Arkady Strugatsky: The Final Circle of Paradise

“What were you saying?” he asked. “Ten-thirty? Tomorrow you too will get up at ten-thirty or maybe even at twelve. I, for one, will get up at twelve.”

He got up and stretched luxuriously, cracking his joints.

“Well,” he said, “it’s time to go home, finally. Here’s my card, Ivan. Put it in your desk, and don’t throw it out until your very last day here.” He went over to the flat box and inserted another card into its slot. There was a loud click.

“Now this one,” he said, examining the card against the light. “Please pass on to the widow with my very best compliments.”

“And then what will happen?” said I.

“Money will happen. I trust you are not a devotee of haggling, Ivan? The widow will name a figure, Ivan, and you shouldn’t haggle over it. It’s not done.”

“I will try not to haggle,” I said, “although it would be amusing to try it.”

Ahmad raised his eyebrows.

“Well, if you really want to so much, then why not try it? Always do what you want to do. Then you will have excellent digestion. I will get your suitcase now.”

“I need prospects,” I said. “I need guidebooks. I am a writer, Ahmad. I will require brochures on the economic situation of the masses, statistical references. Where can I get all that? And when?”

“I will give you a guidebook,” said Ahmad. “It has statistics, addresses, telephone numbers, and so on. As far as the masses are concerned, I don’t think we publish any such nonsense. Of course, you can send an inquiry to UNESCO, but what would you want with it? You’ll see everything for yourself. Just hold on a minute. I’ll get the suitcase and the guidebook.”

He went out and quickly returned with my suitcase in one hand and a fat bluish-looking little tome in the other.

I stood up.

“Judging by the look on your face,” he announced, smiling, “you are debating whether it’s proper to tip me or not.”

“I confess,” I said.

“Well then, would you like to do it or not?”

“No, I must admit.”

“You have a healthy, strong character,” Ahmad approved. “Don’t do it. Don’t tip anybody. You could collect one in the face, especially from the girls. But, on the other hand, don’t haggle either. You could walk into one that way too. Anyway, that’s all a lot of rot. For all I know you may like to have your face slapped, like that Jonathan Kreis. Farewell, Ivan, have fun, and come to Chez Gourmet. Any evening at seven. But most important of all, don’t think about a thing.”

He waved his hand and left. I picked up the mixture in the dewy glass and sat down with the guidebook.

The guidebook was printed on bond paper with a gilt edge.

Interspersed with gorgeous photographs, it contained some curious information. In the city there were fifty thousand people, fifteen hundred cats, twenty thousand pigeons, and two thousand dogs (including seven hundred winners of medals). The city had fifteen thousand passenger cars, five thousand helis, a thousand taxis (with and without chauffeurs), nine hundred automatic garbage collectors, four hundred permanent bars, cafes, and snack bars, eleven restaurants, and four first-class hotels, and was a tourist establishment which served over one hundred thousand visitors every year. The city had sixty thousand TV sets, fifty movie theaters, eight amusement parks, two Happy Mood salons, sixteen beauty parlors, forty libraries, and one hundred and eighty automated barber shops. Eighty percent of the population were engaged in services, and the rest worked in two syntho-bakeries and one government shipyard.

There were six schools and one university housed in an old castle once the home of crusader Ulrich da Casa. In the city there were also eight active civilian societies, among them the Society of Diligent Tasters, the Society of Connoisseurs and Appraisers, and the Society for the Good Old Country Against Evil Influences. In addition, fifteen hundred citizens were members of seven hundred and one groups where they sang, learned to act, to arrange furniture, to breast-feed, and to medicate cats. As to per-capita consumption of alcoholic beverages, natural meat, and liquid oxygen, the city was sixth, twelfth, and thirteenth highest in Europe respectively. The city had seven men’s clubs and five women’s clubs, as well as sport clubs named the Bulls and Rhinos. By a majority of forty-six votes, someone by the name of Flim Gao had been elected mayor. Peck was not among the municipal officials.

I put the guidebook aside, took off my jacket, and made a thorough examination of my domain. I approved of the living room. It was done in blue, and I like that color. The bar was full of bottled and refrigerated victuals so that I could at a moment’s notice entertain a dozen starving guests.

I went into the study. There was a large table in front of the window and a comfortable chair. The walls were lined with shelves tightly filled with collected works. The clean bright bindings were arranged with great skill so that they formed a colorful and appealing layout. The top shelf was occupied by the fifty-volume encyclopedia of UNESCO. Lower shelves were kaleidoscopic with the shiny wrappers of detective novels.

As soon as I saw the telephone on the table, I dialed Rimeyer’s number, perching on the chair arm. The receiver sounded with prolonged honkings and I waited, twirling a small dictaphone which someone had left on the table. Rimeyer did not answer. I hung up and inspected the dictaphone. The tape was half-used-up, and after rewinding, I punched the playback button.

“Greetings and more greetings,” said a merry male voice. “I clasp your hand heartily or kiss you on the cheek, depending on your sex and age. I have lived here two months and bear witness that it was most enjoyable. Allow me a few points of advice. The best institution in town is the Hoity Toity in the Park of Dreams. The best girl in town is Basi in the House of Models. The best guy in town is me, but I have already left. On television just watch Program Nine; everything else is chaff.

Don’t get involved with Intels, and give the Rhinos a wide berth. Don’t buy anything on credit — there’ll be no end to the runaround. The widow is a good woman but loves to talk and in general… As for Vousi, I didn’t get to meet her, as she had left the country to visit her grandmother. In my opinion she is sweet, and there was a photograph of her in the widow’s album, but I took it. There’s more: I expect to come back next March, so be a pal, if you decide to return, pick another time. Have a—”

Music followed abruptly. I listened awhile and turned off the machine.

There wasn’t a single tome I could extract from the shelves, so well were they stuck in, or maybe even glued on, and as there was nothing else of interest in the study, I went into the bedroom.

Here it was especially cool and cozy. I have always wanted just such a bedroom, but somehow never had the time to get around to setting one up. The bed was big and low. On the night table stood an elegant phonor and a tiny remote-control box for the TV. The screen stood at the foot of the bed, while at the head the widow had hung a very natural-looking picture of field flowers in a crystal vase. The picture was painted with luminous paints and the dewdrops glistened in the darkened room.

I punched the TV control at random and stretched out on the bed. It was soft yet somehow firm. The TV roared loudly. An inebriated-looking man launched himself out of the screen, crashed through some sort of railing, and fell from a great height into a colossal fuming vat. There was a loud splash and the phonor exuded a smell. The man disappeared in the bubbling liquid and then reappeared, holding in his teeth something reminiscent of a well-boiled boot. The unseen audience broke out in a storm of horse laughs. Fade out… soft lyrical music.