wish to argue over slug, of all things…
…Then go on, Ivan, said Rimeyer…
I inserted the slug into the radio. As he had then, I got up. As he did then, I was past thought, past belonging in this world, but I still heard him say: don’t forget to lock the door tight so that you won’t be disturbed.
And then I sat down…So that’s the way of it, Rimeyer! said I. So that’s how it went. You surrendered. You closed the door tight. And then you sent lying reports to your friends that there wasn’t any slug. And then again, after hesitating but a moment, you sent me to my death so that I wouldn’t disturb you. Your ideal, Rimeyer, is offal. If man has to perform what is base in the name of an ideal, then the worth of such ideal is — less than dross…
I glanced at the watch and shoved the radio in my pocket.
I was past waiting for Oscar. I was hungry. And beyond that I had the feeling that for once I had done something useful in this town. I left my phone number with the room clerk — in case Oscar or Rimeyer should return — and went out onto the plaza. I did not believe that Rimeyer would come back or even that I would ever see him again, but Oscar could hold to his promise, though more likely, I would have to seek him out. And probably not alone. And probably not here.
CHAPTER TWELVE
There was but one visitor in the automated cafe.
Barricaded behind bottles and hors d’oeuvres at a corner table sat a dark man of oriental cast, magnificently but outlandishly dressed. I took some yogurt and blintzes with sour cream and set to, glancing at him now and then. He ate and drank much and avidly, his face shiny with sweat, hot inside his ridiculous formal clothes. He sighed, leaning back in his chair and loosening his belt. The motion exposed a long yellow holster glistening in the sunlight under the clothing.
I was on my way into the last of the blintzes when he hailed me: “Hello,” he said. “Are you a native here?”
“No,” I said. “A tourist.”
“So that means you don’t understand anything either.”
I went to the bar, threw a juice cocktail together, and approached him.
“Why is it empty here?” he continued. He had a lively spare face and a bold gaze. “Where are the inhabitants? Why is everything closed up? Everyone is asleep, you can’t get any service.”
“You just arrived?”
“Yes.”
He pushed an empty plate away, moved up a full one, and gulped some light beer.
“Where are you from?” I asked. He glared at me menacingly, and I added quickly, “If it’s not a secret, of course.”
“No,” he said, “it’s not a secret,” and went back to his eating.
I finished the juice and got ready to leave. Then he said, “They live well, the dogs. Such food and as much as you want, and all for free.”
“Well, not quite for free,” I contradicted.
“Ninety dollars! Pennies! I’ll show them how to eat ninety dollars within three days!” His eyes stopped roving momentarily, “D-dogs!” he muttered and fell to again.
I was quite familiar with such types. They came from minuscule, totally milked kingdoms and prefectdoms, reduced to utter poverty, and greedily ate and drank, mindful of the hot dusty streets of their home towns, where in the niggardly ribbons of shade, moribund men and women lay dying and immobile, while children with distended bellies rummaged in the garbage piles of foreign consulates. They were surcharged with hatred and needed only two things — food and weapons. Food for their own gang, which was the opposition, and weapons to fight the other gang, which was in power. They were the most flaming patriots, who spoke hotly and effusively of their love for the people, but resolutely refused all help from without, because they loved nothing but their power and no one but themselves, and were ready in the name of the people and the victory of high principles to mortify the same people, right down to the last man, if necessary, with hunger and machine gun.
Microhitlers!
“Weapons? Food?” I asked.
He grew wary.
“Yes,” he said. “Food and weapons. Only without any silly conditions. And as free as possible. Or on credit. True patriots never have any money. While the ruling clique drowns in luxury…”
“Famine?” I asked.
“Anything you want. While you here swim in luxury.” He gazed at me with hatred. “The whole world is drowning in wealth and we alone are starving. But your hopes are in vain! The revolution cannot be stopped!”
“Yes,” I said. “And whom is the revolution against?”
“We are fighting the blood leeches of Boadshah! We are against corruption and debauchery of the ruling top layer, we are for freedom and true democracy. The people are with us, but they have to be fed. And you tell us that you’ll give us food only after we disarm. And even threaten intervention… What filthy, lying demagogy! What deception of the revolutionary masses! To disarm in the face of those bloodsuckers — that means to throw a hangman’s noose over the heads of all the true freedom fighters! We answer you — no! You will not deceive the people. Let Boadshah and his brutes disarm! Then we shall see what needs doing!”
“Yes,” I said. “But Boadshah also, in all probability, does not wish a noose thrown over his neck.”
He put the beer down savagely, and his hand moved toward the holster in a habitual gesture. But then he quickly caught himself.
“I should have known you don’t understand a damn thing,”
he said. “You who are well fed have grown drowsy from a full stomach, you are too conceited to understand us. You wouldn’t have dared to talk to me like that in the jungle.”
In the jungle, I would have talked differently to you, bandit, I thought, and said: “I really don’t understand many things. For instance, I don’t understand what will happen when you gain the upper hand.
Let us imagine that you have won, Boadshah has been hanged, if be, in his turn, hasn’t fled to seek food and weapons -”
“He won’t get away. He’ll get his just deserts. The revolutionary people will tear him to shreds. That’s when we’ll go to work. We will regain the territory seized from us by affluent neighbors, we will carry out the entire program which the lying Boadshah constantly shouts about to deceive the people… I’ll show them how to strike! They’ll learn about strikes with me on top — there’ll be no strikes! They’ll all go under arms and forward march! We will win and then…”
He shut his eyes and moaned a bit, shaking his head.
“And then you will be well fed, you will swim in luxury and sleep till noon?”
He laughed.
“I deserve that. The people deserve it. No one will dare reproach us. We will eat and drink as much as we wish, we will live in real houses, we will say to the people: now you are free — divert yourselves!”
“And don’t think about a thing,” I added. “But don’t you think that all that could come out badly for you?”
“Forget it,” he said. “That’s sheer demagogy. You are a demagogue. Also a dogmatist. We too have all kinds of dogmatists similar to yourself. Man, they say, will lose the meaning of life. No, we reply, man will lose nothing. Man will acquire and not lose. You have to feel the people. You have to be from the people yourself. The people don’t like sophists. What the hell for do I let myself be fed on by wood leeches and feed on worms myself?” Suddenly he smiled amiably. “You must have taken offense at me a bit, for calling you well fed and other things. Please don’t. Affluence is bad when you don’t have it, but your neighbor does. But achieved affluence — that’s a great thing! It’s worth fighting for. Everybody fought for it. It must be obtained with weapons in hand, and not traded for freedom and democracy.”
“So your final goal is still abundance? Just abundance?”
“Obviously! The final objective always is abundance. The difference is that we are choosy about the means to
