Part 9 (1/2)
”It's the most complete Mintz.”
”Of course, I can see that. I was stunned when I saw it.”
”Me too,” he said, ”when I saw what you were after.”
”He is a tourist,” twittered one of the girls. ”He doesn't understand.”
”It's all free,” said the driver. ”Personal needs fund. To take care of personal needs.”
I looked back at the bookshelf.
”Did you see Change of Dream?” asked the driver.
”Yes, thank you, I have it.”
”About Strogoff I will not even inquire.”
”How about the History of Fascism?”
”An excellent edition.”
The girls giggled again. The driver's eyes popped in sudden wrath.
”Scram, snot faces,” he barked.
The girls jumped. One of them thievishly grabbed several blouse packages. They ran across the street, where they stopped and continued to gaze at us.
”With frames!” said the driver. His thin lips twitched. ”I should drop this whole idea. Where do you live?”
”On Second Waterway.”
”Aha, in the thick of the mire.... Let's go -- I will drop you off. I have a complete Schedrin in the van, which I don't even exhibit; I have the entire cla.s.sics library; the whole Golden Library, the complete Treasures of Philosophic Thought.”
”Including Doctor Opir's?”
”b.i.t.c.h tripe,” said the driver. ”Salacious b.u.m! Amoeba!
Rut do you know Sliy?”
”Not much,” I said. ”I don't like him. Neo-individualism, as Doctor Opir would say.”
”Doctor Opir stinks,” said the driver. ”While Sliy is a real man. Of course, there is the individualism. But at least he says what he thinks and does what he says. I'll get some Sliy for you.... Listen, did you see this? And this!”
He dug himself up to his elbows in books. He stroked them tenderly and his face shone with rapture.
”And this,” he kept on. ”And how about this Cervantes?”
An oldish lady of imposing bearing approached and started to pick over the canned goods.
”You still don't have Danish pickles... didn't I ask you to get some?”
”Go to h.e.l.l,” said the driver absent-mindedly.
The woman was stunned. Her face slowly turned crimson.
”How dare you!” she hissed.
The driver looked at her bullishly.
”You heard what I said. Get out of here!”
”Don't you dare!” said the woman. ”What is your number?”
”My number is ninety-three,” said the driver, ”Ninety-three -- is that clear enough? And I spit on all of you. Is that clear? Any other questions?”
”What a hooliganism!” said the woman with dignity. She took two cans of delicacies, scanned the counter, and with great precision, ripped the cover off the Cosmic Man magazine. ”I'll remember you, number ninety-three! These aren't the old times for you.” She wrapped the two cans in the cover.
”We'll see each other in the munic.i.p.al court.”
I took a firm hold on the driver's arm. His rigid muscles gradually relaxed.
”The nerve!” said she majestically and departed.
She stepped along the sidewalk, proudly carrying her handsome head, which was topped with a high cylindrical coiffure. She stopped at the corner, opened one of the cans, and proceeded to pick out chunks with elegant fingers.
I released the driver's arm.
”They ought to be shot,” he said suddenly. ”We ought to strangle them instead of dispensing pretty books to them.” He turned toward me, and I could see his eyes were tortured.
”Shall I deliver your books?”
”Well, no,” I said. ”Where will I put them?”
”In that case, shove off,” said the driver. ”Did you take your Mintz? Then go and wrap your dirty pantaloons in it.”
He climbed up into the cab. Something clicked and the back door began to rise. You could hear everything cras.h.i.+ng and rolling inside the van. Several books and some s.h.i.+ny packets, boxes, and cans fell on the pavement. The rear panel had not yet closed completely when the driver shut his door and the van took off with a jerk.
The girls had already disappeared. I stood alone on the empty street and watched the wind lazily turn the pages of History of Fascism at my feet. Later a gang of kids in striped shorts came around the corner. They walked by silently, hands stuck in their pockets. One jumped down on the pavement and began to kick a can of pineapple, with a slick pretty cover, like a football down the street.
Chapter SIX.
On the way home, I was overtaken by the change of s.h.i.+fts.
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 a instant screech of clas.h.i.+ng b.u.mpers. 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 antic.i.p.ation. Fingers were pointed at me and the other pedestrians. Several times I was prodded with b.u.mpers 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 munic.i.p.al Culinary Art groups, and to sign up for condensed courses in motherhood and childhood. The people with signs were nudged by b.u.mpers with special enthusiasm. The drivers threw cigarette b.u.t.ts, 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!