There he was lying like a dead man and here I was thinking such things about him when he could not defend himself.
Suddenly I felt a repulsive cold crawling feeling inside. All right, suppose we trapped this gang. What would change? The shivers would remain, lop-eared Len would be up all night as before, Vousi would be coming home disgustingly drunk, while customs inspector Pete would be smashing his face into broken glass. And all would be concerned about the “good of the people.” Some would be irrigated with tear gas, some would be driven into the ground up to their ears, others would be converted from apehood into something which passes muster as human… And then the shivers would go out of style and the people would be presented with the super-shivers, while in lieu of the extirpated slug a super-slug would surface. Everything would be for the good of the people. Have fun, Boobland, and don’t think about a thing!
Two men in cloaks sat down at the next table with their trays. One of them seemed to me in some way familiar. He had a haughty thoroughbred face, and were it not for a thick white bandage on the left side of his jaw, I was sure I would recognize him. The other was a ruddy man with a bald pate and fussy movements. They were speaking quietly, but not so as to be inaudible, and I could hear them quite well where I was sitting.
“Understand me correctly,” the ruddy one said with conviction while hurriedly consuming his schnitzel, “I am not at all against theaters and museums. But the allocation for the municipal theater for the past year has not been expended fully, while only tourists visit the museums.”
“Also picture thieves,” inserted the man with the bandage.
“Drop that, please, we don’t have pictures that are worth the theft. Thank God, they have learned how to synthesize Sistine Madonnas out of sawdust. I wish to call your attention to the point that dissemination of culture in our time must occur in an entirely different manner. Culture must not be inculcated into the people, rather it must emanate from the people. Public chorister, do-it-yourself groups, mass games — that is what our public needs.”
“What our public needs is a good army of occupation,” said the man with the bandage.
“Please stop talking that way, when you actually don’t believe what you are saying. Our coverage by the various associations is really at an unacceptably poor level. For instance, Boella complained to me last night that only one man attends her readings, and he apparently only does so out of matrimonial intentions. But we need to distract the people from the shivers, from alcohol, from sexual pastimes. We need to raise the tone -”
The other interrupted, “What do you want from me? That I should defend your project against that ass, our honorable mayor, today? Be my guest! It is absolutely all the same to me. But if you would like to hear my opinion about tone and spirit, let me tell you it does not exist, my dear Senator; it is long dead! It has been smothered in belly fat! And if I were in your place I would take that into account and only that!”
The ruddy man seemed to be crushed. He was silent for a while and then groaned suddenly, “Dear God, dear God, to think of what we have been driven to concern ourselves with! But I ask you — is not someone flying to the stars? Somewhere meson reactors are being built, new learning systems are being devised! Dear God, I just recently grasped that we are not even a backwater, we are a preserve! In the eyes of the whole world we are a sanctuary of stupidity, ignorance, and pornocracy. Imagine, Professor Rubenstein has a chair in our city for the second year. A sociopsychologist of world renown. He is studying us like animals. Instinctive Sociology of Decaying Economic Structures — that’s the name of his work. He is interested in people as bearers of primeval instincts, and he complained to me that it was very difficult for him to gather data in countries where instinctive activity is distorted and suppressed by pedagogical systems! But with us he is in seventh heaven! In his own words, we don’t have any activity other than instinctive! I was insulted, I was ashamed, but, good Lord, what could I say to contradict him? You must understand me! You are an intelligent man, my friend, I know you are a cold man, but I can’t really believe that you are indifferent to such a degree.”
The man with the bandage looked at him haughtily and then, abruptly, his cheek twitched. I recognized him at once: he was the character with the monocle who had thrown the luminous slop all over me so deftly yesterday at the Art Patrons’ hall.
Why, you vulture, thought I. You thief. So you need an army of occupation! Spirit smothered in lard indeed!
“Forgive me, Senator,” he said. “I do understand it all, and that’s precisely why it is perfectly clear to me that everything surrounding you is in a state of dementia. The final spasm! Euphoria!”
I got up and approached their table.
“May I join you?” I asked.
He stared at me in astonishment. I sat down.
“Please excuse me,” I said. “I am, to be specific, a tourist and just a short time here; while you seem to be natives and even to have some connection with the municipal government. So I decided to inflict myself on you. I keep hearing about Art Patrons, Art Patrons. But what it’s all about no one seems to know.”
The man with the bandage experienced another tie in his cheek. His eyes grew wide — he too recognized me.
“Art Patrons?” said the ruddy one. “Yes, there is such a barbarous organization with us here. It is very sad that such is the case, but it’s so.”
I nodded, studying the bandage. My acquaintance had already regained his composure and was eating his jelly with his accustomed haughty look.
“In essence they are simply modern-age vandals. I simply couldn’t find a more appropriate word. They pool their resources and buy up stolen paintings, statues, manuscripts, unpublished literary works, patents, and destroy them. Can you imagine how revolting that is? They find some pathological delight in the destruction of examples of world culture. They gather in a large, well-dressed crowd and slowly, deliberately, orgiastically destroy them!”
“Oh my, my, my!” I said, not taking my eyes off the bandage. “Such people should be hung by their legs.”
“And we are after them,” said the ruddy one. “We are in pursuit of them on the legal level. We are unfortunately unable to get after the Artiques and the Perchers, who are not breaking any laws, but as far as the Art Patrons are concerned -”
“Are you finished yet, Senator?” inquired the bandaged one, ignoring me.
The ruddy one caught himself.
“Yes, yes. It’s time for us to go. You will excuse us, please,” he said, turning to me. “We have a meeting of the municipal council.”
“Bartender!” called the bandaged one in a metallic voice.
“Would you call us a taxi.”
“Have you been here long?” asked the ruddy man.
“Second day,” I replied.
“Do you like it?”
“A beautiful city.”
“Mm — yes,” he mumbled.
We were silent. The man with the bandage impudently inserted his monocle and pulled out a cigar.
“Does it hurt?” I asked sympathetically.
“What, exactly?”
“The jaw,” I said. “And the liver should hurt, too.”
“Nothing ever hurts me,” he replied, monocle glinting. “Are you two acquainted?” the ruddy one asked in astonishment.
“Slightly,” I said. “We had an argument about art.”
The bartender called out that the taxi had arrived. The man with the bandage immediately got up.
“Let’s go, Senator,” he said.
The ruddy one smiled at me abstractedly and also got up.
They set off for the exit. I followed them with my eyes and went to the bar.
“Brandy?” asked the bartender.
“Quite,” I said. I shuddered with rage. “Who are those people I just spoke to?”
“The baldy is a municipal counselor, his field are cultural affairs. The one with the monocle is the city comptroller.”
“Comptroller,” I said. “A scoundrel is what he is.”
