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 pass themselves for. But the damnable 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 grass 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.
“A man of your age would be welcome at the table of Mrs. and Miss Hamilton-Rey.”
“Go on,” I said.
“Father Geoffrois…”
“I would prefer an aborigine.”
He turned the page.
“Opir, doctor of philosophy, just now has sat down at his table.”
“That’s a possibility,” said I.
He put away the book and led me along a path paved with limestone slabs. Somewhere around us there were people eating, talking, swishing seltzer. Hummingbirds darted like multicolored bees in the leaves. The maitre- d’hotel inquired respectfully, “How would you like to be introduced?”
“Ivan. Tourist and litterateur.”
Doctor Opir was about fifty. I liked him at once because he immediately and without any ceremony sent the maitre-d’hotel packing after a waiter. He was pink and plump, and moved and talked incessantly.
“Don’t trouble yourself,” he said when I reached for the menu. “It’s all set already. Vodka, anchovies under egg — we call them pacifunties — potato soup…”
“With sour cream,” I interjected.
“Of course!… steamed sturgeon a la Astrakhan… a patty of veal…”
“I would prefer pheasant baked in feathers.”
“No — don’t; it’s not the season… a slice of beef, eel in sweet marinade.”
“Coffee,” I said.
” Cognac,” he retorted.
“Coffee with cognac.”
“All right, cognac and coffee with cognac. Some pale wine with the fish and a good natural cigar.”
Dinner with Doctor Opir turned out to be most congenial.
It was possible to eat, drink, and listen. Or not to listen.
Doctor Opir did not need a conversation. He required a listener. I did not have to participate in the talking, I didn’t even supply any commentaries, while he orated with enthusiastic delight, almost without interruption, waving his fork, while plates and dishes nonetheless became empty in front of him with mystifying speed. Never in my life have I met a man who was so skilled in conversation while his mouth was so fully packed and so busy masticating.
“Science! Her Majesty!” he exclaimed. “She matured long and painfully, but her fruits turned out to be abundant and sweet. Stop, Moment, you are beautiful! Hundreds of generations were born, suffered, and died, and not one was impelled to pronounce this incantation. We are singularly fortunate. We were born in the greatest of epochs, the Epoch of the Satisfaction of Desires. It may be that not everybody understands this as yet, but ninety- nine percent of my fellow citizens are already living in a world where, for all practical purposes, a man can have all he can think of. O, Science! You have finally freed mankind. You have given us and will henceforth provide for us everything — food — wonderful food — clothing of the best quality and in any quantity, and to suit any taste! — shelter — magnificent shelter. Love, joy, satisfaction, and for those desiring it, for those who are fatigued by happiness — tears, sweet tears, little saving sorrows, pleasant consoling worries which lend us significance in our own eyes… Yes, we philosophers have maligned science long and angrily. We called forth Luddites, to break up machines, we cursed Einstein, who changed our whole universe, we vilified Wiener, who impugned our godlike essence. Well, so we really lost that godlike substance. Science robbed us of it. But in return! In return, it launched men to the feasting tables of Olympus. Aha! Here is the potato soup, that heavenly porridge. No, no, do as I do… take this spoon, a touch of vinegar… a dash of pepper… with the other spoon, this one here, dip some sour cream and… no, no… gently, gently mix it… This too is a science, one of the most ancient, older in any cue than the ubiquitous synthetic… By the way, don’t fail to visit our synthesizers, Amalthea’s Horn, Inc. You wouldn’t be a chemist? Oh yes, you are a litterateur! You should write about it, the greatest mystery of our times, beefsteaks out
