Part 8 (2/2)

I found a telephone booth, and rang information for Peck Xenai's number and address. I was asked to wait. As usual, the booth smelled of cats. The plastic shelf was covered with telephone numbers and obscene images. Someone had carved quite deeply, as with a knife, the strange word ”SLUG.” I opened the door, to lighten the string atmosphere, and watched the opposite shady side of the street, where a barman stood in front of his establishment in a white jacket with rolled-up sleeves, smoking a cigarette. Then I was told that according to the data at the beginning of the year, Peck resided at No. 31 Liberty Street, number 11-331. I thanked the operator and dialed the number at once. A strange voice told me that I had a wrong number. Yes, the number was correct, and so was the address, but no Peck lived there, and if he had, they didn't know when he left or where he had gone. I hung up, left the booth, and crossed the street to the shady side.

Catching my eye, the barman came to life and said from afar, ”Come in, why don't you?”

”Don't know that I'd like to,” I said.

”So you won't be friendly, eh?” he said. ”Come in anyway.

We'll have a talk. I feel bored.”

I stopped.

”Tomorrow morning,” I said, ”at ten o'clock, at the university, there will be a philosophy lecture on Neo-optimism.

It will be given by the renowned Doctor Opir from the capital.

The barman listened with avid interest -- he even stopped inhaling.

”How do you like that!” he said. ”So they have come to that! The day before yesterday, they chased all the girls out of a night club, and now they'll be having lectures. We'll show them lectures!”

”It's about time,” I said.

”I don't let them in,” he continued, getting more animated. ”I have a sharp eye for them. A guy could be just approaching the door, when I can spot him for an Intel 'Fellows,' I say, 'an Intel is coming.' And the boys are all well picked; Dodd himself is here every night after training.

So, he gets up and meets this Intel at the door, and I don't even know what goes on between them, but be pa.s.ses him on elsewhere. Although it's true that sometimes they travel in bunches. In that case, so there wouldn't be a to-do, we lock the door -- let them knock. That's the right way, isn't it?”

'That's okay by me,” I said. I had had enough of him.

There are people who pall unusually quickly. ”Let them.”

”What do you mean -- let them?”

”Let them knock. In other words, knock on any door.”

The barman looked at me with growing alertness.

”What say you move on,” he said.

”How about a quick one,” I offered.

”Move along, move along,” he said. ”You won't get served here.”

We looked at each other awhile,, then he growled something, backed up, and slid the gla.s.s door in front of him.

”I am no Intel,” I said. ”I am a poor tourist. A rich one.”

He looked at me with his nose flattened against the gla.s.s.

I made a motion as though knocking a drink back. Re mumbled something and went back into the darkness of the place -- I could see him wandering aimlessly among empty tables. The place was called the Smile. I smiled and went on.

Around the corner was a wide main thoroughfare. A huge van, plastered with advertis.e.m.e.nts, was parked by the curb. Its back was swung down for a counter, on which were piled mountains of cans, bottles, toys, and stacks of cellophane-wrapped clothing and underwear. Two teenage girls twittered some sort of nonsense while selecting blouses.

”Pho-o-ny,” squeaked one. The other, turning the blouse this way and that, replied, ”Spangles, spangles and not phony.”

”Here by the neck it phonies.” ”Spangles.” ”Even the star doesn't glimmer.”

The driver of the van, a gaunt man with huge, horn-rimmed dark gla.s.ses, sat on the step of the advertising rotunda. His eyes were not visible, but, judging by his relaxed mouth and sweat-beaded nose, he was asleep. I approached the counter. The girls stopped talking and stared at me with parted mouths. They must have been about sixteen, and their eyes were vacant and blue, like those of young kittens.

”Spangles,” I said. ”No phonying and lots of sparkle.”

”And around the neck?” asked the one who was trying on the blouse.

”Around the neck it's practically a masterpiece.”

”Spangles,” said the other uncertainly.

”OK, let's look at another one,” offered the first peacefully. ”This one here.”

”This one is better, the silvery one with the frame.”

I saw books. They were magnificent books. There was a Strogoff with such ill.u.s.trations as I had never even heard of.

There was Change of Dream with an introduction by Saroyan. There was a Walter Mintz in three volumes. There was almost an entire Faulkner, The New Politics by Weber, Poles of Magnificence by Ignatova, The Unpublished Sian She-Cuey, History of Fascism in the ”Memory of Mankind” edition. There were current magazines, and almanacs, pocket Louvres, Hermitage, and Vatican. There was everything!

”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 jmigrj 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 gla.s.ses.

”You are a foreigner?”

”Yes, I am a tourist.”

<script>