The Final Circle of Paradise

"Yes, yes. It's time for us to go. You will excuse us, please," he said, turning to me. "We have a meeting of the municipal council."

"Bartender!" called the bandaged one in a metallic voice.

"Would you call us a taxi."

"Have you been here long?" asked the ruddy man.

"Second day," I replied.

"Do you like it?"

"A beautiful city."

"Mm – yes," he mumbled.

We were silent. The man with the bandage impudently inserted his monocle and pulled out a cigar.

"Does it hurt?" I asked sympathetically.

"What, exactly?"

"The jaw," I said. "And the liver should hurt, too."

"Nothing ever hurts me," he replied, monocle glinting. "Are you two acquainted?" the ruddy one asked in astonishment.

"Slightly," I said. "We had an argument about art."

The bartender called out that the taxi had arrived. The man with the bandage immediately got up.

"Let's go, Senator," he said.

The ruddy one smiled at me abstractedly and also got up.

They set off for the exit. I followed them with my eyes and went to the bar.

"Brandy?" asked the bartender.

"Quite," I said. I shuddered with rage. "Who are those people I just spoke to?"

"The baldy is a municipal counselor, his field are cultural affairs. The one with the monocle is the city comptroller."

"Comptroller," I said. "A scoundrel is what he is."

"Really?" said the barman with interest.

"That's right, really," I said. "Is Buba here?"

"Not yet. And how about the comptroller, what is he up to?"

"A scoundrel, an embezzler, that's what he is," I said.

The bartender thought awhile.

"It could well be," he said. "In fact he's a baron – that is, he used to be, of course. His ways, sure enough, are unsavory. Too bad I didn't go vote or I would have voted against him. What's he done to you?"

"It's you he's done. And I've given him some back. And I'll give him some more in due time. Such is the situation."

The bartender, not understanding anything, nodded and said, "Hit it again?"

"Do," I said.

He poured me more brandy and said, "And here is Buba, coming in."

I turned around and barely managed to keep the glass in my grip. I recognized Buba.

Chapter TEN

He stood by the door looking about him as though trying to remember where he had come and what he was to do there. His appearance was very unlike his old one, but I recognized him at once anyway, because for four years we sat next to each other in the lecture halls of the school, and then there were several years when we met almost daily.

"Say," I addressed the bartender. "They call him Buba?"

"Uhuh," said the bartender.

"What is it – a nickname?"

"How should I know? Buba is Buba, that's what they all call him."

"Peck," I cried.

Everyone looked at me. He too slowly turned his head and his eyes searched for the caller. But he paid no attention to me. As though remembering something, he suddenly started to shake the water out of his cape with convulsive motions, and then, dragging his heels, hobbled over to the bar and climbed with difficulty on the stool next to mine.

"The usual," he said to the bartender. His voice was dull and strangled, as though someone held him by the throat.

"Someone has been waiting for you," said the barman, placing before him a glass of neat alcohol and a deep dish filled with granulated sugar.

Slowly he turned his head and looked at me, saying, "Well, what is it you want?"

His drooping eyelids were inflamed red, with accumulated slime in the corners. He breathed through his mouth as though suffering with adenoids.

"Peck Xenai," I said quietly. "Undergraduate Peck Xenai, please return from earth to heaven."

He continued to regard me without a change in his manner.

Then he licked his lips and said, "A classmate, perhaps?"

I felt numb and terrified. He turned around, picked up his glass, drank it down, gagging in revulsion, and began to eat the sugar with a large soup spoon. The bartender poured him another glass.

"Peck," I said, "old friend, don't you remember me?"

He looked me over again.

"I wouldn't say that. I probably did see you somewhere."

"Saw me somewhere!" I said in desperation. "I am Ivan Zhilin. Could it be you have completely forgotten me?"

His hand holding the glass quivered almost imperceptibly, and that was all.

"No, friend," he said, "forgive me, please, but I don't remember you."

"And you don't remember the 'Tahmasib' or Iowa Smith?"

"This heartburn has really got to me today," he informed the bartender. "Let me have some soda, Con."

The bartender, who had listened with curiosity, poured him a soda.

"Bad day, today, Con," he said. "Can you imagine, two automates failed on me today."

The bartender shook his head and sighed.

"The manager is bitching," continued Buba, "called me on the carpet and bawled me out. I am going to quit that place. I told him to go to hell and he fired me."

"Complain to the union," the bartender advised.

"To hell with them." He drank his soda and wiped his mouth with the palm of his hand. He did not look at me.