Люциус Шепард: Eternity and Other Stories

On regaining consciousness, Chemayev realized he was back in the garden. Considering the cautionary flavor of his previous experience and the circular pattern governing the evening, he had little doubt that March would soon put in an appearance, but nevertheless he found the bitter smell of Yuri’s vegetation and the sound of water spurting from the broken fountain and the silver bar of light floating overhead solid and comforting by contrast to the emptiness through which he had passed. Surprised to find that he was still holding the nine-millimeter pistol, he tucked it into his waist and headed for the fountain, pushing aside black branches clustered with white leaves bearing scatters of inky characters—he wondered now if these might not be fragments of the formula that had made Yuri’s transformation possible.

Once he reached the edge of the cobblestone circle he stationed himself behind some bushes, a position from which he had a clear view of the fountain. The abstracted calm that had eased his passage from the corridor to the garden remained strong in him, and waiting went easily at first. With its black serene sky, the silver bar in place of a sun, the ruined fountain and eccentric forest, the place had a Mexican Twilight Zone ambience—like an old B-movie set awaiting its Dramatis Personae—that appealed to him. But as the minutes wore on his anxiety resurfaced. He chastised himself for not having given Yuri the money. The moment had been brief, the circumstances problematic. But everything he’d worked for had been on the line. He should have been up to it. Of course paying the money might have been a fruitless gesture. God only knew what was going on. It was apparent that he was being manipulated. Equally apparent that Polutin had a hand in things—hadn’t he implied that he’d done business with Yuri? Perhaps he’d managed to sour the deal Chemayev had negotiated. One way or another, he’d just have to find another way to get the money to Yuri.

He became so enmeshed in worry he nearly failed to notice March on the opposite side of the circle, half-hidden in the bushes. Not shirtless as before. Wearing his leather trenchcoat. Chemayev aimed his pistol at him, but let the barrel drop. Killing him seemed the safest course, but he had no clue what the repercussions might be. It might be wise to feel things out. Risky, perhaps. But the pistol boosted his confidence. He tucked it back into the waist of his trousers, concealing it beneath his jacket, and stepped out onto the cobblestones.

“March!” he called.

March’s head snapped toward him. “Viktor! Christ, what’re you doing here?”

“What am I doing here? Just taking a stroll. What are you doing here?” As he spoke Chemayev recognized that their dialogue was roughly the mirror image of what they had said to one another on his previous adventure in the garden. He didn’t know whether to take this for a good or a bad omen.

“I’m not sure how to answer that.” March edged forward. “Frankly, I’ve been having myself one hell of a time. A fucking asylum would feel like a rest home after this place.”

It hadn’t occurred to Chemayev that anyone else might have been having experiences similar to his own; but judging by March’s behavior he thought now this might be the case. The Irishman kept casting furtive looks to the side, as if expecting some menace to emerge from the bushes.

“This Yuri character…” March’s right hand fluttered up; he rubbed the back of his head fitfully. “Did you keep your appointment with him?”

“Not yet,” said Chemayev.

“If I were you I might give it a pass.”

“You’ve seen him, then?”

March shook his head in the affirmative, then said, “I don’t know. Maybe.” He moved another step toward Chemayev. “I was talking to this old geezer. The guy looked like he’d spent the night in the boneyard kissing corpses. Filthy bugger! About seventy years old going on terminal. He claimed to be Yuri.”

“You talked with him?”

“Naw, we stared into one another’s eyes! Of course we talked.”

“What did you talk about?”

An angry tightness in his voice, March said, “Oh, this and that. The rugby final, the roots of British oppression. Chatty bits.” He had another quick glance behind him. “Do you know of a way out of here?”

March’s agitation lifted Chemayev’s spirits. “How about the way you came in?”

“Are you fucking with me, Viktor?” March walked purposefully toward him, stopping close to the fountain, about twenty feet away. “I need an ally. If you’re not an ally, I may have to take a bite out of you.” He had regained some of his self-assurance, as if the show of menace had been restorative. “I’ve had a number of unsettling experiences. A premonition of violence as well. Perhaps it’s all in my head. I’m not a’tall sure someone didn’t put something in my drink. But no matter that, I’m sensing a hostile vibe between us. Why would that be?”

Chemayev considered showing March the pistol, but decided against it. Confrontation had not served him well the last time. “Work it out for yourself. I’ve got my own problems.” He started to walk away, but March said, “Hang on, Viktor.” He was holding a chrome-plated automatic with a taped grip.

Chemayev gawked at it. “Where did you get the gun?”

“Picked it up during my travels. I was feeling a touch inadequate after checking my own weapon. But now”—he hefted the gun, as if appreciating its weight—“now I’m feeling twice the man I ever was.”

He urged Chemayev toward the fountain, had him sit on carved fragments at its base. Chemayev arranged himself carefully, adjusting his left hip so the pistol came loose in his waistband. In his thoughts he remarked again on the role reversal taking place. During their previous encounter he had been the anxious one, the one to ask about Yuri, the one to decide for confrontation. Perhaps all this pointed to a happier conclusion. But did March suspect what he suspected? He’d mentioned a premonition of violence. Chemayev was forced to assume that this premonition had involved the two of them.

“Do you fancy Irish music, Viktor?” March asked out of the blue; he sat down cross-legged about fifteen feet away. “Bands, you know. Rock ’n’ roll.”

“U2,” said Chemayev absently. “I like U2.”

“Jesus! U2!” March launched into a simpering parody of “In The Name of Love,” and then made a flatulent sound with his lips. “Bono Vox, my ass! That ball-less little prat! I’m talking about real Irish music. Like Van Morrison. Van the Man! Not some gobshite got up in a gold jockstrap.”

“He’s okay,” Chemayev said.

“What the fuck do you mean, ‘okay’? That’s soul music, man! Ahh!” He made a dismissive gesture with the automatic. “That’s what I get for trying to talk rock ’n’ roll with a Russian. Your idea of music is some fat asshole playing folk songs on the lute.”

Chemayev leaned back against the base of the fountain. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the arc of water spurting from the broken pipe; overhead, a great crossbeam broadcast a benign silvery radiance. Black trees with leafy prayer flags stretched toward the light, and the round gray stones beneath him seemed to be eddying in their concentric circles. He allowed the fingers of his right hand to brush the pistol grip beneath his jacket. His chances were fifty-fifty, he figured. About the same as ever.

“You look almost happy,” March said. “Did you have the good thought?”

“Happy’s not the word for it,” said Chemayev.

“What am I missing, Viktor? You seem so at ease. It’s not like you. Do you know something I should know, or is it the drugs have just kicked in?”