Marek Huberath: Nest of Worlds

Again no one said anything.

There was truth in it: if each subsequent incarnation elevated a person, then the wiping of his category to zero must occur later and later in life, and therefore, when it occurred, it would befall fewer people.

“You see,” said the official triumphantly. He went on to discuss the principle in more detail, from which it turned out that not only was Gavein black and Ra Mahleiné white but, in addition, he was in his third incarnation and she only in her second, a further disqualification of her as a wife for him.

I wonder who here is in the same boat, Gavein thought, looking around the room. Everyone in the audience seemed bored. No one was sitting forward. The ones who had married prematurely were no doubt pleased by this opportunity to dump their wives.

After the talk there was no time for questions. The necessary formalities of annulment were taken care of for the men who wanted. Those who remained had to listen to a recorded speech that—as far as Gavein could tell—said nothing new about the four incarnations.

Then he was conducted to a minibus parked in front of the terminal. They waited for a few other travelers and left.

Immediately beyond the airport they entered the metropolitan area of Davabel, kilometer after kilometer of buildings.

Small wooden houses, single level or double level, with tiny gardens stuck on. Impermanent, uninteresting. Now and then larger complexes went by, several stories that housed government offices, a hospital, a bank, a department store.

Whereas Lavath was covered with concrete high-rises that went on and on. They soared like rock cliffs, the canyons among them barely a few hundred meters in width. At the bottom of the canyons were narrow asphalt streets and a chessboard of well-trod footpaths across extensive lawns. The severe climate made the huddling of buildings necessary: heat conservation. In comparison, the buildings of Davabel seemed pitiful, lacking the proper mass.

He remarked this to the driver.

“We have a simple system, topologically,” the driver replied. “The streets go from north to south, the avenues from west to east.”

“It’s the same with us,” Gavein said. He still felt himself a citizen of Lavath. “Except that ours are a bit farther apart. And if a street goes from northwest to southeast, it’s called a promenade; from northeast to southwest, it’s called a concourse. They’re numbered consecutively. A clear and logical system.”

“Sure,” muttered the driver. “We have concourses and promenades too.”

“You’re in Davabel now, Dave,” said the official sitting beside the driver. “‘We’ means Davabel now for you, not Lavath.” After a moment he added, “In Ayrrah, I understand, it’s the same. I’ll be going there soon.” He looked old: gray temples, bags under his eyes. A three on his passport, but with the prospect of shortly emigrating to Ayrrah as an object of contempt.

If I reach his age, I’ll look the same, Gavein thought. “I imagine that in Llanaig,” he said aloud, “the streets are arranged similarly. Changing them would be an unnecessary complication.”

As it grew dark, lights came on in the windows. The city was covered with a layer of new snow. The yellow windows and the deepening blue of the snow made the homes seem warm and cozy. At the intersections were signs, all the same size, with rows of white numbers on black, and Street or Avenue. The driver didn’t read the signs but counted the number of intersections. When he miscounted, the official laughed at him.

I should like these houses, Gavein thought. After all, Davabel was built by people from Lavath, people who grew up in giant residential bunkers. Houses are houses, but these—he shrugged—look cheap.

The driver turned at the correct street. Gavein read: Avenue 5665. After ten minutes the bus parked at a corner house with the number 5665-5454-A.

“You got an apartment in the center of town. Only 454 streets and 666 avenues from the center,” quipped the driver.

“No one walks,” said the official. “We’ll give you a line of credit for a car. You must have one. It’s a part of life here.”

They got out. The sidewalk ice was covered by a dusting of snow.

A person could break his ass, Gavein thought, keeping his balance with difficulty. In Lavath, we would use sand or salt.

A hefty woman in a cretonne housecoat opened the door for them. Her hair was kerchiefed (polka dots); it was wet, had just been washed. In the kitchen her son was busy; he was almost grown, his red hair stiffened into a Mohawk. In front of a mirror, he adjusted his black leather jacket, which had skulls on it. From upstairs came the cry of a baby.

“Mrs. Eisler?” asked the official.

The woman stepped back, pulling the housecoat around her bosom.

“Yes… yes, come in. We’ve been waiting since noon,” she clucked. She put on a tight nylon windbreaker, her son’s. The stairs were outside, behind the building, made of wood.

The apartment was modest: two rooms, a kitchen, a bathroom. The small windows would let in little light. The floor was covered with a shag rug. No furniture, only an inflatable mattress, rolled up.

“In the newspaper ads, this is one of the cheapest places. The location is not bad, and you have a lot of room,” said the official. “What are you asking per month?” he asked the woman.

“Three hundred eighteen packets. And if my cooking is acceptable to you, Dave, it’s another sixty-four packets for dinners.” They had told her the name of her future boarder.

Gavein already heard these rates, at the airport. They were waiting now for his decision.

“And what other terms are there?”

“Yes, as everywhere,” she said quickly. “For the first and last month you pay in advance, a deposit. Then at the beginning of each month. Gas, electricity, and heat are included.”

“All right.” He took out a roll of bills.

“You’re carrying that much cash?” The official whistled. “To the bank with it! Why tempt fate?”

The woman looked sidelong at the money and nodded. It was hot in the room, stuffy. Gavein took off his jacket. Under it he had another one, gray, a military-style tunic.

“There’s nothing to sit on,” he said, surprised.

“People sit on the rug,” said the official. “The place settings at the table are disposable plastic.”

“My husband and I couldn’t get used to it either,” said the woman, “so we bought a lot of furniture. Chairs for the dining room… and in general.”

“But this room is empty.”

“Yes, I think we should have a longer orientation period for new arrivals,” said the official. “But staying at the airport is expensive. It would put you more in the hole. The halfway hotels aren’t cheap either. You can always buy yourself some furniture. But it costs more than in Lavath, much more.”

The woman said, “What you need is a car, a telephone, a TV… Spend less on clothing, as little as possible on furniture. No one here dresses up.” She was trying to brief him.

“In Lavath the clothing is no fancier than here, but what people wear is more appropriate,” said Gavein, immediately aware that the remark wasn’t tactful.

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know. Appropriate to the occasion.”

The woman smoothed the jacket she wore.

“This apartment is fine,” he said, breaking the silence. Actually, he thought it was cramped and depressing, but he couldn’t afford anything better. The walls were dirty, but at least the white paint underneath brightened the place. The paint on the window frames was flaking in several places.

“We have another room like this on the first floor, and another in the basement,” she said.