The Final Circle of Paradise

Putting away his notebook, Ahmad said, "To the right is the landlord's half, to the left is yours. Please come in. Here is the living room, and there is the bar. In a minute we'll have a drink. And now here is your study. Do you have a phonor?"

"No."

"It's just as well. You have everything you need right here. Come on over here. This is the bedroom. There is the control board for acoustic defense. You know how to use it?"

"I'll figure it out."

"Good. The defense is triple, you can have it quiet as a tomb or turn the place into a bordello, whatever you like… Here's the air-conditioning control, which, incidentally, is not too convenient, as you can only operate it from the bedroom."

"I'll manage," I said.

"What? Well, okay. Here is the bathroom and powder room."

"I am interested in the widow," I said, "and the daughter."

"All in good time. Shall I open the drapes?"

"What for?"

"Right you are, for no reason. Let's go have a drink."

We returned to the living room and Ahmad disappeared up to his waist in the bar.

"You want it on the strong side?" he asked.

"You have it backwards."

"Would you like an omelette? Sandwiches?"

"How about nothing?"

"No," said Ahmad, "an omelette it shall be – with tomatoes." He rummaged in the bar. "I don't know what does it, but this autocooker makes an altogether astonishingly good omelette with tomatoes. While we are at it, I will also have a bite."

He extracted a tray from the bar and placed it on a low table by a semicircular couch. We sat down.

"Now about the widow," I reminded him. "I would like to… present myself."

"You like the rooms?"

"They'll do."

"Well, the widow is quite all right, too. And the daughter is not bad either."

He extracted a flat case from an inside pocket. Like a cartridge clip it was stacked with a row of ampoules filled with colored liquids. Ahmad ran his index finger over them, smelled the omelette, hesitated, and finally selected one with a green fluid, broke it carefully, and dripped a few drops on the tomatoes. An aroma pervaded the room. The smell was not unpleasant, but, to my taste, bore no particular relation to the food.

"Right now," continued Ahmad, "they are still asleep." His gaze turned abstracted. "They sleep and see dreams."

I looked at my watch.

"Well, well!"

Ahmad was enjoying his food.

"Ten-thirty!" I said.

Ahmad was enjoying his food. His cap was pushed back on his head, and the green visor stuck up vertically like the crest of an aroused mimicrodon. His eyes were half-closed. I regarded him with interest.

Having swallowed the last bit of tomato, he broke off a piece of the crust of white bread and carefully wiped the pan with it. His gaze cleared.

"What were you saying?" he asked. "Ten-thirty? Tomorrow you too will get up at ten-thirty or maybe even at twelve. I, for one, will get up at twelve."

He got up and stretched luxuriously, cracking his joints.

"Well," he said, "it's time to go home, finally. Here's my card, Ivan. Put it in your desk, and don't throw it out until your very last day here." He went over to the flat box and inserted another card into its slot. There was a loud click.

"Now this one," he said, examining the card against the light. "Please pass on to the widow with my very best compliments."

"And then what will happen?" said I.

"Money will happen. I trust you are not a devotee of haggling, Ivan? The widow will name a figure, Ivan, and you shouldn't haggle over it. It's not done."

"I will try not to haggle," I said, "although it would be amusing to try it."

Ahmad raised his eyebrows.

"Well, if you really want to so much, then why not try it? Always do what you want to do. Then you will have excellent digestion. I will get your suitcase now."

"I need prospects," I said. "I need guidebooks. I am a writer, Ahmad. I will require brochures on the economic situation of the masses, statistical references. Where can I get all that? And when?"

"I will give you a guidebook," said Ahmad. "It has statistics, addresses, telephone numbers, and so on. As far as the masses are concerned, I don't think we publish any such nonsense. Of course, you can send an inquiry to UNESCO, but what would you want with it? You'll see everything for yourself. Just hold on a minute. I'll get the suitcase and the guidebook."

He went out and quickly returned with my suitcase in one hand and a fat bluish-looking little tome in the other.

I stood up.

"Judging by the look on your face," he announced, smiling, "you are debating whether it's proper to tip me or not."

"I confess," I said.

"Well then, would you like to do it or not?"

"No, I must admit."