The Best of Gene Wolfe

his old workaday clothes, showered, and, glowing, gone to the open bag for new, clean underwear bought for the occasion—and executive-length hose. His shirt of artificial fabrics that looked like silk stayed new from year to year; he wore it only at Beech Hill. His slacks were inexpensive, but never before worn.

He was proud of his jacket, though it had been very cheap, an old Norfolk jacket, much abused (by someone else) but London made. The elbows had been patched with leather; the tweed smelled faintly of shotgun smoke, and the pockets were rubber lined for carrying game. Handy in my line of business. Just the sort of coat the right sort of man would continue to wear though it was worn out, or nearly. Also just the sort to effectively conceal his HSc Mauser in his shoulder holster—at Beech Hill.

But not at the stop. Regretfully he left the Mauser in his bag, but this too was part of the ritual. The empty holster beneath his arm, the strange clothes, told him where he was. Even if he had fallen asleep . . . (but he never did.)

There were restaurants near the hotel, and he ate quietly a meal made sumptuous by custom. There was a newsstand where he stopped for a few paperbacks, and, next door, a barbershop.

A haircut was not part of the ritual, but it might well be. He might, in years to come, remember this as the year when he had first had his hair cut on the way to Beech Hill. The shop was clean, busy, but not too busy, smelling of powder and alcoholic tonics. He stepped inside, and as he did a customer was stripped of his striped robe and dusted with the whisk. “You’re next,” the barber said.

Bobs looked at another (waiting) customer, but the man gestured wordlessly toward the first chair.

“Chin up, please. Medium on the sides?”

“Fine.”

There was a television, not offensively loud, in a corner. The news. He watched.

“Don’t move your head, sir.”

The man on the screen was portly, expensively dressed, intelligent looking. A newsman, microphone in hand, spoke deferentially:—a strike . . . , pollution . . . , Washington? . . .

“I know that man.” Bobs twisted in the chair. “He’s a billionaire.”

“Damn near. He sure enough owns a lot around here.”

When Bobs paid him the barber said, “You feel okay, sir?”

* * *

The next day he dropped the black Beretta into its holster. On the bus the weight of it made him feel for a moment (he had closed his eyes) that the woman next to him was leaning against him. The woman next to him became Wally Wallace, a salesman he had once known, the man who had introduced him to Beech Hill, but that seemed perfectly natural. Opposite, so that the four of them were face-to-face as passengers had once sat in trains, were Bishop and his wife, pretending not to know them. This was courtesy—the Bishops never spoke to anyone until it had been definitely decided what they were going to be. He knew that without being told.

“You,” Wally began. Bobs suddenly realized that he (Bobs) was ten years younger, and the wistful thought came that he would not remain so. “. . . can’t beat this place. There’s nothing like it.” Bobs had wondered if Wally was not getting a commission—or at least a reduction in his own rate—for each new guest he brought. Wally had returned the second year, but never after that. Lost in the jungle he loved.

* * *

When Bishop and Potts and Claude Brain were gone (they had said something about a morning swim) Bobs remarked to the countess, “I saw a friend of ours on television. On my way up.” He mentioned the billionaire’s name.

“Ah,” said the countess. “Such a nice man. But”—she smiled brilliantly— “married.”

“He was here when I first came.”

At first he thought the countess was no longer listening to him; then he realized that he had not spoken aloud. The billionaire had been there when he had first come. Very young, as everyone had said, to have made so much money. Great drive.

And yet perhaps—he tried to push the thought back, but it came bursting in anyway, invading his consciousness like the wind entering a pauper’s shack—perhaps he had made it.

He had wanted to badly. You could see it in his eyes. And then—

What fun! What sport to return, posing with the others year after year.

The bastard.

The bastard. Was he here yet?

Bobs could not sit still. The fear was on him, and he stalked out of the immense house that was Beech Hill, hardly caring where he was going. The ground sloped down, and ahead the clear water of the lake gleamed. Half a dozen guests were swimming there already: drama critic, heart surgeon, the madame of New York’s most exclusive brothel. Fashion designer, big-game hunter, test pilot. Bobs stood and watched them until Claude Brain, coming up behind him, said, “No dip today, Roberts?”

“I don’t usually,” Bobs replied, turning. Brain was in trunks. His arms were horribly scarred, and there were more scars on his chest and belly.

His eyes followed Bobs’s. “Tiger,” Brain said. “I was lucky.”

“I guess it’s hard to become a wild-animal man? Hard to get started?”

Brain nodded. “There aren’t many spots. A few places around Hollywood, and a few shows. You try and try, but most of them have already had so much trouble with greenhorns they won’t touch you.”

“I’ll bet,” Bobs said sympathetically.

“Hell, I did everything. For years. Sold shoes, worked in a factory. Bought my own animals. First one was a mountain lion. Cost me three hundred and fifty, and I’ve still got him.”