Arkadi Strugatsky: The Ugly Swans

"This is for you," he said and saw immediately that there was no need for it. As before, Bol-Kunats was standing by the door, and as before he was dripping wet.

"Thank you," he said. "The truth is, I have to be going. There's just one more thing I'd like to -- "

"You'll come down with a cold," said Victor.

"No, don't worry, thank you. I won't come down with a cold. There's just one more matter I'd like to clarify with you. Irma hasn't told you anything?"

Victor threw the bath towel on the couch, squatted down in front of the liquor cabinet, and pulled out a bottle and a glass.

"Irma has told me a lot of things," he answered rather sullenly. He poured some gin into the glass.

"She didn't pass on our invitation?"

"No. She didn't pass on any invitations. Here, have a drink."

"Thank you, I'd rather not. Since she didn't tell you, then I will. We would like to meet with you, Mr. Banev."

"Who's 'we'?"

"The pupils of our school. The truth is, we have read your books and would like to ask you a few questions."

"Hm," said Victor doubtfully. "You're sure that everybody would be interested in this?"

"I think so."

"I don't exactly write for middle school students," Victor reminded him.

"That doesn't matter," said Bol-Kunats with gentle persistence. "Will you accept?"

Victor thoughtfully stirred the transparent liquid in his glass.

"Maybe you'll have some anyway?" he asked. "Best way to avoid a cold. No? Then I will." He downed the glass. "All right, I accept. Only no posters, no announcements. A small group. You and your friends, and me. When will it be?"

"Whenever it's convenient for you. It would be best to have it this week. In the morning."

"Let's say two days from now. Only not too early. Let's say Friday at eleven. Is that all right with you?"

"Yes. Friday at eleven, at the school. Should we remind you?"

"By all means," said Victor. "I always do my best to forget about soirees and banquets, not to mention meetings, receptions, and conferences."

"Good, I'll remind you," said Bol-Kunats. "And now, with your permission, I'll go. Goodbye, Mr. Banev."

"Wait, I'll take you down," said Victor. "So the doorman doesn't insult you. For some reason he's out of sorts today, and doormen being doormen, as you know -- "

"Thank you, don't trouble yourself," said Bol-Kunats. "He's my father."

And he left. Victor poured himself some more gin and fell into an armchair. "So," he thought. "The poor doorman. What on earth is his name? It's awkward. Still, he and I are comrades in misfortune, colleagues. I'll have to talk with him, share experiences. No doubt he's had more experience. But what a concentration of prodigies in my dank little hometown. Maybe from the increase in humidity." He threw his head back and winced from the pain. "That bastard, how did he do it, anyhow?" He felt his lump. "Very likely a hard rubber night-stick. Although how would I know what you get from a hard rubber night-stick. I know what you get from a Danish modern chair in the Grilled Pegasus. From the butt of a submachine gun, or, for example, the handle of a pistol. From champagne bottles with and without champagne. I'll have to ask Golem. All in all, it's a strange business. I'd like to know what's going on." He started to think about it, in order to drive away the thought about Irma that was surfacing from some secondary level -- the necessity of giving something up, accepting some limitations, or else sending off letters and asking for favors. " 'Sorry to bother you, old man, but I've got this daughter here. She's a bit over twelve, a terrific little girl, but her mother's a fool and her father's a fool too, so it would be good to set her up somewhere far away from such stupid people.' I don't want to think about it today, I'll think about it tomorrow." He looked at his watch. "Anyhow, I've done enough thinking. Enough."

He got up and began to dress in front of the mirror. "I'm getting a paunch, damn it, why should I be getting a paunch? I was always the lean, sinewy type. It's not even a paunch, exactly, your noble, working paunch from a life of moderation and good food. Just a lousy little paunchlet, a dissident's tummy. I'm sure Mr. President's is quite different. Mr. President's, I'm sure, is a noble, glossy, draped-in-black dirigible." He straightened his tie, moved his face closer to the mirror, and thought suddenly, "Observe this confident strong face, so beloved by women of a certain sort. Not a handsome face. Rather the courageous face of a fighter, with a square chin. And what did this face look like at the end of the historic encounter? ... The face of Mr. President is also not lacking in courage or rectangularity, but at the end of the historic encounter it looked, if we come right out with it, between you and me, like a wild boar's snout. Mr. President had been pleased to work himself up into a terrible state. Spit was flying from his tusked maw, and I took out a handkerchief and conspicuously wiped off my cheek. It was probably the most courageous act of my life, if you don't count the time I fought three tanks at once. But I don't remember how I fought the tanks, I only know about it from the stories of eyewitnesses. But I got out my handkerchief consciously and with full awareness of what I was headed for... . The papers didn't write about it. Our honest and courageous papers reported with sober frankness that belletrist V. Banev sincerely thanked Mr. President for the observations and explanations made in the course of their talk."

"It's strange how well I remember it all." He discovered that his cheeks and the tip of his nose had turned pale. "That's the way I looked then -- who wouldn't go after a guy who looked like that? The old wreck couldn't have known that I wasn't turning pale from fear but from anger, like Louis XIV. But let's stop waving our fists after the fight. What difference does it make what I was turning pale from? Okay, we'll stop. But in order to calm down, in order to get things under control before appearing in company, and return a homely but courageous face to its normal color, I must observe, Mr. Banev, and I must remind you, that if you hadn't flaunted your handkerchief in front of Mr. President, at the present moment you would be biding your time in our glorious capital, under the most pleasant conditions, and not in this wet hole."

Victor finished off the gin and went down to the restaurant.

"Of course they could have been muggers," said Victor. "Only in my day no mugger would think of taking on a four-eyes. To throw a stone at one -- well, all right. But to grab one, drag him around, and above all touch him... . We were all afraid of them, we thought it was catching."

"I'm telling you, it's a genetic disease," said Golem. "You can't catch anything from them."

"What do you mean you can't," said Victor. "They give you warts, just like toads. Everybody knows that."

"You can't get warts from toads," said Golem expansively. "You can't get them from slimies either. You should be ashamed of yourself, my dear writer. Though writers en masse are notoriously dense."

"Like all masses. The masses are dense, but they are wise. And if the masses declare that toads and slimies give warts -- "

"If it isn't my inspector coming toward us," said Golem.

Pavor walked over to them. He was wearing a wet raincoat, right from the street.

"Hello," he said. "I'm soaked to the skin, I want a drink."

"He smells like slime again," grumbled Dr. R. Quadriga, awakening from an alcoholic trance. "He always smells like slime. Like a pond. Duckweed."

"What are you drinking?" asked Pavor.

"It depends," said Golem. "I, for one, am drinking cognac. As usual. Victor is having gin. And the doctor is having one of everything."