Arkadi Strugatsky - The Ugly Swans

"This is something to drink to!" he said out loud.

There was still a little gin in the bottle, poor old Golem couldn't finish it, the poor old false prophet. Not false because his prophecies were untrue, but because he was no more than a talking puppet. "I will always love you, Golem," thought Victor, "you're a good man, you're a wise man, but that's all you are -- a man."

He poured what was left of the gin into a glass, and with a swift, practiced movement tipped the glass and took a mouthful. Then, not even managing to swallow, he made for the bathroom. He threw up.

"Christ," he thought. "Disgusting." He saw his face in the mirror: worn and slightly flaccid, with unnaturally big and unnaturally black eyes. "Well, that's it," he thought. "That's it, Victor Banev, drunkard and loudmouth. No more drinking and no more raucous singing, and no more laughing at stupid jokes and no more lighthearted bullshitting. No fights, no brawls, and no disorderly conduct. No more terrorizing pedestrians, no more trading insults with policemen, no more falling out with Mr. President, and no more nighttime pub crawls with a noisy company of young admirers."

He got back into bed. He didn't feel like smoking. He didn't feel like doing anything, everything was making him nauseous and he felt sad. The sense of loss, at first barely noticeable, light as the touch of a spider's web, began to grow. Gloomy rows of barbed wire cut him off from the world he loved so much. "Everything has its price," he thought, "you don't get anything for free, and the more you get, the more you have to pay for it. If you get a new life, you have to pay for it with your old one." He scratched furiously, breaking the skin, but he didn't notice it.

Diana came in without knocking. She threw off her raincoat and stood in front of him, smiling and seductive. She raised her arms, fixing her hair.

"I'm frozen," she said. "Will the gentleman allow me to warm up?"

"Yes," he said, only dimly understanding what she was saying.

She turned off the light. Now he could no longer see her, he only heard the key turning in the lock, the snap of clothing unfastened, and the rustle of its fall. Then he heard her shoes hitting the floor, and she was next to him, warm, smooth, fragrant. And he kept thinking that the end was at hand. The end of everything: the eternal rain, the gloomy houses with their roofs like sieves, the impassive strangers with their wet, black clothing, with the black bandages on their faces. Now they would take off their bandages, take off their gloves, take off their faces and put them into special little cubbyholes, and their hands would be covered with festering ulcers. Anguish, terror, loneliness. Diana pressed against him, and he embraced her with his habitual motion. She was the same as ever, but he was not, and he couldn't do anything anymore, because he didn't need any of it.

"What's the matter, sweetheart?" she asked gently. "Drink too much?"

He carefully removed her arms from around his neck. Now he was really scared.

"Wait a minute," he said. "Just wait."

He got up, felt for the switch, turned on the light, and stood for a few seconds with his back to her. He couldn't bring himself to turn around. Finally he did. No, she was still beautiful. She was probably even more beautiful than usual, she was always more beautiful than usual, but this time she was like a picture. It stirred his pride in humankind, it stirred his delight in human perfection, but that was all it stirred. She looked at him, raising her brows in surprise. Then she must have gotten scared, because she suddenly sat down, and he saw her lips moving. She said something, but he didn't hear.

"Wait," he repeated. "It can't be. Wait."

He dressed himself with feverish haste, continually repeating, "Wait, wait," but he was no longer thinking about her, she was only a small part of it. He dashed out into the corridor and tried Golem's door. The door was locked. He didn't immediately understand where he should go next, but then he tore off and ran downstairs, to the restaurant. "I don't need it," he insisted, "I don't need it, I didn't ask for it."

Thank God, Golem was in his usual place. He was sitting with his arm stretched over the back of his chair, looking at the light reflected through his glass of cognac. Dr. R. Quadriga was red-faced and aggressive. Seeing Victor, he shouted at the top of his voice:

"Those slimies. Carrion. Away."

Victor fell into his chair. Golem, without saying a word, poured him some cognac.

"Golem," said Victor. "Golem, I came down with it."

"Next time be more careful," pronounced R. Quadriga. "Me too."

"Have some cognac, Victor," said Golem. "Don't get so upset."

"Go to hell," said Victor, looking at him in horror. "I've got ocularis ringus. What can I do?"

"All right, all right," said Golem. "But have a drink anyway." He raised a finger and shouted to the waiter. "Club soda! And some more cognac."

"Golem," said Victor, desperate. "You don't understand. I can't. I've come down with it, I'm telling you. I caught it! It's not fair. I didn't want. You told me it wasn't infectious."

"I suppose you put away five pounds or so," said Golem.

"You're not lying?" he said in a pitiful voice.

"Poor lovely duckling," said Golem, not addressing anyone.

He was terrified at the thought that he was speaking too disconnectedly, that Golem didn't understand him and thought that he was simply drunk. He thrust his hands in front of Golem's nose. The glass tipped over, rolled along the table, and fell off.

At first Golem recoiled. Then he looked more closely. He leaned forward, taking Victor's hand by the tips of his fingers, and started examining the scratched-up bumps on his skin. Golem's fingers were cold and hard. "Well, that's it," thought Victor, "the first medical examination. Then there will be more examinations, and more false promises that there's still hope, and tranquilizers. And then he'd get used to it, and there wouldn't be any more examinations. They'd take him off to the leprosarium, cover his mouth with a black bandage, and it would all be over."

"Did you have any strawberries?" asked Golem.

"Yes," said Victor submissively. "Hothouse ones."

"What do strawberries have to do with it?" shouted Victor, freeing his hand. "Do something! It can't be too late! It only just started...."

"Stop yelling. You have a rash. An allergy. It is contraindicated for you to wolf down strawberries in such quantity."

Victor still didn't understand. Staring at his hands, he muttered, "You were the one who told me ... blisters ... a rash."

"You can get blisters from bedbugs," said Golem in a didactic tone. "It so happens that you have an allergy to certain compounds. And more imagination than intelligence. Like most writers. Some slimy!"

Victor felt himself coming back to life. "I made it!" sounded in his head. "It looks like I made it. If I really did make it, I don't know what I'll do. I'll stop smoking."

Golem snorted.

"Have some cognac," he proposed. "You shouldn't drink cognac during an allergic reaction, but you go ahead and drink. You look pitiful."

Victor took his glass, made a face, and drank. "It's all right! A little nausea, but that's probably from the hangover. It'll go away." And it did.

"My dear writer," said Golem. "To become an architect, you have to have more than blisters."

The waiter came and put some cognac and club soda on the table. Victor sighed deeply and freely. He drank in the familiar restaurant air and smelled the beautiful odor of tobacco smoke, marinated onions, burnt oil, and fried meat. Life returned.

"Friend," he said to the waiter. "A bottle of gin, lemon juice, ice, and four portions of eel to two sixteen. And make it snappy! Alcoholics," he said to Golem and R. Quadriga. "Lousy restaurant rats. You can rot here by yourselves, I'm going to Diana!" He was ready to kiss them.