Arkadi Strugatsky - The Ugly Swans

"Why are you still here?" he said in a low voice. "Go, you're not allowed here."

"What do you mean, not allowed," said Victor, flaring up again. "I want a drink."

"Shh," said Golem. "I thought you had already gone. I knocked at your door. Where are you off to now?"

"Back to my room. I'm getting a bottle and going back to my room."

"There's no liquor here," said Golem.

Victor silently pointed to the bar, where the rows of bottles gleamed dully. Golem took a look.

"No," he said. "Alas."

"I want a drink!" repeated Victor in a stubborn voice.

But he felt no stubbornness within himself. It was a false front. The slimies were looking at him. The ones who were reading had dropped their books, the ones who were frozen to the spot had turned their skulls, only the sleepers continued to sleep. Dozens of shining eyes, as if suspended in a reddish twilight, stared at him.

"Don't go back to your room," said Golem. "Leave the hotel. Go to Lola's. Or to Quadriga's villa. Only so I know where you are. I'll come for you. Listen, Victor, don't bristle, do as I'm telling you. There's no time for explanations, and it wouldn't be right. Too bad Diana isn't here, she'd support me."

"And where's Diana?"

Golem looked around again and glanced at the clock.

"At four o'clock, or at five, she'll be at the Sunrise Gates Bus Terminal."

"Where is she now?"

"Now she's busy."

"So," said Victor, also glancing at the clock. "At four or five at the Sunrise Gates." He wanted very badly to get out of there. It was unbearable to stand there, the center of attention of that whole silent congregation.

"Maybe at six," said Golem. "Go to the villa and wait there."

"In my opinion, you're just trying to get rid of me," said Victor.

"Yes," said Golem. Suddenly, with interest, he looked Victor straight in the eye. "Veektor, you are absolutely sure you don't want to make yourself scarce?"

"I want to go to sleep," said Victor carelessly. "I haven't slept for two nights." He took Golem by a shirt button and led him out into the lobby. "All right, I'll go," he said. "Only what's the reason for the pandemonium. What are you having here, a convention?"

"Yes," said Golem.

"Or is it a rebellion?"

"Yes," said Golem.

"Or maybe it's war."

"Yes," said Golem. "Yes, yes, yes. Get out of here."

"Really? I would prefer it if you only answered for Diana."

"Thank God we made it," he said. "Let's run!"

"All right," said Victor. He turned to go, but then stopped. "What about Diana?" he asked.

"There's nothing threatening her. At least until six. Maybe until seven."

"You'll answer to me for Diana," said Victor softly.

Golem took out a handkerchief and wiped his neck.

"I answer for everything," he said.

"I'm sick of you," said Golem. "Oh, how I'm sick of you, you beautiful duckling. Diana is with the children. Diana is absolutely safe. Now go. I have work to do."

Victor turned and walked toward the staircase. Zurzmansor was no longer sitting at the main desk, there was only the small lamp smoldering above the thick oil-clothbound notebook.

"Banev," called R. Quadriga from a dark corner. "Where are you going? Let's get out of here!"

"I'm not going to march around in the rain in my slippers," snapped Victor without turning around. "They kicked us out," he thought. 'They kicked us out of the hotel. And maybe they've kicked us out of the town hall, too. And maybe they've kicked us out of town. And then what?" Back in his room, he quickly changed his clothes and threw on a raincoat. Quadriga was constantly underfoot.

"Is that how you're going, in your robe?" asked Victor.

"It's warm," said Quadriga. "And I have another one at home."

"Idiot. Go get dressed."

"I'm not going," said Quadriga firmly.

"We'll go together," Victor proposed.

"No. Not together either. Don't worry, I'll go this way. I'm used to it."

Quadriga was like a poodle eager for a walk. He jumped up and down, looking Victor in the eye; he panted, grabbed at Victor's clothing, ran to the door and ran back. It was useless to try to stop him. Victor tossed him his old raincoat and concentrated for a moment. He took his documents and money out of his desk drawer, stuffed them into his pockets, shut the window, and turned off the light. Then he gave himself up to Quadriga.

The doctor honoris causae, head thrust forward, pulled Victor through the corridor, down the back staircase, and past the dark, cold kitchen. Then he kicked him out the door, into the pouring rain and the pitch blackness. An instant later they were together.

But he couldn't. He got out of breath, and then it was so dark that they almost had to feel their way forward, grasping at the sides of buildings. The streetlights, burning at half power, and the reddish glow emerging here and there through half-closed curtains, could show only the general direction. The rain lashed down relentlessly, but the streets were not completely deserted. Somewhere there was a muffled conversation; a baby squealed; a few times they were passed by heavy trucks, and a wagon clanged its iron wheels on the asphalt.

"Everybody's running," Quadriga muttered. "Everybody's getting out of here. We're the only ones dragging ourselves along."

Victor was silent. Their shoes, soaked through and through, squelched underfoot; warm rain dripped down their faces. Quadriga was adhering to him like a tick, and it was all stupid and hackneyed. They still had the whole city to cross, and there was no end in sight. He walked into a downspout, something crunched, and Quadriga, tearing himself loose, shouted tearfully for the whole city to hear: "Banev! Where are you?"

While they fumbled around in the wet darkness, searching for each other, a window banged open above their heads.

"Well, what's up?"

"It's fucking dark out here," said Victor.

"Right you are!" the voice shot back with spirit. "No water either. It's good we got the tub in quick enough."

"What's next?" asked Victor, trying to keep a rein on Quadriga. After a short silence, the voice spoke up.

"There'll be an evacuation, I'll bet you anything. Some life!"

"Locals. Let 'em go."

They crossed the town square. In front of police headquarters there was a pileup of cars with their lights on. Golden shirts were swarming around helplessly, their fire helmets flashing copper. Someone was booming out orders, but you couldn't make them out. It was obvious that the epicenter of panic was here. For a time the road was lit up by reflected light, then it once again grew dark.

And the window slammed shut.

They pressed on ahead. Quadriga, hanging on to Victor with both arms, began a meandering narration about how he'd awakened in a state of terror, gone downstairs, and walked right into their black mass. In the pitch darkness they collided with a parked truck, felt their way around it, and collided with a person. The person was carrying something. Quadriga shrieked.

"What's the matter?" snarled Victor.

"He hurt me," complained Quadriga. "Right in the liver. With a carton."

The sidewalks were blocked with cars, refrigerators, and cupboards, with groves of potted plants. Quadriga landed in an opened mirrored wardrobe and then got tangled in a bicycle. Victor was seething with rage. At a street corner, a flashlight was thrust into their faces; they were stopped. Wet helmets glittered in the rain, and a rough voice with a southern drawl barked out orders.

"This is a military patrol. Show us your documents."

Quadriga, needless to say, didn't have any documents. He immediately began shouting that he was a doctor, that he was a laureate, and a personal friend of... . The voice, rough and disdainful, cut him off.

Quadriga wasn't muttering anymore, he merely puffed and moaned. Every so often he would fall, dragging Victor with him. They'd gotten themselves filthy as pigs. Victor had grown completely numb, he'd even stopped cursing. Apathy and resignation shrouded his brain. He would have to keep on walking, walking today and walking tomorrow, bumping into unseen figures and pushing them aside, lifting up Quadriga again and again by the collar of his sodden robe. He couldn't stop, and he couldn't under any circumstances turn back. He remembered something long forgotten, something shameful, bitter, and unreal. Only then the sky was flaming and the streets were crammed with people. In the distance there was thundering and shooting; behind them was horror, and all around were empty houses with boarded up windows. Ashes flew into their faces, there was a smell of burning paper. A tall colonel in an elegant hussar's uniform emerged onto the porch of a beautiful mansion, removed his cap, and shot himself. And we, ragged and bloody, sold and betrayed, also in hussars' uniforms but no longer hussars, all but deserters, started kissing, laughing, and booing, and somebody hurled his broken saber at the colonel's corpse.