Part 7 (1/2)

”The seventh year,” he repeated. ”And now -- can you imagine -- the year before last they kill off Mirosa and throw Levant into a j.a.panese prison for life, while Dan is burned at the stake. Can you visualize that?”

”It's impossible,” I said. ”Dan? At the stake? Although it's true that they burned Bruno at the stake, too.”

”It's possible,” he said with impatience. ”In any case, it became clear to us that they want to fold up the program fast.

But we didn't put up with that. We declared a strike and struggled for three weeks. Mille and I picketed the barber automates. And let me tell you that quite a lot of the townspeople sympathized with us.”

”I should think so,” I said. ”And what happened? Did you win?

”As you see. They grasped very well what was involved, and now the TV center knows with whom they are dealing. We didn't give one step, and if need be, we won't. Anyway we can rest on Tuesdays now just like in the old days -- for real.”

”And the other days?”

”The other days we wait for Tuesday and try to guess what is awaiting us and what you literary fellows will do for us. We guess and make bets -- although we Masters don't have much leisure.”

”You have a large clientele?”

”No, that's not it. I mean homework. It's not difficult to become a Master, it's difficult to remain one. There is a ma.s.s of literature, lots of new methods, new applications, and you have to keep up with it all and constantly experiment, investigate and keep track of allied fields -- bionics, plastic medicine, organic medicine. And with time, you acc.u.mulate experience, and you get the urge to share your knowledge. So Mille and I are writing our second book, and practically every month, we have to update the ma.n.u.script. Everything becomes obsolete right before your eyes. I am now completing a treatise on a little-known characteristic of the naturally straight nonplastic hair; and do you know I have practically no chance of being the first? In our country alone, I know of three Masters who are occupied with the same subject. It's only to be expected -- the naturally straight nonplastic hair is a real problem. It's considered to be absolutely nonaestheticizable.... However, this may not be of interest to you? You are a writer?”

”Yes,” I said.

”Well, you know, during the strike, I had a chance to run through a novel. That would not be yours, by any chance?”

”I don't know,” I said, ”What was it about?”

”Well, I couldn't say exactly.... Son quarrels with father. He has a friend, an unpleasant fellow with a strange name. He occupies himself by cutting up frogs.”

”Can't remember,” I lied -- poor Ivan Sergeyevitch.

”I can't remember either. It was some sort of nonsense. I have a son, but he never quarrels with me, and he never tortures animals -- except perhaps when he was a child”

He backed away again and made a slow circuit around me.

His eyes were burning; he seemed to be very pleased.

”It looks as though we can stop here,” he said.

I got out of the chair. ”Not bad. Not bad at all,”

murmured the Master. I approached the mirror. He turned on spotlights, which illuminated me from all sides so that there were no shadows on my face.

In the first instant I did not notice anything unusual about myself. It was my usual self. Then I felt that it was not I at all. That it was something much better than I. A whole lot better. Better looking than I. More benevolent than I.

Appreciably more significant than I. I experienced a sense of shame, as though I were deliberately pa.s.sing myself off as a man to whom I couldn't hold a candle.

”How did you do this thing?” I said in a strangled tone.

”It's nothing,” said the Master, smiling in a very special way. ”You turned out to be a fairly easy client, albeit quite neglected.”

I stood before the mirror like Narcissus and couldn't tear myself away. Suddenly, I felt awed. The Master was a magician, and an evil one at that, although he probably didn't realize it himself. The mirror reflected an extremely attractive lie. An intelligent, good-looking, monumental vapidity. Well, perhaps not a total vacuum, for after all I didn't have that low an opinion of myself. But the contrast was too great. All of my inner world, everything I valued in myself -- all that could just as well have not existed. It was no longer needed. I looked at the Master. He was smiling.

”You have many clients?” I asked.

He did not grasp my meaning, but after all, I didn't really want him to understand me.

”Don't worry,” he replied, ”I'll always work on you with pleasure. The rawest material is the most intriguing.”

”Thank you,” said I, lowering my eyes so as not to see his smile. ”Thank you. Goodbye.”

”Just don't forget to pay,” he said placidly. ”We Masters value our work very highly.”

”Yes, of course,” I caught myself. ”Naturally. How much do I owe you?”

He stated how much I owed.

'What?” said I regaining my equilibrium.

He repeated with satisfaction.

”Madness”, I said forthrightly.

”Such is the price of beauty,” he explained. ”You came here as an ordinary tourist, and you are leaving a king of this domain.”

”An impersonator is what I am leaving as,” I muttered, extracting the money.

”No, no, not that bad!” he said confidentially. ”Even I don't know that for sure. And even you are not convinced of it entirely.... Two more dollars, please. Thank you. Here is 50 pfennigs change. You don't mind pfennigs?”

I had nothing against pfennigs. I wanted to leave as fast as possible.

I stood in the lobby for a while, becoming myself again, and gazing at the metallic figure of Vladimir Sergeyevitch.

After all, all this is not new. After all, millions of people are not what they pa.s.s themselves for. But the d.a.m.nable barber had made me over into an empiriocritic. Reality was masked with gorgeous hieroglyphics. I no longer believed what I saw in this city. The plaza covered with stereo-plastic was probably in reality not beautiful at all. Under the elegant contours of the autos lurked ominous and ugly shapes. And that beautiful charming woman is no doubt in fact a repulsive malodorous hyena, a promiscuous dull-witted sow. I closed my eyes and shook my head. The old devil!

Two meticulously groomed oldsters stopped nearby and began to debate heatedly the relative merits of baked pheasant compared with pheasant broiled with feathers. They argued, drooling saliva, smacking their lips and choking, snapping their bony fingers under each other's noses. No Master could help these two. They were Masters themselves and they made no bones about it. At any rate, they restored my materialist viewpoint. I went to a porter and inquired about a restaurant.

”Right in front of you,” said he and smiled at the arguing oldsters. ”Any cuisine in the world.”

I could have mistaken the entrance to the restaurant for the gates to a botanical garden. I entered, parting the branches of exotic trees, stepping alternately on soft gra.s.s and coral flagstones. Unseen birds twittered in the luxuriant greenery, and the discreet clatter of utensils was mixed with the sound of conversation and laughter. A golden bird flew right in front of my nose, barely able to carry the load of a caviar tartine in its beak.

”I am at your service,” said the deep velvety voice.

An imposing giant of a man with epaulettes stepped toward me cut of a thicket.

”Dinner,” I said curtly. I don't like maitres-d'hotel.

”Dinner,” he said significantly. ”In company? Separate table?”'

”Separate table. On second thought...”

A notebook instantaneously appeared in his hand.