home what you think she's said." The announcer smiled at him, but that only made Moore feel worse. He tried to protest, to explain that he didn't think that he belonged there, but the master of ceremonies wouldn't listen. Moore turned to his wife, but suddenly she had become Eileen Brant and she just stood there, laughing. The studio crowd was laughing, and the cameramen were making rude remarks, and like a sudden shock of electricity Moore knew what the answer was, but it was too humiliating to speak aloud. Soon, in a matter of seconds, the announcer would ask Brant to turn the slate around, so everyone could see....
Moore awoke. His back hurt and his neck was stiff. He stood up and stretched his cramped muscles. It was a gray and gloomy morning. He yawned, watching a slow drizzle make patterns on the grimy windowpane. He got the idea to visit Brant in her palace in Florence. He needed to be with someone, to dispel the feeling that he had been condemned to a life of isolation. Even if Brant were hostile to his visit, as she very likely might be, it would help him recover his spirit. And then he could spend some time poking around the nearby towns, places with familiar names out of Shakespeare: Padua, Verona, Mantua, Venice.
He threw his luggage into the trunk of a Ford Torino in the hotel's parking lot and began driving south, along the coast. He passed slowly through Pisa, searching out the tower, and then drove east toward Florence. Not long out of Pisa, a car roared by on the other side of the road. It was Staefler's black Mercedes, looking very much like the car Moore imagined Death itself would drive. Moore caught a glimpse of Staefler lounging in the rear seat, his feet dangling from an open window. Staefler saluted him as the Mercedes passed, raising a glass of amber liquid in a mock toast. Even before Moore recovered from the surprise, the Mercedes had disappeared around a bend in the road.
Moore braked the Ford and made a U-turn. He did not know for certain that Brant would be in Florence. He decided to take off after Staefler. He wondered how long it would take his Torino to overtake the Mercedes, if indeed it ever would.
* * *
The black Mercedes ran out of fuel outside the town of Pien, about an hour's drive from the Swiss border. Staefler got out of the car and sat on a large boulder, while the Arab kid took the gas can and siphoning gear and started walking along the highway. Staefler stretched in the cold air, yawned, and decided to get back in the car and take a nap.
Many minutes later the Ford Torino slowed to a stop at the side of the road. The Arab kid was pouring gasoline into the Mercedes's fuel tank. Moore watched for a while, uncertain how to approach Staefler. The boy didn't turn from his labor and Staefler, inside the Mercedes, was evidently still asleep. Moore smiled to himself, but that changed slowly to a frown. He wondered if catching up to Staefler had made his condition better or worse. It all depended on how he felt about the man. That was another thing Moore wasn't sure of.
While the two cars waited beneath a cloudy winter sky a third automobile swung around them and sped away northward. Moore was startled to see that it was the silver Audi. He quickly turned the key in the ignition and squealed out in pursuit. In his mirror he could see the Arab kid, who had awakened Staefler and was now pointing down the road. In a few seconds that scene became too indistinct to observe, and Moore concentrated on catching up with Brant.
The woman had left Pilessio, her private country home, happy to have regained a little of her mental equilibrium. She was relaxed enough to try a little adventure. She intended to drive straight up to Rheims; a passing reference to some pious buildings of great beauty in one of her guidebooks had caught her attention, and she couldn't think of anything else to do, anyway. Besides, it was winter and she wanted to see Switzerland and the Alps at their best advantage. She was a little dismayed to see not only Moore's Ford but also Staefler's Mercedes as she dashed through Pien.
Her annoyance grew when she saw that Moore had started after her. "Darn it," she muttered. "Doesn't that guy have a home?" She was already driving as fast as she dared. When she glanced in the mirror she saw that the Ford was falling behind, but that the Mercedes, riding in what had been the oncoming lane, was rapidly closing the distance. Already Staefler had passed Moore, the evil Arab boy leaning heavily on the horn, and the Mercedes was only a few car lengths behind her Audi. When the black car pulled alongside, Brant became furious. "Hey," she yelled, neglecting to roll down her window, "you're blocking the view!" Indeed, the lovely Schweigenburg was moving slowly astern, with the Mercedes eclipsing some of the more beautiful aspects. The Arab kid showed no sign of having heard, and Staefler was sitting in the back making incomprehensible signs to her. When Brant did not reply Staefler leaned forward and gave some instructions to the boy. The Mercedes picked up speed. They were already traveling at speeds unsafe for the condition of the road and the season, but the black car pulled farther ahead of the Audi. The boy cut over and forced Brant off the
road.
"That did it!" screamed the woman. She turned off the engine, opened the door, and ran from the car. Staefler followed her. There was snow on the ground beside the highway; Brant slipped and fell on her back.
"How are you?" cried Staefler. "How's Florence?"
"Go to hell!" said Brant, standing up and brushing herself off.
"Hey, that's no way to talk," said Staefler. Moore had arrived, and he was running toward them.
"I hate you both!" shouted Brant. "I really do. Now leave me alone."
"What's going on here?" asked Moore, turning to Staefler. "Are you bothering her? What's wrong, Eileen? Is this creep giving you a hard time?"
Brant glared at him. "Listen. I already said it. Leave me alone. Let me go."
"All right," said Staefler, confused. "All right. Go. I'm sorry."
"You better be," said Moore. Brant went back to her car, looking warily over her shoulder at the two men. They seemed to be getting into their own argument, and she took the opportunity to escape. Neither man seemed aware of her departure. They started pushing each other, and Staefler slipped on the ice and fell to his knees. Moore laughed derisively and hurried to his Ford. A moment later Staefler and the Arab kid drove after him. The Mercedes caught the Ford halfway up Mount Faljot. Moore got out and began to run up a trail that had been created for hikers who wished to avoid the ski crowd. Staefler ran after him, puffing white clouds of breath with every stride. The Arab kid stayed by the car.
The two men climbed the steep trail, which was covered with ice. Moore began to panic, as he wondered what nonsensical situation he had gotten himself into. There had to come a moment, either when Staefler caught up with him or when they both ran out of mountain, when a crisis would occur. Would it have to result in physical injury? All because of Brant? Moore was horrified; he was even able to see the foolishness from Brant's point of view. But things had gone beyond the point where they could be easily stopped. He couldn't just hold up his hand and try to reason with Staefler. What could Moore say? Could he try to persuade Staefler of the ideals of Utopia 3? Perhaps the best thing was to stand still and let Staefler take a swing at Moore's chin. It would save a lot of time, and it was getting very cold.
At last, on a wide ledge high above the parked cars, they had their confrontation. It was every bit as unpleasant as Moore had feared. They pulled at each other, though all the while watching the unguarded edge of the icy shelf, and they grunted, and they swung ill-timed blows to each other's padded abdomens, and they muttered inaudible insults and confused challenges. They fell to the snow-blanketed ground and rolled back and forth, getting snow up their sleeves and trouser legs, where it stung. They never unleashed their genuine fury in terror of the cliff's edge. Finally, tired and numb with cold, they separated and rolled away from each other. They sat up, rubbing their freezing hands and ears, staring at each other, panting, wondering what they had done and what ought to be done next. Each realized that it would look supremely ludicrous to stand up and walk together back to the cars. Finally Staefler, the complete competitor, got up and turned his back on Moore, in a ridiculous and empty gesture of contempt. Moore waited for a minute and then followed the other man down. The Mercedes was already gone when he reached the road; he got into his Ford Torino and drove northward into Switzerland.
This is the end of Part One.
STOP.
Put your pencil down.
Do not turn the page.
Do not go on to Part Two
until you are told to do so.
Begin Part Two.
Two
A New Mann
Asleep, Bo Staefler looked like an art treasure. He looked like the kind of relic that is valuable only because it is old. Statues from extinct cities are invariably masterpieces, as though it had been forbidden for any ancient person, any Persian, Greek, Etruscan, Roman, Egyptian artist to turn out mediocre work. There must have been warehouses full of bad art, just as there is today. There must have been whole nations full of junk. And that was precisely what Bo Staefler looked like when he was asleep.
The dim glow of morning lit Staefler's face. The light that passed through the heavy drapes was weak, but it made Staefler turn away. He raised one arm and covered his eyes. He was waking up. He lifted his head from the pillow and granted. The hand that covered his eyes reached down and scratched his chest. He grunted again. He sat up. He stared. He remembered the stinging cold snow as it melted and dripped down his back. He shuddered as he remembered the pain in his red hands. He remembered the sharp bite of the cold in his ears. He recalled the wetness, the sodden, thorough chill of the foolish battle on Mount Faljot. Staefler looked at his hands to see if they were still red and chapped. He touched his earlobes carefully.
He got out of bed and walked across the large hall to a window. Staefler frowned. The fight with Moore had happened months ago. Now it was March. He was in Venice. Outside, the water of the Canale di San Marco lapped and rippled in a mosaic of brown, green, and blue. The day was mild, the sky was clear. He looked out over the water, toward the islands. Nothing moved. There were no sounds. Staefler was alone.
That didn't bother him at all. He turned and went back to the bed. When he had undressed the night before, he had thrown his clothes across the foot of the mattress. He dressed quickly and finished a can of beer he had left half empty the night before.
In the days before Utopia 3 the bedroom had been the Sala del Maggior Consiglio, the Great Council Hall in the Palace of the Doges. It was the largest hall in one of the most formidable buildings in the world. Staefler thought that making it his bedroom would add a little class to his life. He knew that to win his war with Eileen Brant he would need a few touches of class. He had carted a full-size mattress and box springs over the water, and then wrestled them through the Palazzo Ducale to his chamber. He had set up his mattresses at the foot of the steps beneath the throne. This way, Staefler thought, he had as a headboard the largest painted canvas in the world. Every night as he waited for sleep, every morning as he waited for full consciousness, Staefler stared up at Tintoretto's immense portrayal of "Paradise." Staefler rarely looked at it other than when he was in bed, so his chief impression of the thing was upside down.
Staefler had made Venice his own. He had traveled with his young Arab companion from one end of Utopia 3 to the other, back and forth, up and down. He had followed guidebooks through all the cities, through all the abandoned picturesque spots, among all the tedious places of historical interest. At last, when he realized that he would have to make one place his sanctuary, he had chosen Venice. He didn't choose the city because he loved it. He would truly rather have chosen Munich or Vienna; he preferred beer to wine by a large margin. The reason he had chosen Venice was because Eileen Brant had chosen Florence.
Brant was in Staefler's thoughts as he walked through the cold, echoing rooms of the palace. Dust had settled everywhere, and Staefler's feet had scuffed narrow paths from chamber to chamber. The way led from the elaborately ornate hall to the Bridge of Sighs and across to the former dungeons of the Venetian doges. It was dark in the prison cells and damp, and the air hung still and heavy as though laden with disease. Staefler stopped in front of one of the strong doors and knocked. "Wake up," he called. "Come on. We've got work to do."
The Arab kid came out of the cell. Staefler turned and retraced his way back to the palace, and the boy followed silently. They walked quickly through the halls, past paintings of immeasurable worth. Even Staefler had been awed by the collection of treasures in the palace. At first he had wanted to decorate some of them, just for the hell of it. He had wanted to draw mustaches and eyeglasses on all the personifications of Venice: Venice breaking her chains, Venice leaning on the world, Venice receiving the gifts of the sea from Neptune, Jupiter awarding Venice dominion over the oceans, Venice attended by Peace and Justice, Juno showering wealth on Venice, Venice crowned by Victory, and many others. Staefler had a marking pen and a ladder, but something stopped
him from touching the paintings. For now, at least, the Tintorettos, the Tiepolos, the Veroneses were safe and unspoiled. But the ladder still lay on the cold floor of the Great Council Hall, and the marking pen was still beside the alarm clock and the box of Kleenex. Staefler realized that he might be in Venice for a long time, at least until his undeclared war with Eileen Brant had been decided, one way or the other.
The paintings made Staefler think about her. The voluptuous personifications of Venice were always nearby. So were the exciting female damned souls, and the embodiments of various virtues —they were the worst. But as Staefler skipped down the stairs and out the Porta della Carta, the thoughts of Brant vanished. The day was bright and pleasant, and he wanted to get to work.
"Okay," he said, turning to the Arab kid, "I want you to listen. I don't want you to foul up like you usually do. We're going out and get wood this morning. Capisci?"
The Arab kid stared at him, one hand raised to shade his eyes. There was not a sound from him. He didn't even blink.
"All right," said Staefler, "let's get in the boat." They walked down to the Canale di San Marco, where their small motorboat was tied up. Staefler got in and relaxed. The boy undid the lines, jumped in, and started the motor. The sudden noise startled Staefler. He saw the pigeons in the Piazzetta flutter alarmed into the air. The Arab kid took the boat around the first bend of the Grand Canal and turned into the Rio Nuovo. The smaller canal emptied back into the Grand Canal near the Piazzale Roma. Staefler and the boy tied the boat up there and walked to the huge garage where automobiles, useless in Venice, had been parked.
Death in Florence Page 6
