"Is what all worth what?" he asked.
"Is this all worth that?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
The proctor sighed. "Never mind. Hurry up, will you? Some of the staff are going to play Capture the Flag tonight, and I want to go get ready."
"All right," said Staefler. He carried the test paper and blue book up to her desk. The only thing he had written inside the answer book was the number of Ms test paper. "Here," he said. "Stick it in your ear."
The proctor looked at him with a strange expression. "Dr. Waters wouldn't like that kind of talk."
"Uh," said Staefler.
"I will visit you in your room tonight," murmured the proctor.
"If you're playing Capture the Flag," said Staefler, surprised, "be sure and shower and change your socks first." He scratched his chin, coughed, and left the room sweating heavily.
* * *
The sound of birds twittering outside the window woke Staefler shortly after dawn. For a moment he couldn't remember where he was. He wasn't home in Venice; he knew that because he wasn't sleeping on a double mattress. Of course, he told himself, he could be in Venice, sleeping in one of the former youth hostels or something. But there was another person sleeping in the narrow bed with him. The youth hostels had always been strict about segregating sexes. Staefler had an answer for that, too: The other person might well be the Arab kid, as unpleasant an idea as that was. But this person had a refreshing pine scent. That began a new chain of thought, which led eventually to the realization that the person still asleep beside him was a staff member of Utopia 3's orientation lodge. He looked at her carefully. She was the proctor. She had kept her whispered promise. He shook her gently by the shoulder.
"Um?" she said sleepily.
"What's your name?"
"Huh? Say what?"
"What's your name?"
The proctor opened her eyes. "What time is it?"
"I don't know," said Staefler. "What difference does it make?"
She tried to smile. "I'm a woman of mystery," she said.
"No, you're not." He yawned.
The proctor's smile went away. "My name is Felicia," she said.
"I want to thank you for being so helpful. I was wondering how I did on my test."
"Which test?" she asked. "The one on paper or the one last night?"
"Last night? Which test last night?"
She smiled again. "I've got you worried. You remember last night." She reached under the sheet and pinched him.
"Ouch. Yeah, I remember." Staefler knew for sure that she was one of the nuts.
"You did well enough last night," she said. "You know you didn't do very well on paper."
"It all averages out, doesn't it?" he asked.
"Sure, sure. You come out just a little above 'poor.' A small but significant amount."
"So I can stay? I'm still a utopiate?"
The proctor nodded. "Yes, Bo, you're still a utopiate. But you won't last much longer unless you change your attitude."
Staefler nodded. "Oh, I will, Edith, I will. You can bet I will. And I'll change that Arab kid, too."
"Don't worry about him. It was the picture he drew in his answer book that saved you. And I'm not Edith. Edith was the one before me. The one with the buck teeth and the face like a chicken."
"The kid? The kid's picture? What about last night?"
She laughed shortly. "Like I said, just a little above 'poor.' You should be very grateful to the Arab kid."
Staefler was angry. " 'Poor,' huh?"
"No, Bo. I just said that because you called me Edith." Her voice was flat and emotionless. "You were great, really, just great."
"There," said Staefler, "that's better. Come on, Eileen. Let's get something to eat."
* * *
It was the second week in April, still spring, a little greener, a little warmer, rainier, and still Aries. The Arab kid was driving a tan Saab. Staefler was in the back seat, reading through a pile of mimeographed reports he had gotten from Edith Wangelman. Most of the papers were about how wonderful Utopia 3 was, how successful the project was, how happy the utopiates were, how applications were coming in from all over the world. Time after time, the papers told Staefler that he ought to be immensely grateful. Staefler read that the entire world was watching his behavior and that he shouldn't do anything that would let Utopia 3 down or injure the reputation of Dr. Waters. "Have I done anything to hurt Dr. Waters's reputation?" he asked.
There was no answer from the Arab kid. The boy was wearing a gaudy green-and-white jacket which had once been part of the uniform of the Saarbrucken High School Varsity Marching Band. There was a bass drum in the trunk; it was so big that the trunk lid had to be tied down. The dram had a large green animal's head painted in the center of each side, SAARBRUCKEN was lettered above the heads, and bearcats below. Staefler had allowed the Arab kid to bring the drum because he thought that, after all, the boy should have some hobby, too. Staefler had a vague notion that if the Arab kid learned how to play the drum better, he might provide entertainment at future miniature golf tournaments in Venice.
"Listen to this," said Staefler, reading from one of Utopia 3's press releases. " 'The inmates of Skagastrond Prison in Iceland have gone on a reverse hunger strike, eating everything they can find to mark their hope that Utopia 3 may help to free all prisoners in all lands. Prison authorities, sympathetic to the inmates's demonstration, have been supplying milk and aspirin.'" Staefler crumpled the paper and threw it out the window. "They're probably eating better than we do," he said.
" 'The Pope has issued a statement that Utopia 3 is in the finest tradition of the Roman Catholic Church. Civic leaders from the United States have agreed that Utopia 3 is a grand thing, indeed. Party officials in the Soviet Union have expressed a desire to meet with the legitimate leadership of Utopia 3, although no such body exists. Natives of the Queen Eleanor Islands have sent two hundred coconut shells carved in the likeness of Dr. Bertram Waters to the United Nations. Utopia 3 has been named the National Football League's Defensive Player of the Year. Over one hundred dollars has been pledged anonymously, in the name of Utopia 3, to the annual Toys for Tots campaign in Bristol, South Carolina. Baskin-Robbins has introduced a new flavor of ice cream called "Fruitopia 3." A cake, honoring the marriage of many nations to form Utopia 3, has been baked in Kobe, Japan, and slices will be on sale through the Utopia 3 headquarters for a donation of two dollars and fifty cents, plus postage and handling.' God, this thing goes on for pages." Staefler crushed the rest of the sheets into a ball and threw it out of the car. He looked through the back window and watched the papers flutter in the air and fall slowly to the ground. "Drive on, drive on," he muttered. It was getting dark. They would arrive in Venice around midnight. Staefler hoped the city hadn't sunk into the Adriatic while he had been away.
* * *
Days passed, and Staefler let them pass without comment. He worked in the Piazza San Marco whenever the weather permitted. He devised a laborious method of fixing the two-by-fours to the stone of the square. The wood was to form the outlines of the miniature golf holes. Staefler spread a layer of concrete where he had decided to build a hole. Before the concrete set he stuck large bolts into it, with the round heads of the bolts down in the concrete and the long shanks pointing up to the sky. He measured the position of the bolts and at corresponding places on the two-by-fours he drilled holes. The holes had to be made with a hand drill; Staefler wished that he could have power to run an electric drill, but he didn't dare go to the Utopia 3 center for advice. He lowered the two-by-fours over the bolts and tightened hexagonal nuts on to lock the wood in place. Staefler knew that it would take a very long time to build all thirty-six hundred and thirty-six holes, but he was patient. He knew that when he finished he would have a remarkable testimony to his imagination and cleverness. The female proctor at the orientation lodge would have to take notice.
One morning, the last day of the sun's journey thro
ugh the sign of Aries, Staefler woke up, got dressed, and went down to the Piazza to begin his day's work. He was stunned when he passed though the Porta della Carta, for the pavement was covered by several inches of water. The entire Piazza was under a blanket of sea water. He splashed through it. The wood he had cut to size for the next five holes had floated around the square. He would have to chase each piece down and then sort the entire lot. The chalk outlines were gone; he would have to do all that work over again. "Oh God," he thought, "why this?" He was angry and frustrated. He looked around. The pigeons were watching him from the higher stories of the buildings that bordered on the Piazza, although a few of the dumber birds were wading chest-deep in the sea water, looking for bread crumbs.
A piece of lumber floated near Staefler. He picked it up and threw it like a javelin. There was a splash and a thunk as it fell to the ground not far away. Staefler walked back to the palace.
The sun can't spend forever in any one zodiacal sign. The mystical attributes of Aries must pass away, to give way to the special characteristics of the Bull. Staefler knew nothing of this, but the Arab kid, descendant of generations of Moslem astronomers and Moslem charlatans, had an incomplete knowledge of the power of the stars.
Each sign of the zodiac has dominion over many earthly nations and cities. Aries was now dominant, and people in Aries cities would be more influential than usual during the Aries weeks. Florence was one city associated with the sign of the Ram. Eileen Brant would make a dangerous enemy for another fifteen hours. France and Germany were strong now; that was why Staefler had such a difficult time at the lodge. It had been only the Arab kid's talent for graphic design that had saved Staefler.
Now Staefler wanted to go away, to flee his most recent defeats. He and the boy would begin their trip on the last day of Aries. They would spend their first day at the destination under the sign of Taurus. Staefler did not know these things, but he certainly felt that there were unseen forces massed against him. He had no idea of the nature of these forces, so he had trouble deciding where to go to find peace. A good choice would have been a Taurus city, such as Mantua or Parma. An incorrect choice could endanger the man and the boy needlessly.
At the parking garage near the Piazzale Roma, Staefler walked up and down, trying to decide which car he wanted to use. His indecision here, too, was caused no doubt by the approaching cusp between the signs of Aries and Taurus. A good Aries car would be red and white. Staefler instead chose a maroon Toyota. He walked around the car, kicking its tires, checking the spaciousness of the back seat, looking at his reflection in the waxed trunk lid. The Arab kid stood nearby, holding Staefler's gray suitcase. He was dressed in his band uniform jacket and a pair of white clamdiggers with black stripes down the sides. He opened the door of the Toyota, and Staefler climbed into the back seat. The Arab kid put the suitcase on the passenger seat and got behind the wheel. He turned the key in the ignition and waited for Staefler to choose a destination. "Prague," said Staefler. "Let's go to Prague." Prague is a distinctly Leo city. There would be trouble.
The Arab kid drove the Toyota across the causeway and into Mestre. "You know how to get there?" Staefler asked. The boy didn't reply. He just leaned across the seat and opened the glove compartment. He took out several road maps and handed them to Staefler. "Can't read, right?" said Staefler. "You want me to find it for you?" He looked on one of the maps, then turned it over and read through the index. "It's not here," he said. "I don't get it. Prague's a big city. It's one of the most famous cities Europe has. It has to be here somewhere. What country is it in? Yugoslavia? Yugoslavia or Czechoslovakia or one of those." He studied the maps for a few more minutes. "Is this it?" he asked at last. "Praha. It looks like a big city. It has a star instead of a dot. And it's in Czechoslovakia. That's where we're going. Take a look." He gave the map back to the Arab kid, who glanced at the roads leading to Prague. "It'll be a little over five hundred miles," said Staefler. "A long drive. I wish I had brought some beer and popcorn. We'll stop in Vienna, okay? Be careful driving and don't pick up any hitchhikers." Staefler stretched out as much as he could in the back seat, putting his feet up on the top of the front passenger's seat. His first bad dream had begun before they had even reached Treviso.
* * *
Staefler told the Arab kid to cruise around Vienna for a while so they could find a place to eat. They finally stopped outside Your Father's Mustache. Staefler went in to search the place and quickly crashed painfully into the half door of the checkroom in the dark. He rolled on the carpet and hugged his belly until the pain went away. Then he was so angry he threw a chair into the mirror above the bar. The crash of the glass made him feel a little better. He looked through the bottles of liquor, reading the labels with light from a pack of matches. He didn't find anything he wanted to drink except a bottle of sweet vermouth and six cans of Vernor's ginger ale. He carried them back to the car, and then crossed the street to another bar. He found a few bags of potato chips and a candy machine. He smashed the glass on the machine, but he could only take out the candy displayed above the push buttons and the price markers. He took a bar of peanut brittle, a bag of M&M's, a Hershey bar with almonds, a thin box of cinnamon red hots, and a box of peanuts with ugly, crunchy red stuff on them. There was a part of the machine that dispensed Life Savers, too, but he would have had to break another front glass, and he was in a hurry.
When Staefler went back to the car with the candy and potato chips, he found the Arab kid drinking the vermouth. "Give me that," Staefler said. He reached through the window and grabbed at the bottle, but it slipped through their hands and smashed on the pavement. Staefler glared. "Great," he said. "Terrific. This trip is really turning into something. I ought to make you go in there and get another bottle." The boy's expression didn't change. He pulled one of the cans of ginger ale loose from the plastic packaging and offered it to Staefler. "You think it's all better now, right?" said the man. He took the can, popped the metal tab, and swallowed a mouthful of ginger ale. "It's warm," he said. He opened the door and got back in the car. "Drive on, drive on," he muttered. He watched the dark fronts of the nightclubs as he rode by. He watched the dark streetlights, the dark traffic signals, the dark windows and shop fronts, the dark neon signs, the dark water standing in the clogged gutters, the dark, still, silent fountains of Vienna. After a short time they were no longer in Vienna. They were on their way to Prague. At night the countryside between the two cities looked just like downtown Vienna, and the darkness of Vienna was indistinguishable from the darkness of Venice. That was equality, and as such it was a victory for Utopia 3.
* * *
As soon as they arrived in Prague, Staefler began looking for a place to sleep. He was tired, even though he had napped in the car. He knew that the Arab kid must have been even more exhausted. The boy had had only the ginger ale to keep him awake. That, and the excitement of seeing new places.
They stopped at a motel coming into town. It was a low-slung building, pink stucco with a green shingled roof. It was called the More-Paprsek. There was a large square sign that stood on two chrome poles. The sign used to be lit by fluorescent lights inside, but Staefler could still make out the two words in black letters. He couldn't pronounce either of them. Staefler walked closer to the sign. He wondered what the words meant. There was a small cardboard sign, hand-lettered, taped to the plastic of the sign. It said VACANT PLACE. "Vacancy, huh?" thought Staefler. "Terrific. Just what we need. Czechoslovakia, huh? A motel with a permanent vacancy sign. I know what kind of motel this was. I wonder if they left any forwarding address." He followed the Arab kid into the motel office. Staefler took the key to Room Five and gave the boy the key to Room Ten.
After Staefler went into the dark room he remembered that the Arab kid had the suitcase and in it Staefler's pajamas. Staefler was too tired to go after the suitcase. He would have to spend his first night in Czechoslovakia in the nude.
* * *
The Arab kid was making breakfast. He had
opened a can of sausages, a little can with a few tiny things like miniature hot dogs. They were hors d'oeuvres, meant to be eaten with toothpicks, the kind that have flurries of colored cellophane thread on one end. It didn't make any difference, though, because Staefler didn't know that. "I hope you're making more," he said, "because this little pile isn't going to be enough. You have any relish?" The boy went back into the closet where he had found the sausages. They were in the apartment of the motel's former manager. The Arab kid found a can of potted meat product and a jar of maraschino cherries. Staefler grimaced when he saw the can of meat, but he ate it. He was very hungry.
Just as the boy sat down to eat, there came the sound of someone driving by on the highway. "I wonder who," said Staefler. He sat still, undecided whether or not he should go out to look. He finally stayed where he was. He wasn't all that anxious to meet another nut.
Thirty minutes later, however, the stranger passed the motel again. This time Staefler was out by the Toyota, looking at the road maps. A red Dodge pickup truck slowed as it went by. Staefler looked through the windshield and recognized Norman Moore. "It's Truxeuil all over again," thought Staefler. "This time, though, he gets potted meat product instead of fresh chicken, ginger ale instead of Scotch, and half of a Hershey bar instead of a warm welcome." Moore stopped his pickup in the middle of the road and came toward Staefler.
Death in Florence Page 9
