The Final Circle of Paradise

"It phonies too but it has a frame." "Spangles." I grabbed the Mintz. Holding the two volumes under my arm, I opened the third. Never have I seen such a complete Mintz. There were even the émigré letters.

"How much will that be?" I called.

The girls gaped again; the driver sucked in his lips and sat up.

"What?" he said huskily.

"Who is the owner here?" I said.

He got up and came to me.

"What would you like?"

"I want this Mintz. How much is it?"

The girls giggled. He stared at me in silence, then removed his glasses.

"You are a foreigner?"

"Yes, I am a tourist."

"It's the most complete Mintz."

"Of course, I can see that. I was stunned when I saw it."

"Me too," he said, "when I saw what you were after."

"He is a tourist," twittered one of the girls. "He doesn't understand."

"It's all free," said the driver. "Personal needs fund. To take care of personal needs."

I looked back at the bookshelf.

"Did you see Change of Dream?" asked the driver.

"Yes, thank you, I have it."

"About Strogoff I will not even inquire."

"How about the History of Fascism?"

"An excellent edition."

The girls giggled again. The driver's eyes popped in sudden wrath.

"Scram, snot faces," he barked.

The girls jumped. One of them thievishly grabbed several blouse packages. They ran across the street, where they stopped and continued to gaze at us.

"With frames!" said the driver. His thin lips twitched. "I should drop this whole idea. Where do you live?"

"On Second Waterway."

"Aha, in the thick of the mire… Let's go – I will drop you off. I have a complete Schedrin in the van, which I don't even exhibit; I have the entire classics library; the whole Golden Library, the complete Treasures of Philosophic Thought."

"Including Doctor Opir's?"

"Bitch tripe," said the driver. "Salacious bum! Amoeba!

Rut do you know Sliy?"

"Not much," I said. "I don't like him. Neo-individualism, as Doctor Opir would say."

"Doctor Opir stinks," said the driver. "While Sliy is a real man. Of course, there is the individualism. But at least he says what he thinks and does what he says. I'll get some Sliy for you… Listen, did you see this? And this!"

He dug himself up to his elbows in books. He stroked them tenderly and his face shone with rapture.

"And this," he kept on. "And how about this Cervantes?"

An oldish lady of imposing bearing approached and started to pick over the canned goods.

"You still don't have Danish pickles… didn't I ask you to get some?"

"Go to hell," said the driver absent-mindedly.

The woman was stunned. Her face slowly turned crimson.

"How dare you!" she hissed.

The driver looked at her bullishly.

"You heard what I said. Get out of here!"

"Don't you dare!" said the woman. "What is your number?"

"My number is ninety-three," said the driver, "Ninety-three – is that clear enough? And I spit on all of you. Is that clear? Any other questions?"

"What a hooliganism!" said the woman with dignity. She took two cans of delicacies, scanned the counter, and with great precision, ripped the cover off the Cosmic Man magazine. "I'll remember you, number ninety-three! These aren't the old times for you." She wrapped the two cans in the cover.

"We'll see each other in the municipal court."

I took a firm hold on the driver's arm. His rigid muscles gradually relaxed.

"The nerve!" said she majestically and departed.

She stepped along the sidewalk, proudly carrying her handsome head, which was topped with a high cylindrical coiffure. She stopped at the corner, opened one of the cans, and proceeded to pick out chunks with elegant fingers.

I released the driver's arm.

"They ought to be shot," he said suddenly. "We ought to strangle them instead of dispensing pretty books to them." He turned toward me, and I could see his eyes were tortured.

"Shall I deliver your books?"

"Well, no," I said. "Where will I put them?"

"In that case, shove off," said the driver. "Did you take your Mintz? Then go and wrap your dirty pantaloons in it."

He climbed up into the cab. Something clicked and the back door began to rise. You could hear everything crashing and rolling inside the van. Several books and some shiny packets, boxes, and cans fell on the pavement. The rear panel had not yet closed completely when the driver shut his door and the van took off with a jerk.

The girls had already disappeared. I stood alone on the empty street and watched the wind lazily turn the pages of History of Fascism at my feet. Later a gang of kids in striped shorts came around the corner. They walked by silently, hands stuck in their pockets. One jumped down on the pavement and began to kick a can of pineapple, with a slick pretty cover, like a football down the street.

Chapter SIX