The Final Circle of Paradise

On the way home, I was overtaken by the change of shifts. The streets filled up with cars. Controller copters appeared over the intersections, and sweaty police cleared constantly threatening jams with roaring bull horns. The cars moved slowly, and the drivers stuck heads out of windows to light up from each other, to yell, to talk and joke while furiously blowing their horns. There was an instant screech of clashing bumpers. Everyone was happy, everyone was good-natured, and everyone glowed with savage glee. It seemed as though a heavy load had just fallen from the soul of the city, as though everyone was seized with an enviable anticipation. Fingers were pointed at me and the other pedestrians. Several times I was prodded with bumpers while crossing – the girls doing it with the utmost good nature. One of them drove alongside me for quite a while, and we got acquainted. Then a line of demonstrators with sober faces walked by on the median, carrying signs. The signs appealed to people to join the amateur club ensemble Songs of the Fatherland, to enter the municipal Culinary Art groups, and to sign up for condensed courses in motherhood and childhood. The people with signs were nudged by bumpers with special enthusiasm. The drivers threw cigarette butts, apple cores, and paper wads at them. They yelled such things as "I'll subscribe at once, just wait till I put my galoshes on," or "Me, I'm sterile," or "Say, buddy, teach me motherhood." The sign carriers continued to march slowly in between the two solid streams of cars, unperturbed and sacrificial, looking straight ahead with the sad dignity of camels.

Not far from my house, I was set upon by a flock of girls, and when I finally struggled through to Second Waterway, I had a white aster in my lapel and drying kisses on my cheeks, and it seemed I had met half the girls in town. What a barber! What a Master!

Vousi, in a flaming orange blouse, was sitting in the chair in my study. Her long legs in pointy shoes rested on the table, while her slender fingers held a long slim cigarette.

With her head thrown back, she was blowing thick streams of smoke at the ceiling, through her nose.

"At long last!" she cried, seeing me. "Where have you been all this time? As you can see, I've been waiting for you."

"I've been delayed," I said, trying to recollect if I had indeed promised to meet her.

"Wipe off the lipstick," she demanded. "You look silly! What's this? Books? What do you need books for?"

"What do you mean by that?"

"You are really quite a problem! Comes back late, hangs around with books. Or are those pornos?"

"It's Mintz," I said.

"Let me have them!" She jumped up and snatched the books out of my grasp. "Good God! What nonsense – all three are alike. What is it? History of Fascism… are you a Fascist?"

"How can you say that, Vousi!"

"Then, what do you need them for? Are you really going to read them?"

"Reread them."

"I just don't understand," she said peevishly. "I liked you from the first. Mother says you're a writer, and I went and bragged to everyone, like a fool, and then you turn out to be the next thing to an Intel."

"How could you, Vousi!" I said with reproach. By now I had realized that it was impermissible to be taken for an Intel.

"These bookos were simply needed in my literary business, that's all."

"Bookos!" she laughed. "Bookos! Look at what I can do."

She threw back her head and blew two thick streams of smoke out of her nostrils. "I got it on the second try. Pretty good, right?"

"Remarkable aptitude," I remarked.

"Instead of laughing at me, you should try it yourself… A lady taught me at the salon today. Slobbered all over me, the fat cow… Will you try it?"

"How come she did that?"

"Who?"

"The cow."

"Not normal. Or maybe a sad sack… What's your name? I forgot."

"Ivan."

"An amusing name! You'll have to remind me again. Are you a Tungus?"

"I don't think so."

"So-o… and I went and told everyone that you are a Tungus. Too bad… Say, why not have a drink?"

"Let's."

"Today I should have a strong drink to forget that slobbering cow."

She ran out into the living room and came back with a tray. We had some brandy and looked at each other, not having anything to say. I felt ill at ease. I couldn't say why, but I liked her. I sensed something, something I couldn't put my finger on; something which distinguished her from the long-legged, smooth-skinned pin-up beauties, good only for the bed. I had the impression that she sensed something in me, too.

"Beautiful day, today," she said, looking away.

"A bit hot," I observed.

She sipped some brandy; I did too. The silence stretched.

"What do you like to do the most?" she asked.

"It depends. And you?"

"Same with me. In general, I like to have fun and not have to think about anything."

"So do I," I said. "At least I do right now."

She seemed to perk up a little. I understood suddenly what was the matter: during the whole day, I had not met a single truly pleasant person, and I simply had gotten tired of it.