Death in Florence

by George Alec Effinger

  "Are you happy, Norman?" asked Brant.

  "Well, sure, I guess."

  "That's what I thought," she said bitterly. "Neither am I."

  * * *

  The last man in the world sat in a room in an old house in Prague. Around him were reminders of the dead days, the days when he had been surrounded by other people, by thoughts that were not his own, by reasons for doing things other than his own immediate needs. Everything in the room, in the world, emphasized his loneliness. The room had a large sofa and two maroon wing chairs. The last man sat on the sofa. The two chairs implied the existence of other people to sit in them. A tea service, covered with dust, some cups broken on the carpet, had most likely been purchased to serve a plurality of tea drinkers, rather than one lonely, very eccentric owner. The last man regarded the shattered cups with distaste. He thought about standing, walking toward them, grinding the broken china beneath his shoe. He thought about it for a short time, and did not do it. He thought about something else very quickly, because he was only dreaming.

  He was the last man in the world, but he felt it only occasionally, about as often as one thinks about one's own name. The fact that he was the last man didn't change his daily habits very much. It was an important rule in the game of his life, but it was not the final result. The last man got up and put on a sweater. He left the old house and discovered that he was in the city somewhere. Prague looked like the set of an old black-and-white horror film. It was crowded and dirty and black, with narrow streets, with houses leaning over about to topple on him. Prague was the city of one hundred spires. Whenever he walked in the town he saw spires, standing straight up wherever he looked. The last man in the world grumbled and turned over in bed.

  He looked up toward the castle, the high Hradcany. It seemed to glow with an orange light. It didn't matter if the color came from the sun or from the fiery destruction of the buildings themselves. The last man's gaze came slowly down from the castle. In the next moment he stood on the Charles Bridge, and it, too, flickered with live orange light. On the lampposts were hung red stars, and the last man climbed up and removed them from three lampposts. He threw the first one into the river. He was hungry.

  The last man in the world saw someone.

  There were trolley tracks in the street, and they led him toward Vaclavske Namesti. He followed them. It was getting dark. The farther he walked the closer the buildings seemed to press around him. They were mixed together, Renaissance and baroque buildings unspoiled except for painted signs. He couldn't read the signs. That was always something that troubled him.

  In the graveyard, in the old cemetery, he wrote out a wish and put the piece of paper under a pebble. Very shortly thereafter he woke up.

  Moore wondered as he rubbed his eyes whether he woke up as a result of the wish, or in fear over what it might have been. He yawned and realized that Eileen Brant was moving around in the kitchen. "Hey," he called.

  "What?"

  "Hey," he said, in a lower voice. He didn't really know hey what.

  "Are you awake?" she called. "Ready for the day, or is this just a casual interruption in an otherwise wasted afternoon?"

  "I'm up, so I'm up. What are you doing?"

  "I'm standing in the kitchen yelling to you," she said. "Some times I don't have the common sense God give a goose. Come in here. I'm not going to yell anymore."

  "All right," he said. He didn't feel good. He thought he should feel better. He didn't feel very good at all. He was upset. He wanted her out of the house, and that realization made him feel bad. He felt guilty. Once he knew that he felt guilty, though, he felt better.

  "Breakfast," she said when he came into the kitchen.

  Moore thought that she was being unnecessarily domestic. He wanted to know what she wanted. Why would she make breakfast? That wasn't like her at all. Utopia 3 must be the answer, he decided. It was beginning to work on her. He smiled. "Good morning," he said. "That looks terrific."

  "It's biscuits," she said. "And pancakes and syrup, with hot chocolate made from powdered milk. I wish we had butter."

  "Eh," said Moore. "Cholesterol."

  "Watch what you say about cholesterol," she said. "Some of the finest evenings of my life have been very high in cholesterol."

  "Cut up the klobasy into slices and fry them."

  She looked at him silently. She threw a spoon she was holding onto the table. "I'm doing a great job here," she said angrily, "and I thought it would be very nice of me to make you breakfast, seeing as how I was awake and done for the night sleeping and all. And I come in here and see that you don't have a single thing to eat, and on top of that I have to go down the block to find a building with any good water left, and I get everything together and spend an hour wrestling with a wood fire and your lousy Boy Scout reflector oven, and I present you with all of this and you give me orders." She walked past him out of the kitchen. Moore felt cold. He wanted to touch her arm as she went by, but he held himself back. In a way he was relieved.

  He knew that she was waiting for him to call her. She would keep going unless he did. She would go all the way back to Florence unless he said something apologetic. He waited. He heard her throwing things in the bedroom. He heard the clicking of her suitcase's locks. He heard something shatter in the bedroom. He knew that she was going to pick up the suitcase and walk by him and out the door to her car. He didn't want her to walk by him. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean it like that."

  "I don't care how you meant it."

  "I meant it different," said Moore. "I meant it that you were in my city, in Prague, that there was something good here that I had the chance to give you, to show you because this is my city, and you might have missed the chance to experience it here and couldn't get it anywhere else. That's how I meant it. I meant it nice. Don't play that game with me."

  She came back into the kitchen without her suitcase. "I know," she said. "I know it's a game, and I don't like it, either."

  "It's all right, Eileen."

  "Sit down and eat."

  They sat down together at the table and had the most enjoyable meal Moore had had since he entered Utopia 3. After breakfast Brant helped him throw away the pans and dishes and move to another house. Then she got into her car and drove away. Moore watched her until she turned a corner and disappeared. He sighed. It was very quiet in Prague. It was very gray and quiet and old.

  * * *

  The next day Moore decided to go into the Utopia 3 office and visit Donna Lupowicz. Brant had made him lonely. He hadn't been lonely before, not often at least, but her departure had left him feeling his isolation. He had a kind of motive to see Donna, to let her know that he was all right, that he'd been reapproved by Dr. Waters and Myra Waldecott. He wanted to hear if her car had suffered, or if she had taken a new car. He found some dried flowers and carried them on his way, with the pottery straw he had picked up at Karlovy Vary. He didn't drive; he walked to Schweik's tavern. On the way he saw a new poster. He stopped to read it.

  Hello, hello, hello! Hello to you all! And how are you all putting up with it? "Putting up with it," I say, because if you're like a lot of my friends in Utopia 3, you've discovered that everything is not gold and scenic ruins. You've discovered, if you're like some of my friends in VIENNA, LEIPZIG, PARMA, STRASBOURG, MILAN, BUDAPEST, BERLIN, and elsewhere, that Dr. Bertram Waters sometimes is very good at keeping his word, when it is to his advantage, and at other times he is distressingly mysterious. Have you had any unpleasant experiences with Dr. Waters, or with his representatives in the chief cities and towns of Utopia 3? No? Perhaps you know or have heard of someone who has.

  But you don't have to take my word for it! No, indeed. Maybe you're asking yourself, "What do I know about this Sandor Courane, anyway? Who is he? Where did he come from?" Yes, perhaps you'd be right, too, to question my credentials. After all, it's likely that you know less about me than you know about my distant antagonist, Dr. Bertram Waters! So for the moment don't listen to me. Li
sten instead to the words of one of you, a utopiate who has taken up residence in beautiful NEUFCHATEL. Here, in his or her own words, is M. V.: "Hi. I had just the most terrible time the other day. I needed some information about purifying water. I'm sure we all have this problem, and I for one was just at a loss. I'm not the most mechanically inclined person, so my question was just how to keep a good supply of drinking water. I had to go to the nearest Utopia 3 office, which is in BERN, not all that far away. Imagine my surprise! I was told in no uncertain terms that I had failed the project, and I was returned to the orientation lodge for more indoctrination. Was my face red! Well, I guess I still don't know about the drinking water, but I sure won't go back to the office to ask!"

  Thank you, M. V., for putting my sentiments into a useful and meaningful form. Now, of course I hope that your lives are fuller and richer, thanks to Utopia 3. I wouldn't want anyone to suggest that my motives derive from jealousy or "sour grapes." My motives are completely free from any hint of personal gain. I promise you this. But I ask also, can Dr. Bertram Waters do the same? I have the testimony of E. van S., living currently in SWIDNICA, that he doesn't. Says Mr., Mrs., or Miss van S.: "While standing in the Utopia 3 office in FRANKFURT last week, I overheard one of the staff saying to another utopiate that the 'next phase' of Utopia 3 was due to begin, and that Dr. Waters would appreciate a postponement of any personal communications out of Utopia 3 until this 'next phase' was finalized. My innocent question concerning this new phase was met with blank looks and denials. I tell you, it all sounds fishy to me." Thank you, E. van S.

  Well, made up your mind? Perhaps not. Perhaps it is still too early, and all the returns aren't in yet. But if the new phase of Utopia 3 has as many surprises in it as the old form, can you afford to be in the dark? Why not start thinking about the best way to safeguard yourself? Yes, yourself, as well as the rest of your friends in Utopia 3, as well as Utopia 3 itself. And if this can only be done by throwing out the old rascal himself, well, WHY THE SAM HILL NOT?

  Yes. Why not?

  (Don't get me wrong. I'm saying that advisedly. I don't mean that must be the next move. Only in the event that Dr. Waters's seemingly arbitrary and questionable practices continue. All right, then, tiger? Okay!)

  * * *

  "Did you read Courane's poster?" asked Moore when he caught the attention of Donna Lupowicz. She was behind the counter, washing some glasses and reading a paperback book. The book was The Pit and the Pendulous. It had a pink cover, spine, and back, and no other words on the cover, not even the author's name.

  "Huh?" she asked.

  "Sandor Courane, the nut who's putting up those posters?"

  She put down a glass and her cloth. "What?" she asked. "Another one?"

  "Yup," said Moore. "Just around the corner. A big one."

  "What's he say this time?"

  "Same stuff. Have you heard anything about a new phase in the project?"

  She closed her book and put it under the bar. She took the bar rag and swiped at a wet spot on the counter. She took a deep breath. "New phase?" she said.

  "Yes. Courane says he's heard of some new phase that Dr. Waters is getting ready. Have you heard anything official?"

  "No," she said. "Why do you ask?"

  Moore was getting a little annoyed. "Why do I ask? Because I've made myself intimately involved with Utopia 3. I'm in so deep that I don't have anything else, you know. So if things change a little bit, I think I have the right to know."

  Donna Lupowicz frowned. "Watch it, mister," she said. "That kind of talk can make trouble. Trouble you might not be able to handle."

  "I can handle it," he said. "I've got Myra Waldecott in my hip pocket." This wasn't strictly true.

  "You do?" She chewed her lip and said nothing more.

  "Here," he said, putting the dried flowers and the pottery straw on the bar.

  "What?"

  "Brought them back for you. Souvenir of the spas."

  "What spas?" She looked at the dried flowers in the mug, then took them out and broke their stems off a little shorter. Then she snapped off the pottery straw and put the flowers in the mug. The effect was an arrangement in dull brown, not especially attractive.

  "I was at the spas," said Moore. He wanted to leave quickly.

  "Thanks," she said. They looked at each other for a few more seconds. There was only silence.

  Moore was about to open his mouth to say good-by, when the front door opened. A little bell tinkled. A young man, the other Utopia 3 staff operator, ran into the tavern. "Guess what, Donna!" he said, smiling.

  "Hi, Wesley," she said.

  "I just got the word," said Wesley. "Dr. Waters has got the go-ahead from the member nations. They're going to make Utopia 3 bigger! It's incredible! Maybe you'll get your own post, now."

  "Do you think so?" she asked. She had become very excited.

  "I don't see why not," said Wesley. "They're going to need a lot more people. You've got experience."

  "How big?" asked Moore.

  "Huh?" said Wesley.

  "How big?"

  "Well," said Wesley, "I don't like to say anything. I mean, I'm not supposed to tell, really."

  "Look," said Moore, "this is a wonderful, humanitarian, peaceful project for the betterment of all mankind, right? You are a part of it, and I can say that I'm glad to be a part of it, too. So why don't we all rejoice and tell me what's going on?"

  Wesley looked very uncomfortable. "They're just moving the boundaries a little," he said.

  "How far, damn it?" said Moore.

  "Not all that much, really," said Wesley. "They're making the northern boundary a line parallel to the current line, through Hannover. West, parallel to the old line, through Chartres. East, on a line through Warsaw. The only one that's a big change is the southern boundary, which is going to be through Anzio. That's a city in Italy. It has something to do with Dr. Waters and World War Two or something. Altogether, it's not much, really. A few more towns and a few more mountains. Some nice beaches on the Dalmatian coast. But it means Utopia 3 is working."

  "Sure," said Moore dully, "working." In his mind he was repeating, "Hannover, Chartres, Warsaw, Anzio." He left the office and went home, where he had a large wall map with the Utopia 3 area outlined as a bright red rectangle.

  He made a rough sketch of the new boundaries. Hannover, Chartres, Warsaw, Anzio. Wesley had been right; the only major change was the southern boundary. The others were matters of only fifty or seventy-five miles. But thanks to the wonders of Euclidean geometry, these changes added up very nicely.

  "Oh, my God," said Moore. He quickly noticed two cogent points. First, where the original area of Utopia 3 had been slightly more than three hundred thousand square miles, it had now been increased to over seven hundred thousand square miles. Dr. Bertram Waters, in getting the nations of Europe to agree to just a little more, had doubled his project. His kingdom. Empire. Private estate. Whatever it was.

  Second, Waters had managed to include in Utopia 3 some very classy plots of ground.

  Paris.

  Rome. The Vatican City.

  The rest of Switzerland, including Geneva and Lausanne.

  The Riviera. St. Tropez, Cannes, Nice, Monte Carlo.

  Belgrade. Danzig. The rest of Yugoslavia. The rest of Hungary. All of Corsica. The top half of Sardinia.

  Bonn. Diisseldorf. Cologne (was Waters collecting cathedrals?) and Aachen. And the rest, absolutely the rest, all of the champagne country. No more champagne, ever again, thought Moore, as well as no more Chablis. Beaujolais. Pommard. Montrachet. Chambertin. Pouilly-Fuisse.

  It meant that Eileen Brant was no longer guarding the southern boundary of Utopia 3, alone in Florence. It meant that the Pope would have to go live with relatives. It meant that the island of Monte Cristo was going to be empty, and some romantic new utopiate could move in and make himself the count. It meant—

  —it meant too many things. Moore was very agitated. He went out again, walking along the
old streets until he found a pharmacy. He spent the rest of the daylight hours looking for Valium.

  * * *

  In a little red Fiat, Norman Moore drove south. He stopped to get something to eat in Plzen, and put a dozen bottles of Pilsener beer in the car's trunk. He stopped again in Ceske Budejovice, just for the beer—Budweiser. He put another dozen bottles in the trunk, and then he didn't stop again until he passed through the Austrian town of Lienz. He was tired, and he wanted to find a place to sleep for the night. He didn't want to be bothered checking out small homes or inns, so he just drove up to a moderate-sized motel, one franchise of a large American chain. He found the room keys in the lobby and went immediately to his room. He brought one bottle of each kind of beer with him, along with a can opener, a spoon, and two cans of Campbell's Bean with Bacon Soup, which he would eat cold out of the can.

  In the room, Moore tossed his things on one of two twin beds. The room was dark, pitch black, and Moore turned on his flashlight to find the desk. He opened a drawer and took out the free stationery and ballpoint pen. He wrote a postcard to his mother. On the other side was a colorful photograph of several of Austria's many mountain peaks. He didn't have a stamp. There was no such thing as a Utopia 3 stamp. Moore wondered why. Suddenly he realized that there were gaps in Dr. Bertram Waters's thinking— something that Sandor Courane had been hinting right along. Waters's motivations did seem suspect, but if so, wouldn't he have thought of all the angles?

  Could Courane be wrong, then? Moore hoped so. He still liked the idea of Utopia 3, even though it wasn't working out quite as he had planned. Could Courane be wrong?

  Well, thought Moore, if you have seven hundred thousand square miles in the heart of Western civilization to call your own, you probably wouldn't miss the income from stamps. Or deposit bottles of soft drinks. Or cigarette tax. You could afford to be generous, once in a while. Dr. Bertram Waters would allow Norman Moore to mail the postcard without a stamp.