Peretz got dressed in a hurry. He couldn’t think straight. The hotel manager kept running between the cots, his bare feet slapping the moonlit squares, sticking his head out of the window and whispering, “My God, what is happening?”
“May I at least leave my suitcase with you?” Peretz asked.
The hotel manager snapped his teeth. “Not on your life! You will ruin me. How can you be so heartless? Oh God, oh God . . .”
Peretz hurriedly threw together his books, barely managed to close his suitcase, draped his coat over his arm, and asked, “But where will I go now?”
The hotel manager didn’t answer. He was waiting, hopping up and down in impatience. Peretz picked up his suitcase and walked down the dark, quiet steps to the street. He paused on the porch, trying to quell the shaking, then he listened for a while as the hotel manager instructed the sleepy clerk: “. . . may ask to come back inside. Don’t let him in! His . . . (an indistinct ominous whisper), do you understand? You’re responsible for . . .” Peretz sat down on his suitcase and put his coat in his lap.
“No, no, excuse me,” said the hotel manager from behind his back. “You have to get off the porch. You have to completely vacate the hotel premises.”
He had to get off the porch and put his suitcase on the sidewalk. The hotel manager hung around for a bit, mumbling, “I beg you . . . My wife . . . Don’t want any trouble . . . Consequences . . . You can’t . . .” then left, his underclothes flashing white, slinking away along the fence. Peretz looked at the dark windows of the villas, at the dark windows of the Administration, at the dark windows of the hotel. Not a single light was on; even the streetlights were off. There was only a moon—round, bright, and somehow malevolent.
And he suddenly realized that he was all alone. He didn’t have anyone. All around me, people are sleeping, they are all fond of me, I’m sure of that, I’ve seen it plenty of times. And yet I’m all alone, as if they’ve all suddenly died, or have become my enemies . . . Even the hotel manager—an ugly, good-natured man with an overactive thyroid, a misfit, who latched on to me from day one . . . We’d played four-handed duets on the piano and debated—I was the only person he dared to debate with, the only person who made him feel like a complete human being instead of just a father of seven. And even Kim. He came back from the chancery with a giant folder of denunciations. Ninety-two denunciations, all about me, written in the same handwriting and signed with different names. That I’m stealing the state-owned sealing wax from the post office, and that I had brought an underage lover in my suitcase and am now hiding her in the basement of the bakery, and lots more . . . And Kim kept reading these denunciations, throwing some in the garbage and laying others aside, muttering, “And this one needs a think . . .” And this was unexpected and horrible, pointless and repulsive. How he timidly glanced up at me, then immediately averted his eyes . . .
Peretz got up, picked up his suitcase, and trudged wherever his feet would take him. His feet didn’t want to take him anywhere. And in any case, there was nowhere to go on these dark, empty streets. He kept stumbling, the dust made him sneeze, and it seemed that he fell several times. His suitcase was unbelievably heavy and strangely unwieldy. It rubbed heavily against his leg, then rolled ponderously off to the side, returning from the darkness only to smash into his knee. In the dark tree-lined walk in the park—where there was no light at all, and only the statues glowed dimly white, their shapes rippling in the darkness—the suitcase suddenly grabbed on to his pant leg with a loose clasp, and Peretz abandoned it in desperation. The hour of despair had come. Crying and seeing nothing through the tears, Peretz pushed his way through hedges, some dry and prickly, some green and dusty, then rolled down some steps, fell into a ditch, getting a painful blow to the back, and finally, completely worn out, suffocating in resentment and self-pity, dropped to his knees at the edge of the cliff.
But the forest remained indifferent. It was so indifferent that it wasn’t even visible. There was nothing but darkness beneath the cliff. Only on the horizon did something large and layered, gray and shapeless, glow weakly in the moonlight.
“Wake up,” Peretz pleaded. “Look at me just this once, now that we’re all alone—don’t worry, they are all asleep. Can it really be true that you don’t need any of us? Or maybe you don’t understand what that means, to need? It means to be unable to do without. It means to always think about. It means to always aspire toward. I don’t know what you’re like. No one knows that, least of all those who are absolutely certain that they know. You are the way you are, but I can still hope that you are the way I’ve wanted you to be my whole life: wise and good, tolerant and long-memoried, observant and maybe even grateful. We’ve lost all these things, we have neither the time nor the strength for them. We only build monuments, bigger, taller, cheaper monuments, but memories—we no longer have any memories. But you, you’re different; that’s why I’ve come to you from so far, without believing that you actually exist. Can it really be true that you don’t need me? No, I’ll be honest. I’m afraid that I don’t need you either. We’ve seen each other, but we haven’t grown closer, and that wasn’t supposed to happen. Maybe they are the ones standing between us. There are a lot of them, and only one of me, but I’m one of them—you probably couldn’t pick me out of a crowd, and perhaps you’d have no reason to do so. Maybe I was the one who came up with the human qualities that should appeal to you, and they don’t appeal to the real you, only to my imaginary version of you.”
Unexpectedly, bright blobs of white light slowly rose from below the horizon and hovered in place, swelling up. And instantly the searchlights on his right—beneath the cliff, beneath the overhanging rocks—began to swivel around in a frenzy, the searchlight beams getting stuck in layers of fog. The blobs of light above the horizon kept swelling up and stretching out, then they became whitish clouds and disappeared. In a minute, the searchlights also went off.
“They are afraid,” Peretz said. “I’m also afraid. But I’m not only afraid of you, I’m also afraid for you. After all, you don’t know them yet. But then, I don’t know them at all well myself. I only know that they are capable of almost anything—extreme wisdom and stupidity, extreme cruelty and compassion, extreme rage and restraint. They are only missing one thing: the capacity to understand. They’ve always found substitutes for understanding: faith, atheism, indifference, contempt. For some reason, it has always been easiest. It is easier to believe than to understand. It is easier to be disillusioned than to understand. It is easier to give up in disgust than to understand. By the way, I’m leaving tomorrow, but that doesn’t mean anything. I can’t help you here—everything here is too stable, too set in its ways . . . I’m too unnecessary here, too obviously out of place. But don’t worry, I’ll find another focal point for my efforts. It’s true, they could screw you up in some fundamental, irretrievable way, but that also takes time, and not just a bit of time. After all, they still need to find the most efficient, most economical, and—most important—easiest way. We’ll keep fighting, let there only remain things worth fighting for . . . Good-bye.”
Peretz rose from his knees and trudged back, through the bushes, into the park, onto the tree-lined walk. He tried to find his suitcase but couldn’t. Then he returned to the main street, empty and illuminated only by the moon. It was already past one in the morning when he stopped in front of the welcomingly open door of the Administration library. The library windows were hung with heavy curtains, but inside it was as bright as day. The dried-out wood floor creaked ferociously, and there were books all around. The shelves were groaning with books, books were piled on the tables and in the corners, and other than Peretz and the books, there wasn’t a soul in the library.
Peretz sank into a large old armchair, stretched his legs, leaned back, and quietly put his arms on the armrests. Don’t just stand there, he told the books. Slackers! Is that what you were written for? Go on, report to me—how’s the sowing progressing, how much have you sown? How much th
at’s good, kind, eternal? And what are the prospects for the harvest? And most important, what has already sprouted? You’re quiet . . . Take you, what do I call you—yes, you, the two-volume tome! How many people have read you? And how many have understood you? I really love you, old thing, you’re a kind and honest friend. You’ve never yelled, never bragged, never beat your chest. Yes, you’re kind and honest. And those who read you also become kind and honest. Even if only for a time. Even if only with themselves . . .
But you know, some people believe that we don’t particularly need kindness and honesty to move forward. We need feet. And shoes. And even unwashed feet and unpolished shoes will do . . . Progress may turn out to be completely indifferent to the notions of kindness and honesty, just like it has been indifferent to them thus far. The Administration, for example, needs neither honesty nor kindness to function properly. These things are nice, they are preferable, but they are by no means necessary. Like knowing Latin for a bath attendant. Like having strong biceps for an accountant. Like respecting women for a Bootlicherson . . . But it all depends on how we understand progress. One way of understanding it results in all those infamous “buts”: an alcoholic but a real professional; a womanizer but an amazing preacher; a thief, a crook, but what an administrator! A murderer, but what a disciplined and loyal man . . . Or we can understand progress to mean the process of transforming all people into kind and honest ones. Then we may live to see a day when they say, he’s excellent at his job, of course, but he’s scum—send him packing.
Listen, books, did you know that there are more of you than there are people? If people all disappeared, you could populate the Earth, and you’d be just like people. Some of you are good, honest, wise, and learned. But there are also the shallow airheads, the naysayers, the madmen, the murderers, the molesters, the children, the dreary preachers, the smug fools, and the hoarse rabble-rousers with bloodshot eyes. And you wouldn’t know what you were for. Really, what are you for? Many of you impart knowledge, but what good is knowledge in the forest? It has nothing to do with the forest. It’s as if the future architect of the cities of tomorrow were diligently taught to build fortifications, and then, no matter how much he later struggled to build a stadium or a resort, he could only ever come up with a gloomy stronghold with thick walls, a rampart, and a moat. What you’ve given the people who’ve come to the forest isn’t knowledge, it’s prejudice. And then there are those among you that cause people to lose faith and become discouraged. Not because they are bleak, or cruel, or counsel abandoning all hope, but because they lie. Sometimes the lies are resplendent, accompanied by upbeat songs and jaunty whistling; sometimes they are whiny, full of laments and excuses; but one way or another, they are lies. For some reason, these books are never burned and never banned—not once in human history has a lie been committed to the flames. Unless it was by accident, out of confusion or mistaken belief. No one needs these books in the forest. No one needs them anywhere. That’s probably why there are so many of them . . . Or rather, that’s not why, it’s because people like them . . . A deception that elevates us is dearer than a host of bitter truths— What? Who’s that talking here? Oh, that’s me . . . As I was saying, there are also books that— What?
“Hush, let him sleep.”
“The hell with sleeping, he oughta have a drink.”
“Stop all that creaking . . . Hey, wait a minute, it’s Peretz!”
“Forget Peretz, just don’t fall.”
“He looks so unkempt, so pitiful . . .”
“I’m not pitiful,” mumbled Peretz, and woke up.
A library ladder was resting against the shelves across from him. Alevtina from the photography lab was standing on the top step, and the tattooed truck driver Randy was below her, holding the ladder and looking up.
“And he always looks so lost,” Alevtina said, looking at Peretz. “He probably didn’t have dinner either. We should wake him up so he can at least have some vodka . . . I wonder what people like that see in their dreams?”
“What I’m seeing in real life!” Randy said, looking up.
“Is it something new to you?” asked Alevtina. “Something you’ve never seen before?”
“Nah,” said Randy. “Can’t say I’ve never seen it before, but it’s like some movies—you can watch ’em ten times over and get a kick each time.”
An enormous strudel, sliced into hefty chunks, was laid out on the third step on the ladder, and cucumbers and peeled oranges were arranged on the fourth step, while the fifth step contained a half-empty bottle and a plastic pencil cup.
“Look all you like, just don’t drop the ladder,” said Alevtina, and began to take down thick magazines and faded folders from the top shelf. She blew dust off them, grimaced, flipped through them, set some aside, and put the rest back.
Truck driver Randy breathed loudly through his nose.
“Do you need the year before last?” Alevtina asked.
“Right now, I only need one thing,” Randy said mysteriously. “I’ll go wake Peretz up.”
“Don’t let go of the ladder,” Alevtina said.
“I’m not sleeping,” said Peretz. “I’ve been watching you for a while.”
“You can’t see a thing over there,” said Randy. “Come over here, Signor Peretz, we’ve got it all: women, wine, fruit . . .”
Peretz got up, limping on a leg that had fallen asleep, walked over to the ladder, and poured himself a drink.
“What did you dream about, Perry?” Alevtina asked from above. Peretz looked up out of habit and immediately lowered his eyes.
“What did I dream about? . . . Some nonsense . . . I was talking to books.” He took a sip of his vodka and picked up a segment of the orange.
“Hold this for a second, Signor Peretz,” Randy said. “I’ll pour myself some, too.”
“So do you need the year before last?” Alevtina asked.
“Of course!” Randy said. He splashed some vodka into his cup and began to pick out a cucumber. “The year before last, and the year before that . . . I’m always hard up. I’ve always been that way, I can’t stand to do without it. Hell, no one can. Some can manage with less, and some can’t, that’s all . . . I always tell ’em: don’t you preach at me, that’s just how I’m made.” Randy drank his vodka with relish and bit into his cucumber with a crunch. “And the way we live here is killing me. I’ll be patient a bit longer, then I’ll steal a car, drive it into the forest, and catch myself a mermaid . . .”
Peretz was holding the ladder and trying to think about tomorrow, while Randy took a seat on the bottom step and began relating how in his youth, he and some buddies caught a couple on the outskirts of town, beat the guy up and chased him away, and tried to force themselves on the girl. It was cold, it was damp, because of their youth and inexperience, no one could do it, the girl was frightened and kept crying, and one by one, his buddies left her alone, and only he, Randy, trailed her through the muddy alleys for a long time, grabbing her and cursing, and it kept seeming to him that he was about to pull it off, but he just couldn’t do it, until he followed her all the way home, and there, in the dark lobby, he pinned her to the metal railing and finally got what he was after. In Randy’s retelling, the incident sounded extraordinarily exciting and amusing.
“So those pretty little mermaids won’t get away from me,” Randy said. “I always know what’s mine, and this time’s no different. I don’t believe in false advertising—what I see is what I get.”
He had a dark, handsome face, thick eyebrows, bright eyes, and a mouth full of excellent teeth. He looked a lot like an Italian. If only his feet didn’t smell.
“Gosh, what a mess, what a mess,” said Alevtina. “The folders are all mixed up. Here, take these for now.” She bent down and handed Randy a pile of folders and magazines.
Randy took the pile, flipped through a few pages, read them silently, mouthing the words, then counted the folders and said, “I need two more.”
Peretz kept holding the
ladder and staring at his clenched fists. This time tomorrow I won’t be here anymore, he thought. I’ll be sitting next to Randy in the cab, it will be hot, the metal will be just beginning to cool off. Randy will turn on the headlights, sprawl comfortably, and start to discuss world politics. I won’t let him discuss anything else. He can stop at every diner, he can pick up whatever hitchhikers he likes, he can even make a detour to deliver someone a thresher from the repair shop. But I’ll only let him discuss world politics. Or maybe I’ll ask him about cars. About their rates of fuel consumption, about the accidents they usually get into, about the murders of corrupt inspectors. He tells a good story, and you never can tell if he’s lying or telling the truth.
Randy had another drink, smacked his lips, took a lingering look at Alevtina’s legs, and went on with his story, fidgeting, gesturing eloquently, and bursting into exuberant laughter. Proceeding in meticulous chronological order, he told the story of his sex life, its progress from month to month, from year to year. The cook from the concentration camp where he did time for stealing paper during a famine (the cook kept repeating, “Come on, Randy, don’t you let me down, Randy! . . .”). The daughter of a political prisoner from that same camp (she didn’t care who she went with—she was sure they’d burn her no matter what she did). The wife of a sailor from a port city, who was trying to revenge herself on her horndog of a husband for his constant two-timing. A wealthy widow, whom Randy had to run away from in the middle of the night clad in nothing but his long johns, because she wanted to marry poor Randy and force him to traffic in narcotics and shameful pharmaceuticals. The women he gave rides to when he worked as a taxi driver: they paid in cash for their guests, and with their bodies at the end of the night. (“I tell her, what’s all this, who’ll take care of me—you’ve had four already, and I haven’t had one . . .”) Then his wife, a fifteen-year-old girl, whom he married with special permission from the state; she gave him twins, and eventually left him when he tried to pay with her body for the use of his buddies’ lovers . . . Women . . . babes . . . bitches . . . dolls . . . snakes . . . sluts . . .