Part 13 (2/2)
”I don't want to. Disgusting lumps l”
”What lumps? Here, let me have some myself! Mm! Delicious!
Just try some and you'll see it's very tasty.”
”But I don't want any! I'm ill, I'm not going to school.”
”Len, what are you saying? You've skipped a lot of days as it is.”
”So what?”
”What do you mean, so what? The director has already called me twice. We'll be fined.”
”Let them fine us!”
”Eat, son, eat. Maybe you didn't get enough sleep?”
”I didn't. And my stomach hurts... and my head... and my tooth, this one here, you see?”
Len's voice sounded peevish, and I immediately visualized his pouting lips and his swinging stockinged foot.
I went out the gate. The day was again clear and sunny, full of bird twitter. It was still too early, so that on my way to the Olympic, I met only two people. They walked together by the curb, monstrously out of place in the joyful world of green branch and clear blue sky. One was painted vermilion and the other bright blue. Sweat beaded through the paint on their bodies. Their breaths heaved through open mouths and the protruding eyes were bloodshot. Unconsciously I unb.u.t.toned all the b.u.t.tons of my s.h.i.+rt and breathed with relief when this strange pair pa.s.sed me.
At the hotel I went right up to the ninth floor. I was in a very determined mood. Whether Rimeyer wanted to or not, he would have to tell me everything I wanted to know. As a matter of fact, I needed him now for other things as well. I needed a listener, and in this sunny bedlam I could talk openly only to him, so far. True, this was not the Rimeyer I had counted on, but this too had to be talked cut in the end....
The red-headed Oscar stood by the door to Rimeyer's suite, and, seeing him, I slowed my steps. He was adjusting his tie, gazing pensively at the ceiling. He looked worried.
”Greetings,” I said -- I had to start somehow.
He wiggled his eyebrows and looked me over, and I was aware that he remembered me. He said slowly, ”How do you do.”
”You want to see Rimeyer, too?” l asked.
”Rimeyer is not feeling well,” he said. He stood hard by the door and apparently had no intention of letting me by.
”A pity,” I said, moving up on him. ”And what is his problem?”
”He is feeling very bad.”
”Oh, oh!” I said. ”Someone should have a look.”
I was now right up against Oscar. It was obvious he was not about to give way. My shoulder responded at once with a flare of pain.
”I am not sure it's all that necessary,” he said.
”What do you mean? Is it really that bad?”
”Exactly. Very bad. And you shouldn't bother him. Not today, or any other day!”
It seems I arrived in time, I thought, and hopefully not too late.
”Are you a relative of his?” I asked. My att.i.tude was most peaceable.
He grinned.
”I am his friend. His closest friend in this town. A childhood friend, you might say.”
'This is most touching,” I said. ”But I am his relative.
Same as a brother. Let's go in together and see what his friend and brother can do for poor Rimeyer.”
”Maybe his brother has already done enough for Rimeyer.”
”Really now... I only arrived yesterday.”
”You wouldn't, by any chance, have other brothers around here?”
”I don't think there are any among your friends, with the exception of Rimeyer.”
While we were carrying on with this nonsense, I was studying him most carefully. He didn't look too nimble a type -- even considering my defective shoulder. But he kept his hands in his pockets all the time, and although I didn't think he would risk shooting in the hotel, I was not of a mind to chance it. Especially as I had heard of quantum dischargers with limited range.
I have been told critically many times that my intentions are always clearly readable on my face. And Oscar was apparently an adequately keen observer. I was coming to the conclusion that he obviously did not have anything there at all, that the hands-in-the-pocket act was a bluff. He moved aside and said, ”Go on in.”
We entered. Rimeyer was indeed in a bad way. He lay on the couch covered with a torn drape, mumbling in delirium. The table was overturned, a broken bottle stained the middle of the floor, and wet clothes were strewn all over the room. I approached Rimeyer and sat down by him so as not to lose sight of Oscar, who stood by the window, half-sitting on the sill.
Rimeyer's eyes were open. I bent over him.
”Rimeyer,” I called. ”It's Ivan. Do you recognize me?”
He regarded me dully. There was a fresh cut on his chin under the stubble.
”So you got there already...” he muttered. ”Don't prolong the Fishers... doesn't happen... don't take it so hard ...
bothered me a lot... I can't stand...”
It was pure delirium. I looked at Oscar. He listened with interest, his neck stretched out.
”Bad when you wake up...” mumbled Rimeyer. ”n.o.body... wake up... they start... then they don't wake up...”
I disliked Oscar more and more. I was annoyed that he should be hearing Rimeyer's ravings. I didn't like his being here ahead of me. And again, I didn't like that cut on Rimeyer's chin -- it was quite fresh. How can I be rid of you, red-haired mug, I wondered.
”We should call a doctor,” I said. ”Why didn't you call a doctor, Oscar? I think it's delirium tremens.”
I regretted the words immediately. To my considerable surprise, Rimeyer did not smell of alcohol at all, and Oscar apparently knew it. He grinned and said, ”Delirium tremens? Are you sure?”
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