Death in Florence

by George Alec Effinger

  Beauty constant under torture. Those were the words that Staefler found scratched into the wood of the gondola, as he glided over the water, rowed by the Arab kid. Beauty. Staefler thought first of Venice, then of Brant, then of Utopia 3. What beauty? Venice's beauty, tortured by him, Staefler himself. Brant's beauty, tortured by her empty past, her empty present, and the prospect of an empty future. Utopia 3 and its beauty, tortured by its own creator. Staefler's own beauty, his inner harmony, whatever remained of it, was being tortured by his growing knowledge, his new perceptions. He wondered what he could do to regain his contentment. Could he take his own soul, color its metaphorical hair black again, paint its lips carmine, rouge its cheeks? That wouldn't do. At the first crisis the blacking would run and mix with the watered rouge, and his soul would be revealed to be not only impotent but a fraud as well.

  Staefler tried to take his mind away from these thoughts. He sat in the gondola wrapped in a cloak, trying to read a poem in a book Brant had given him. He felt uncomfortable trying to read a poem. It was about a dead groundhog. Staefler threw the book into the lagoon, to join the other dead things. He watched the Lido getting closer. Staefler thought again of Brant. He had sat in the Piazza after she left, hoping to hear her footsteps on the flagstones, but he had heard only the faint lapping of water, the noises of the pigeons. He had looked across the square at the clock tower. On top were two great quarterjacks, two Moors that used to strike the hours. Now they were frozen, silent, paralyzed with peace. Venice was in the same condition, and Staefler was getting there, too. Was that what he wanted, what the grand scheme of Utopia 3 was designed for? It was a lot like death, only more tedious.

  The city was now a tribute to death and peace. The equestrian monument, where Courane had put his first poster, was of a dead and forgotten man. Staefler could laugh at the vanity of that man and of the people who built the monument. Did they think it would keep the soldier's memory alive forever? But Staefler realized suddenly that he would never have even that much. There would never be a monument to Bo Staefler. That was the evil of Dr. Bertram Waters: the perpetuation of hopeless dreams, compounded by the betrayal of those dreams to make his own a reality. And now Staefler knew the great good that Utopia 3 could do, by continuing to follow Waters's teachings, by keeping the territory out of his hands, and going on without its scheming founder. Utopia 3 was a collective memorial to all the people in all the world who were able to hope.

  "You know," thought Staefler, "I really would like to have my own Giotto." He recalled the first form he had been given months before at the orientation lodge. "I ought to get a Giotto somewhere. I thought it was some kind of Italian toilet."

  Venice had been the home of artists and of musicians like Monteverdi and Vivaldi. It had to happen that something rubbed off on Staefler, even if it came only from a pigeon and not a Renaissance master. And Venice had been the home of Giovanni Giacomo Casanova, also; Brant had told him that. Staefler smiled. He had guessed her meaning when she had said that.

  "Subito, my little veal cutlet," murmured Staefler. The Arab kid tried to row faster for a few strokes, then fell back into his comfortable rhythm. Staefler had decided to take a room at the Grand Hotel des Bains, on the Adriatic side of the island. The famous casino would be empty, and the theater that had been the site of the annual film festival, and the great hotels and palazzi. But Staefler didn't mind. The sea was still there, and the sand, and the sun. That was enough for him now. They tied up at the landing and walked across the island, toward the sea. Once again the Arab kid walked behind Staefler, carrying the gray suitcase in both arms. Staefler wanted first to find a room for himself at the hotel. They walked through the dusty lobby and parlors and then upstairs. Staefler chose a room on the second floor because he didn't want to have to climb more than two flights to get to his suite. He put the suitcase on a bureau, took out a pair of swimming trunks and a towel, and went back to the parlor. He sat in a chair and gazed around the dim room1

  It had once been very fashionable. It had once been elegant and beautiful. It had once been filled with wealthy travelers from all over the world. Now it was filled with dust, broken glass, one lonely man, one silent Arab kid. The boy brought Staefler a glass of water from a sealed bottle in the main kitchen. The water was warm and tasted strange. The Arab kid sat in a chair across the lobby from Staefler, staring out a window, seeing little of interest.

  Staefler wondered if that was what remained of his life. Sitting, staring, being unsatisfied, being lonely. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The Arab kid's head turned languidly, until he was looking in Staefler's direction. The man found himself gazing into the boy's eyes. It lasted only a moment, but for some reason it was enough to agitate Staefler.

  The water was waiting, Staefler thought. He went out toward the beach and took a small cabana. He changed into his swimming trunks, but instead of going directly into the water he sat outside and watched the boy playing in the surf. How many blond Polish boys and black-haired Spanish girls had run into that same water in just that same way?

  The air seemed heavy and stagnant. There was no breeze to speak of, and the May sun was already oppressively warm. The beach was empty, and the few noises to be heard seemed to Staefler to echo and magnify that loneliness. A bird crying overhead almost brought tears to his eyes. "We cheat ourselves," he thought. "We never keep anything worth having. We never let ourselves."

  Staefler saw the Arab kid swimming in the water, more powerfully than one might have thought possible. Suddenly the boy turned and stood up in the water. It was chest deep, and he waded back toward shore. He laughed and started to run, splashing the water up like jewels on his bare brown skin. It was no noble Roman who emerged from the sea. It was no godling of the ocean; it was a scrawny and unkempt boy, but Staefler felt a strange pride within him. What did it mean? He couldn't answer.

  The Arab kid stopped in the shallows. The dying waves rippled about his ankles. He turned to look eastward, his back turned to Staefler. The sun was above him, and it lit the water and sand like a turquoise and gold frame around the boy. He stood seemingly defying the sea. This was what Utopia 3 was for, Staefler felt. It was for the Arab kid and what the boy represented. In that respect it was for Staefler, too, and Moore, and Brant. It allowed people to stand up unintimidated by their own world.

  The boy looked down at the water frothing at his feet. He sketched idly in the sandy bottom with one foot and, tiring of that, began to walk along the strip of beach. Slowly, again slowly, he turned to look at Staefler. His eyes were bold this time, as though he knew what Staefler had suddenly discovered about Utopia 3. It was not joy that Staefler read in the boy's expression. It was a calm confidence, a feeling that Staefler was beginning to know himself. "Throw off your chains of freedom, the master said," thought Staefler. "Release yourself from the pain of independence."

  The Arab kid was still facing the row of chairs on the slope of sand. He stood with one hand on his hip; then he turned to gaze back over the water. "There is real freedom out there, boy," thought Staefler. "There is real freedom everywhere now, and I know how to find it." His doubts were dying, melting in the flood of emotion like the crumbling islands of Venice were melting beneath the attack of the sea.

  "Help me," he whispered, without knowing whom he called to. The plea was enough. It joined him solidly to a world of new feeling, a place where the ideals of Utopia 3 could be safe from their framer. A warmth grew in him as the union intensified. Staefler smiled weakly. He was almost overcome. Only a matter of yards away, the boy raised his hand from his hip and pointed. "Where?" thought Staefler. The sun, the sky were too bright. Staefler let his eyelids close. "Yes," he thought, "yes." Staefler was at peace.

  EXTRA CREDIT

  Prepare a report to your group concerning how life in the United States would be affected by the existence of Utopia 3. Don't forget to include such consequences as the selling of Utopia 3, including T-shirts, bumper stickers, buttons, mugs, and polit
ical cartoons in the Times; the future of the world of high-level finance, without Switzerland, the Swiss banks, and the money in the secret accounts in those banks; the winter Olympics without Innsbruck; the National Geographic magazine without photographs of blond women in colorful suits, skiing and looking pleased; East-West relations without the Berlin Wall to kick around; the lives of those Americans who happen to be the relatives whom the displaced European people have come to live with; in-depth investigations aired on weekly network news programs; literary works, plays, and social commentaries with titles such as Oh, Bertram!, The Hole in Europe, High Waters, Another Utopia: More's the Pity, or Germany without Germans. Feel free to explore other areas in your own field of endeavor.

  Divide your group into two teams. One team should make a list of the many things a boy can learn from an older, more educated man. The other team should make a list of the possible reasons an older man would want to travel with a young boy who is no relation to him at all. When the two groups get together, score a point for every item on each list which doesn't make the other team laugh. Devise some penalty for the losing team.

  Many professional golfers believe that putting is the most important single aspect of the sport. How do you think the careers of such golf immortals as Walter Hagen, Bobby Jones, Arnold Palmer, and Jack Nicklaus would have been different if, in addition to the other hazards and tensions of the game, they had had to make their greens shots through slowly rotating windmills or up slopes and into small metal pipes? Investigate the possibility of altering the greens of the Augusta National Golf Course by adding tunnels, ramps, banked curves, models of international tourist attractions, angled boards, hummocks of sod, painted bricks, or other novelties of your own invention. You might like to write to the club pros of famous American golf courses.

  Someone in your group might like to make a list of Italian Renaissance artists, particularly those whose works are to be found in Venice. Then find people in your telephone directory whose last names are the same, or nearly the same, as the long-dead painters and sculptors. Call these people and ask them what they've been doing lately. Make a chart of your findings. Special Credit: Look for these strangers in the telephone directories of New York City's five boroughs. Call long distance, if necessary.

  Three

  Moore and More

  S. Norman Moore was having a nightmare.

  Twelve silent blue creatures had appeared on Earth. They had traveled from another galaxy, across distances so vast that the human mind could not comprehend them. The creatures' reasons for coming to Earth were a mystery, and they gave no clues to the bewildered and frightened people who met them.

  The creatures had arrived in different areas around the world. Two of them, for purposes known only to themselves, appeared in the empty city of Prague. They walked the old city's streets and cobbled lanes, examining the abandoned shops and dwellings with a kind of sterile curiosity. Never showing emotion, never communicating in any outward way, never stopping to puzzle over the meaning and significance of human artifacts, they moved about the ancient Czechoslovakian capital like bored and jaded tourists.

  At one point in the nightmare the two blue creatures came to the wide Vaclavske Namesti, Wenceslaus Square. They made no sounds, but they attracted the attention of S. Norman Moore, who dreamed that he was pacing nervously in the parlor of a house nearby. He came outside and saw the aliens across the avenue. He stifled a scream, because he knew that if he cried out they would come after him and murder him in a way worse than any he could imagine. He just stood on the sidewalk, paralyzed with fear. This was one of Moore's favorite nightmares. He would wake up only when the blue creatures saw him and started across the avenue toward him. They would be grinning in the most terrifying way, and Moore would feel an unpleasant tingling in his hands. Then he would wake up. He would be hot and damp with sweat, the sheets would be twisted, and he would not be able to go back to sleep for a long while.

  When he finally did wake up, Moore turned on a flashlight and searched for a pack of matches. He lit fat white candles on the nightstand near his bed and on the bureau across the room. His hands shook. He got back in bed and picked up a book from the floor. He thought that if he tried reading it would take his mind off the fear he had felt in his dream. His heart was still beating rapidly, and he heard the pounding of his blood in his ears. He plumped up his heavy pillow and untangled the sheets. In the room there was only the sound of the alarm clock, ticking loudly. Moore lay back and held the flashlight under his chin. He read only a little more than a page, then closed the book and threw it back on the floor. He didn't want to read. He knew that he wasn't going to be able to sleep. He wished that it would get light outside. The clock said that it was only twenty minutes to four. Moore sighed and stretched out in the bed, trying to find a comfortable position. "I'm not going to get back to sleep," he thought. "I'm going to lie here awake until seven." He left the candles burning. He rolled over and tried to shut out the ticking of the clock. In a short while he was asleep again.

  * * *

  The city was called "Golden Prague." That's what it had been called for centuries. Moore wondered why. To him, Prague was golden in the same way that Brooklyn was silver: that is, not very. Prague had once been a beautiful city, a dream city of mixed Renaissance, Gothic, Baroque facades and spires. The facades and spires were still there for the most part, but they were all blackened with soot now and glowered down on the deserted city like hostile giants. The mood of Prague had changed gradually, from the spirited capital of the Bohemian peoples to the frozen, black, and uninhabited place it had become.

  Moore loved Prague, but it still made him uncomfortable. All of Utopia 3 made him uncomfortable, wherever he went. He was suffering in a conflict between his ideals and the realities of Utopia 3. He was sure that Utopia 3 was a step in the direction all mankind must travel, that Utopia 3 was the first great victory in the battle for peace. But the practical details, the everyday disturbances, sometimes added up to more than Moore could take. He often became fearful when he listened to the lonely crunch of pebbles beneath his feet. He hated the solitary echoes of his footsteps. He wanted to shout in the streets, but he didn't because, that sound would also be unbearable. He had to turn away when he noticed old tattered posters blowing along dirty sidewalks. He hated the layers of dust in the unlocked shops, the broken bottles scattered on the pavement, the chairs tipped over in the sidewalk cafes. He hurried to close doors of houses that had swung open after the departure of their tenants. Sometimes he began obsessively cleaning lobbies of hotels where he stayed, or straightening up abandoned homes, or washing an entire line of cars parked along a residential street. He talked to himself and sang and hummed old tunes, and when he realized that he was doing these things he was afraid. He took to carrying a large battery-operated radio, hoping to catch transmissions from far beyond the boundaries of Utopia 3, and sometimes he succeeded. The static and faintness of the signals depressed him, but they helped to remind him that there still were people living normal lives. He suffered, but he suffered courageously, because he knew that his suffering would be the key to a worldwide Utopia someday, one in which no one would be lonely or afraid.

  S. Norman Moore lived in a house that had once been occupied by Franz Kafka. He was delighted to learn that Kafka, too, had been attracted to Prague. He had spent three days trying to find Kafka's old house, unable to decipher the address. At last he had to go to the Utopia 3 office in the city to translate. The other house he considered moving into was one that legend said belonged to the original Faust. There was supposed to be a bloody hole in the ceiling, through which the devil dragged Faust at the conclusion of their bargain. But the romance of the tale didn't overcome Moore's queasiness. The only reason he was happy living in Kafka's former residence was that he had never read a thing that Kafka had written.

  One day in July, Moore was walking through the Josefov Quarter, the old Jewish ghetto of Prague. He spent a lot of time in that part of
town, partly because he felt more at ease there than in the more modern neighborhoods, partly because the Quarter was still very much like it had been in centuries past, and also because he pretended that he felt ties to the dead in the cemetery and to the ghosts of the still-living who had been removed. He walked through the cemetery often, reading occasional letters and syllables on the thick clusters of gravestones. The cemetery was unusual because the dead had been buried in layers. Because the area was limited and there had been no room for expansion, at times in the past new dirt had been spread over the existing graves and a new layer of graves could be added. The gravestones were always taken up and replaced, and now they stood in sheaves of marble, marking centuries of Jewish dead buried in vertical compartments.

  A new addition to the cemetery caught Moore's eye. It was a small billboard erected across the path. The message was hand-painted in irregular green letters. It said:

  Hey, Norm! Hey, I've been wanting to get together with you. This is Dr. Waters, Dr. Bertram Waters. You've heard all about me from the guys and gals at the orientation center. But I've heard about you, too, Norm, and let me tell you I like what I hear! I need a favor from you, and if you'd like to help me out I'd very much appreciate it if you'd come on over to the Utopia 3 office here in PRAGUE. I'm sure you know it's at the U Kalicha, a kind of tavern on Na Bojisti. If you've got the time, and if you want to do me—and yourself— a good turn, come on down and talk to the nice folk there. We'll be looking for you!

  "I wish he hadn't put that thing there," thought Moore. He tried to pull one of the sign's legs out of the ground, but he couldn't. He tried to push it over or break it off, but it was too strong. "I know he's a great scientist and all," he thought, "but I wish he hadn't put it in the cemetery."