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 glass 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 glass.
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 advertisements, 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 glasses, 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 illustrations as I had never even heard of. There was
“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 emigre 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 glasses.
“You are a foreigner?”
“Yes, I am a tourist.”
“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
“Yes, thank you, I have it.”
“About Strogoff I will not even inquire.”
“How about the
“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 classics library; the whole Golden Library, the complete Treasures of Philosophic Thought.”
“Including Doctor Opir’s?”
“Bitch tripe,” said the driver. “Salacious bum! 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 hell,” 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
“We’ll see each other in the municipal court.”
I took a firm hold on the driver’s arm. His rigid muscles gradually relaxed.
“The nerve!” said she majestically and departed.
