Arkadi Strugatsky: The Ugly Swans

Quadriga blinked. "Can't do it," he said.

"Tightwad," Victor reproached him. "Comes from your childhood. Can't spare your villa. Well, go choke on it."

"You don't like me," said Dr. R. Quadriga bitterly. "Nobody likes me."

"What about Mr. President?" Victor was getting aggressive.

"The president is the father of his people," said Quadriga, livening up. "A sketch in gold tones. The President in the Trenches.' A fragment from a painting: 'The President in the Trenches During the Shelling.' "

"What else?" inquired Victor.

" The President in a Cloak,'" said Quadriga quickly. "A panel. Panorama."

Victor got bored. He cut himself a slice of marinated eel and started listening to Golem.

"I'll tell you what, Pavor," Golem was saying. "Leave me alone. What else can I do? I showed you our books. I'm ready to sign your report. If you want to make a complaint about the soldiers, go ahead. If you want to make a complaint about me --

"I don't want to write about you," said Pavor, pressing his hands to his heart.

"Then don't."

"Then tell me what to do. Can't you give me some idea of what to do?"

"This is deadly, gentlemen," said Victor. "I'm taking off."

Nobody paid attention to him. He pushed the table aside and stood up. Feeling very drunk, he moved toward the bar. The bald barman was wiping bottles. He looked at Victor without curiosity.

"The usual?" he said.

"Wait," said Victor. "What did I want to ask you ... Oh, yes. How's it going, Teddy?"

"It's raining," said Teddy shortly and poured him some hundred-and-fifty-proof.

"Lousy weather we're having," said Victor and leaned against the bar. "What does your barometer say?"

Teddy stuck a hand under the bar and got out his weather whiz. The three pins were pressed tightly against the shining, almost lacquered handle.

"No clearing," said Teddy, studying the weather whiz. "The devil's own invention." He thought for a minute and added: "But who knows, it might have broken a long time ago. How many years has it been raining?"

"Take a trip to the Sahara," proposed Victor.

Teddy smirked. "It's funny," he said. "This friend of yours, Pavor, a funny business, offered me two hundred crowns for this hunk of wood."

"He was probably drunk," said Victor. "What does he need it for?"

"That's what I told him." Teddy turned the weather whiz in his hands and held it up to his right eye. "I won't give it away," he declared. "Let him get one for himself." He shoved the weatherwhiz under the bar, looked at Victor playing with his glass, and added, "That Diana of yours stopped by."

"A long time ago?" asked Victor carelessly.

"Around five. I gave her a case of cognac. Rosheper is on a binge, he can't stop. He's sending his whole staff out for cognac. The filthy bastard. A member of parliament. Aren't you worried about her?"

Victor shrugged. He suddenly saw Diana standing next to him. She took shape next to the bar in a wet slicker with the hood pulled down. She wasn't looking in his direction. He saw only her profile, and he thought that of all the women he had ever known, she was the most beautiful and that in all likelihood he would never have another one like her. She was leaning against the table, her face was terribly pale and terribly indifferent, and she was the most beautiful -- everything about her was beautiful. And always. When she cried, when she laughed, when she got mad, and when she didn't give a damn, and when she was freezing cold, and especially when she was in one of her moods. "God am I drunk," thought Victor, "I probably reek of liquor, like Quadriga." He stuck out his lower lip and exhaled. "Can't tell."

"The roads are wet and slippery," Teddy was saying. "It's foggy ... and then, you know this Rosheper is a real womanizer, a dirty old man."

"Rosheper is impotent," objected Victor, mechanically swallowing his hundred-and-fifty-proof.

"Did she tell you that?"

"Drop it, Teddy," said Victor. "Forget it."

Teddy stared at him for a moment and sighed. Grunting, he squatted down, rummaged around under the bar, and came up with a bottle of liquid ammonia and an opened packet of tea. Victor glanced at the clock, then started watching Teddy slowly get out a clean glass, fill it with club soda, add a few drops of ammonia, and in the same deliberate manner stir the mixture with a swizzle stick. Teddy pushed the glass toward Victor. Victor drank it and made a face, holding his breath. The repulsively fresh stream of ammonia exploded in his brain and spread somewhere behind his eyes. Victor drew in a slow breath of air that had become unbearably cold, and stuck his fingers into the packet of tea.

"All right, Teddy," he said. "Thanks. Charge everything to my account. They'll tell you how much. I'm going."

Concentrating on chewing the tea leaves, he returned to his table. The young man in glasses and his lanky companion were wolfing down their dinner. The single bottle on the table was local mineral water. Pavor and Golem had cleared away a place on the tablecloth and were playing dice, and Dr. R. Quadriga was holding his shaggy head and muttering over and over again: "'The Legion of Freedom is the Backbone of the President.' A mosaic. ... 'on the Happy Anniversary of Your Highnesses' Birth.' 'The President is the Father of His Children.' An allegorical painting...."

"I'm leaving," said Victor.

"Too bad," said Golem. "However, I wish you good luck."

"Say hello to Rosheper," said Pavor, winking.

"Member of Parliament Rosheper Nant," Quadriga perked up. "A portrait. Not too expensive. Waist length."

Victor picked up his lighter and pack of cigarettes and left. Behind him Quadriga pronounced in a clear voice: "I believe, gentlemen, that it's time we became acquainted. The name is Rem Quadriga, doctor honoris causae, but as for you, my dear sirs, I can't seem...." At the door, Victor bumped into the fat coach of the soccer team Brothers in Reason. The coach was wet and looked worried. He let Victor pass.

The bus stopped. "Here we are," said the driver.

"Is this the health resort?" asked Victor. Outside the bus, the fog was dense and milky. The beam of the headlights dissolved into it, and nothing could be seen.

'The resort, what else?" muttered the driver, lighting a cigarette.

Victor walked toward the exit. "Some fog," he said, stepping off the bus. "Can't see a thing."

"You'll get there," the driver promised indifferently. He spit out the window. "They really picked a good place for a health resort. Fog all day, fog at night".

"Have a nice trip back," said Victor.

The driver didn't answer. The engine whined, the doors slammed shut, and the huge, empty bus made its turn, its glass lit up from inside like a department store closed for the night. No more than a dull spot of light, it sped off to the city. Victor felt his way along the iron railing, found the gate, and stumbled along the path. Now that his eyes had gotten used to the darkness, he could distinguish the brightly lit windows of the right half of the building and the impenetrable darkness of the left half, where the Brothers in Reason slept soundly after a full day's action in the rain. Through the fog, as though through cotton wadding, you could hear the usual health resort din: the sound of a stereo, the clank of dishes, somebody's hoarse shout. Victor forged ahead, trying to keep to the middle of the sandy path so as not to knock into some plaster vase.

He kept the bottle of gin clasped to his breast and was very careful, but, all the same, he tripped over something soft and had to stumble ahead on all fours. From behind him came a half-hearted curse and a suggestion that he should have turned the lights on. In the semidarkness Victor fumbled for the fallen bottle, again clasped it to his breast, and went on, feeling his way with his free hand. He collided with a parked car, maneuvered around it, and collided with another one. Nothing but goddamned cars in this place. Victor, cursing, wound his way through them as though through a labyrinth, and for a long time could not get near the murky glow that indicated the entrance to the lobby. The smooth sides of the cars were wet from the condensed fog. Somewhere close there was romping and giggling.