Arkady Strugatsky: The Final Circle of Paradise

The customs inspector had a round smooth face which registered the most benevolent of attitudes. He was respectfully cordial and solicitous.

“Welcome,” he murmured. “How do you like our sunshine?” He glanced at the passport in my hand. “Beautiful morning, isn’t it?”

I proffered him my passport and stood the suitcase on the white counter. The inspector rapidly leafed through it with his long careful fingers. He was dressed in a white uniform with silver buttons and silver braid on the shoulders. He laid the passport aside and touched the suitcase with the tips of his fingers.

“Curious,” he said. “The case has not yet dried. It is difficult to imagine that somewhere the weather can be bad.”

“Yes,” I said with a sigh, “we are already well into the autumn,” and opened the suitcase.

The inspector smiled sympathetically and glanced at it absent-mindedly. “It’s impossible amid our sunshine to visualize an autumn. Thank you, that will be quite all right… Rain, wet roofs, wind…

“And what if I have something hidden under the linen?” I asked — I don’t appreciate conversations about the weather. He laughed heartily.

“Just an empty formality,” he said. “Tradition. A conditioned reflex of all customs inspectors, if you will.” He handed me a sheet of heavy paper. “And here is another conditioned reflex. Please read it — it’s rather unusual. And sign it if you don’t mind.”

I read. It was a law concerning immigration, printed in elegant type on heavy paper and in four languages. Immigration was absolutely forbidden. The customs man regarded me steadily.

“Curious, isn’t it?” he asked.

“In any case it’s intriguing,” I replied, drawing my fountain pen. “Where do I sign?”

“Where and how you please,” said the customs man. “Just across will do.”

I signed under the Russian text over the line “I have been informed on the immigration laws.”

“Thank you,” said the customs man, filing the paper away in his desk, “Now you know practically all our laws. And during your entire stay — How long will you be staying with us?”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“It’s difficult to say in advance. Depends on how the work will go.”

“Shall we say a month?”

“That would be about it. Let’s say a month.”

“And during this whole month,” he bent over the passport making some notation, “during this entire month you won’t need any other laws.” He handed me my passport. “I shouldn’t even have to mention that you can prolong your stay with us to any reasonable extent. But in the meantime, let it be thirty days.

If you find it desirable to stay longer, visit the police station on the 16th of May and pay one dollar… You have dollars?”

“Yes.”

“That’s fine. By the way, it is not at all necessary to have exclusively a dollar. We accept any currency. Rubles, pounds, cruzeiros.”

“I don’t have cruzeiros,” I said. “I have only dollars, rubles, and some English pounds. Will that suit you?”

“Undoubtedly. By the way, so as not to forget, would you please deposit ninety dollars and seventy-two cents.”

“With pleasure,” I said, “but why?”

“It’s customary. To guarantee the minimum needs. We have never had anyone with us who did not have some needs.”

I counted out ninety-one dollars, and without sitting down, he proceeded to write out a receipt. His neck grew red from the awkward position. I looked around. The white counter stretched along the entire pavilion. On the other side of the barrier, customs inspectors in white smiled cordially, laughed, explained things in a confidential manner. On this side, brightly clad tourists shuffled impatiently, snapped suitcase locks, and gaped excitedly. While they waited they feverishly thumbed through advertising brochures, loudly devised all kinds of plans, secretly and openly anticipated happy days ahead, and now thirsted to surmount the white counter as quickly as possible. Sedate London clerks and their athletic-looking brides, pushy Oklahoma farmers in bright shirts hanging outside Bermuda shorts and sandals over bare feet, Turin workers with their well-rouged wives and numerous children, small-time Catholic bosses from Spain, Finnish lumbermen with their pipes considerately banked, Hungarian basketball players, Iranian students, union organizers from Zambia…

The customs man gave me my receipt and counted out twenty-eight cents change.

“Well — there is all the formality. I hope I haven’t detained you too long. May I wish you a pleasant stay!”

“Thank you,” I said and took my suitcase.

He regarded me with his head slightly bent sideways, smiling out of his bland, smooth face.

“Through this turnstile, please. Au revoir. May I once more wish you the best.”

I went out on the plaza following an Italian pair with four kids and two robot redcaps.

The sun stood high over mauve mountains. Everything in the plaza was bright and shiny and colorful. A bit too bright and colorful, as it usually is in resort towns. Gleaming orange-and-red buses surrounded by tourist crowds, shiny and polished green of the vegetation in the squares with white, blue, yellow, and gold pavilions, kiosks, and tents. Mirrorlike surfaces, vertical, horizontal, and inclined, which flared with sunbursts. Smooth matte hexagons underfoot and under the wheels — red, black, and gray, just slightly springy and smothering the sound of footsteps. I put down the suitcase and donned sunglasses.

Out of all the sunny towns it has been my luck to visit, this was without a doubt the sunniest. And that was all wrong.

It would have been much easier if the day had been gray, if there had been dirt and mud, if the pavilion had also been gray with concrete walls, and if on that wet concrete was scratched something obscene, tired, and pointless, born of boredom. Then I would probably feel like working at once. I am positive of this because such things are irritating and demand action. It’s still hard to get used to the idea that poverty can be wealthy.

And so the urge is lacking and there is no desire to begin immediately, but rather to take one of these buses, like the red-and-blue one, and take off to the beach, do a little scuba diving, get a tan, play some ball, or find Peck, stretch out on the floor in some cool room and reminisce on all the good stuff so that he could ask about Bykov, about the Trans-Pluto expedition, about the new ships on which I too am behind the times, but still know better than he, and so that he could recollect the uprising and boast of his scars and his high social position… It would be most convenient if Peck did have a high social position. It would be well if he were, for example, a mayor…

A small darkish rotund individual in a white suit and a round white hat set at a rakish angle approached deliberately, wiping his lips with a dainty handkerchief. The hat was equipped with a transparent green shade and a green ribbon on which was stamped “Welcome.” On his right earlobe glistened a pendant radio.

“Welcome aboard,” said the man.

“Hello,” said I.

“A pleasure to have you with us. My name is Ahmad.”

“And my name is Ivan,” said I. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

We nodded to each other and regarded the tourists entering the buses. They were happily noisy and the warm wind rolled their discarded butts and crumpled candy wrappers along the square. Ahmad’s face bore a green tint from the light filtering through his cap visor.