by Arkady
Redrick turned the Jeep around and, paying no attention to the traffic lights, cutting corners and honking at the rare pedestrians, sped straight home.
He stopped in front of the garage and, getting out of the car, saw the superintendent walking toward him from the park. As usual, the superintendent was in a foul mood, and his flabby, puffy-eyed face expressed extreme distaste, as if he weren’t walking on solid earth but wading through a field of manure.
“Good morning,” said Redrick politely.
The superintendent stopped two steps away and jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. “Did you do that?” he asked indistinctly. It was clear these were his first words of the day.
“Do what?”
“That swing. Did you put it up?”
“I did.”
“What for?”
Redrick didn’t answer, went up to the gates of the garage, and unlocked them. The superintendent followed and stopped right behind him.
“I’m asking you, why did you put up the swing? Who asked you to do that?”
“My daughter asked,” said Redrick very calmly. He rolled the gates open.
“I’m not talking about your daughter!” The superintendent raised his voice. “Your daughter is a separate topic. I’m asking, who gave you permission? Who, exactly, said you could rearrange the park?”
Redrick turned toward him and for a while stood motionless, gazing fixedly at the man’s pale, veined nose. The superintendent took a step back and said in a lower tone, “And you don’t repaint the balcony. How many times do I have to—”
“Don’t waste your breath,” said Redrick. “I’m not going to leave.”
He went back to the car and turned on the engine. As he put his hands on the steering wheel, he noticed that his knuckles had turned white. Then he leaned out of the car and, no longer controlling himself, said, “But if you do make me leave, asshole, you better say a prayer.”
He drove the car into the garage, turned on the light, and closed the gates. He pulled the bag of swag out of the false gas tank, cleaned up the car, stuffed the bag into an old wicker basket, and put the fishing gear—still damp and covered in leaves—on top; finally, he dumped in the fish, which Burbridge had bought in the outskirts last night. Then he again examined the car from every side, just out of habit. He found a flattened cigarette stuck to the rear right tire. Redrick peeled it off—the cigarette was Swedish. Redrick thought about it, then stuffed it into a matchbox. The box already contained three butts.
He didn’t meet anyone on the stairs. He stopped in front of his door, and it opened before he could take out his key. He walked in sideways, with the heavy basket under his arm, and soaked in the familiar warmth, the familiar smells of his home; Guta hugged him around the neck and stayed still, her face pressed into his chest. Even through the thick layers of his clothing, he felt the frantic beating of her heart. He didn’t get in her way—he stood there patiently and waited until she came around, although that was precisely the moment he realized how exhausted and drained he was.
“All right,” she said eventually in a low husky voice. She let go of him, turned on the light in the corridor, and, without turning around, went to the kitchen. “I’ll make you coffee,” she called out.
“I brought you some fish,” he said in a deliberately cheerful voice. “Fry them up, every one, I’m dying of hunger!”
She returned, hiding her face in her hair; he put the basket on the floor and helped her take out the bag of fish, then they carried the bag together into the kitchen and dumped the fish into the sink. “Go wash up,” she said. “By the time you’re done, the food will be ready.”
“How’s the Monkey?” said Redrick, sitting down and pulling off his boots.
“Oh, she chattered all evening,” replied Guta. “Barely managed to put her to bed. Wouldn’t leave me alone: ‘Where’s Daddy, where’s Daddy?’ Give her Daddy right then and there …”
She moved silently and gracefully through the kitchen—so capable and lovely—and water was already boiling on the stove, and fish scales were flying from under the knife, and oil sputtered in their biggest frying pan, and the incredible smell of fresh coffee spread through the air.
Redrick got up and, walking barefoot, came back to the front door, picked up the basket, and carried it to the den. On the way, he glanced into the bedroom. The Monkey was dozing peacefully: her blanket hung to the floor, her nightie was riding up, and he could see her whole body—she was a small sleeping animal. Redrick couldn’t resist it and stroked her back, covered in warm golden fur, and for the hundredth time marveled at how silky and long it was. He really wanted to pick her up, but he was worried he’d wake her, and besides, he was dirty as hell, drenched in the Zone and death. He came back to the kitchen, sat down at the table, and said, “Pour me a cup of coffee? I’ll shower in a bit.”
There was a stack of evening mail on the table: the Harmont Times, an Athlete, a Playboy—a whole bunch of magazines had arrived—and there were also the thick, gray-covered Reports of the International Institute of Extraterrestrial Cultures. Redrick took a steaming mug of coffee from Guta and pulled the Reports toward him. Squiggles, weird symbols, diagrams … The photos depicted familiar objects from strange angles. Another one of Kirill’s posthumous papers had been published: “A Surprising Property of Magnetic Traps of Type 77b.” The name “Panov” was framed in black, and there was a note in small print: “Dr. Kirill A. Panov, USSR, tragically perished while conducting an experiment in April of 19—” Redrick tossed the magazine away, gulped down some burning hot coffee, and asked, “Did anyone come by?”
“Gutalin dropped by,” said Guta after a slight pause. She was standing next to the stove and looking at him. “He was totally drunk, I threw him out.”
“How did the Monkey take it?”
“Didn’t want him to go, of course. Almost started bawling. But I told her that Uncle Gutalin wasn’t feeling well. And she replied understandingly, ‘Uncle Gutalin is sloshed again.’”
Redrick chuckled and took another sip. Then he asked, “How about the neighbors?”
And again Guta hesitated a bit before answering. “Same as usual,” she said eventually.
“Fine, don’t tell me.”
“Oh!” she said, waving her hand in disgust. “That hag from downstairs knocked during the night. Eyes bulging, foaming at the mouth. Why the hell are we sawing in the bathroom at night?”
“Bitch,” said Redrick through his teeth. “Listen, maybe we really should move? Buy a house in the outskirts, where no one lives, get some abandoned cottage …”
“What about the Monkey?”
“My God,” said Redrick. “Don’t you think the two of us could figure out how to make her happy?”
Guta shook her head. “She loves children. And they love her. It’s not their fault, that—”
“Yes,” said Redrick. “It’s definitely not their fault.”
“No use talking about it,” said Guta. “Oh, someone called for you. Didn’t leave a name. I said you were out fishing.”
Redrick put the cup down and stood up. “All right,” he said. “I really should go shower. I still have a lot to do.”
He locked the bathroom, threw his clothes into a tub, and put the brass knuckles, remaining screws, and other odds and ends on a shelf. He spent a long time under the hot, almost-boiling water, groaning and scrubbing his body with a coarse sponge until his skin turned red; then he turned off the shower, sat on the side of the tub, and lit a cigarette. Water was gurgling through the pipes, Guta was clinking dishes in the kitchen; he smelled fried fish, then Guta knocked on the door and handed him clean underwear. “Hurry up,” she commanded. “The fish is getting cold.”
She had completely recovered and was issuing orders again. Chuckling, Redrick got dressed; that is, he pulled on boxers and a T-shirt and, wearing this outfit, came back to the kitchen. “Now I can have some food,” he said, sitting down.
“Did you put the clothes in the tub?
” asked Guta.
“Uh-huh,” he said with his mouth full. “Great fish!”
“Did you pour water over them?”
“No … My fault, sir, won’t happen again, sir. Come on, do that later, have a seat!”
He caught her hand and tried to put her on his knees, but she slipped away and sat across from him.
“Neglecting your husband, huh?” said Redrick, filling his mouth again. “Giving him the cold shoulder.”
“Some husband you are right now,” said Guta. “An empty sack instead of a husband. First, you have to be stuffed.”
“Hey, anything’s possible!” said Redrick. “Don’t you believe in miracles?”
“That would be quite the miracle. Want a drink?”
Redrick played indecisively with his fork. “N-no, probably not,” he said. He looked at his watch and got up. “I should go now. Could you prepare a suit for me? Make it first rate, with a dress shirt and tie.”
Enjoying the sensation of the cool floor on his bare feet, he walked to the den and barred the door. He put on a rubber apron, pulled on elbow-high rubber gloves, and started unloading the items in the bag onto the table. Two empties. A box of pins. Nine batteries. Three bracelets. And another hoop—resembling a bracelet but made from a white metal, lighter and about an inch larger in diameter. Sixteen black sparks in a plastic bag. Two perfectly preserved sponges close to a fist in size. Three shriekers. A jar of carbonated clay. There was still a heavy porcelain container, packed carefully in fiberglass, remaining in the bag, but Redrick left it alone. He took out his cigarettes and lit up, looking over the swag laid out on the table.
Then he pulled out a drawer and took out a piece of paper, a pencil stub, and his balance sheet. Holding the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and squinting from the smoke, he wrote down number after number, lining them up in three columns, and adding the first two. The sums turned out to be impressive. He crushed the cigarette in the ashtray, carefully opened the box, and poured the pins out onto the paper. In the electric light the pins looked shot with blue and would on rare occasion burst into pure spectral colors—red, yellow, green. He picked up one pin and, being careful not to prick himself, squeezed it between his finger and thumb. He turned off the light and waited a little, getting used to the dark. But the pin was silent. He put it aside, groped for another one, and also squeezed it between his fingers. Nothing. He squeezed harder, risking a prick, and the pin starting talking: weak reddish sparks ran along it and changed all at once to rarer green ones. For a couple of seconds Redrick admired this strange light show, which, as he learned from the Reports, had to mean something, possibly something very significant, then he put the pin down separately from the first one and picked up a new one.
Overall, there were seventy-three pins, out of which twelve talked and the rest were silent. Actually, these would also talk, but fingers weren’t enough; you needed a special machine the size of a table. Redrick turned on the light and added two numbers to those already on the page. And only after this did he make up his mind.
He shoved both hands into the bag and, holding his breath, took out the package and put it on the table. He stared at it for some time, pensively scratching his chin with the back of his hand. Then he finally picked up a pencil, spun it in his clumsy rubber fingers, and threw it down again. He took out another cigarette and, without lifting his eyes from the package, smoked it whole.
“To hell with this!” he said loudly, resolutely picked up the package, and stuffed it back into the bag. “That’s it. That’s enough.”
He quickly poured the pins back into the box and rose from the table. It was time to go. He could probably nap for half an hour to clear his head, but on the other hand, it might be smarter to arrive early and get a sense of things. He took off his gloves, hung up the apron, and, without turning off the light, left the den.
The suit was already laid out on the bed, and Redrick began to dress. He was tying his tie in front of a mirror, when the floorboards squeaked softly behind him, he heard agitated breathing, and he had to make a serious face to avoid laughing.
“Boo!” a high voice suddenly yelled beside him, and he felt someone grab his leg.
“Aah!” exclaimed Redrick, collapsing on the bed.
The Monkey, squealing and shouting with laughter, immediately climbed on top of him. She stepped on him, pulled his hair, and showered him with important information. The neighbor kid Willy tore dolly’s leg off. There was a new kitten on the third floor, all white and with red eyes—he probably didn’t listen to his mommy and went in the Zone. There was oatmeal and jam for supper. Uncle Gutalin was sloshed again and felt sick, he even cried. Why don’t fish drown, if they’re in water? Why wasn’t Mommy sleeping at night? Why do we have five fingers, but only two arms, and one nose? Redrick carefully hugged the warm creature crawling all over him, looked into the huge, entirely black eyes with no whites, pressed his face to the chubby little cheek covered in silky golden fur, and repeated, “My Monkey … Oh, you Monkey … What a little Monkey …”
The phone rang sharply in his ear. He stretched out a hand and picked up the receiver. “Yes?”
There was no response.
“Hello?” said Redrick. “Hello?”
No one answered. Then there was a click, and he heard a series of short beeps. After this, Redrick stood up, put the Monkey down on the floor, and, no longer listening to her, put on his jacket and pants. The Monkey chattered without pause, but he only smiled absentmindedly, and so it was eventually announced that Daddy must have bitten then swallowed his tongue, and he was left alone.
He came back to the den, put the items on the table into his briefcase, stopped by the bathroom to get the brass knuckles, again returned to the den, took the briefcase in one hand and the wicker basket in the other, and went out, carefully locking the den door and shouting to Guta, “I’m leaving!”
“When are you coming back?” said Guta, coming in from the kitchen. She had already brushed her hair and put makeup on, and she was no longer wearing a bathrobe but had changed into a dress—his favorite one, bright blue and low cut.
“I’ll call you,” he said, looking at her, then came up to her, bent down, and kissed her cleavage.
“Well, go on …” said Guta quietly.
“And me? What about me?” hollered the Monkey, climbing between them. He had to bend down even farther. Guta was looking at him with frozen eyes.
“It’s nothing,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’ll call you.”
In the stairwell on the floor below, Redrick met a heavy man in striped pajamas who stood in front of his door, fiddling with his lock. From the dark recesses of his apartment wafted a warm smell of sour cooking. Redrick stopped and said, “Good morning.”
The heavy man looked warily at him over his huge shoulder and mumbled something.
“Your wife came by last night,” said Redrick. “Thought we were sawing something. There must have been a mistake.”
“What’s it to me?” grumbled the man in pajamas.
“My wife was doing the laundry last night,” continued Redrick. “If we bothered you, I apologize.”
“I didn’t say anything,” said the man in pajamas. “Feel free.”
“Well, I’m very glad,” said Redrick.
He went downstairs, stopped by the garage, put the basket down in the corner, covered it with an old seat cushion, took one last look, and came out onto the street.
It wasn’t a long walk—two blocks to the square, a bit through the park, and another block until Central Avenue. As usual, the street in front of the Metropole gleamed with the chrome and lacquer of a colorful collection of cars, doormen in raspberry uniforms lugged suitcases toward the entrance, and some respectable foreign-looking men congregated in groups of two or three on the marble staircase, chatting and smoking cigars. Redrick decided not to go there yet. He settled under the awning of a small café across the street, ordered coffee, and lit up. At a table two steps away, he saw three
undercover members of the international police force, sitting silently, hastily stuffing themselves with fried sausages à la Harmont, and drinking dark beer from tall glass steins. On his other side, about ten steps away, some sergeant was gloomily scarfing down fried potatoes, holding his fork in his fist. His blue helmet was upside down on the floor beside him, and his holster was hanging on the back of his chair. No one else was in the café. The waitress, an unfamiliar middle-aged woman, stood off to the side and yawned occasionally, tactfully covering her painted mouth with her hand. It was twenty minutes to nine.
Redrick watched as Richard Noonan came out of the hotel, munching on something and pulling a soft hat over his ears. He briskly marched down the stairs—small, fat, and pink, the picture of prosperity and good health, freshly washed and cheerful, completely convinced that the day would be a good one. He waved to someone, threw his rolled-up jacket over his right shoulder, and walked to his Peugeot. Dick’s Peugeot was itself round, short, and freshly washed and somehow also gave the impression of total optimism.
Hiding his face behind his hand, Redrick watched Noonan fussily and industriously settle in behind the wheel, moving an item from the front seat to the back, bending down to pick up something, and adjusting the rearview mirror. The Peugeot coughed out a puff of bluish smoke, beeped at some African in a burnoose, and briskly rolled onto the street. From the looks of things, Noonan was heading to the Institute and therefore would go around the fountain and drive past the café. It was now too late to get up and go, so Redrick just covered his whole face with his hand and hunched over his cup. Unfortunately, this didn’t help. The Peugeot beeped right in his ear, the brakes squealed, and Noonan’s cheerful voice called out, “Hey! Schuhart! Red!”
Cursing under his breath, Redrick lifted his head. Noonan was already walking toward him, stretching out his hand. He was beaming.
