Story One Chapter 2
IN OUR LINE OF BUSINESS YOU DON'T OFTEN GET TO WORK UNDERCOVER.
In the first place, you have to completely disguise your nature as an Other so that nothing gives you away¡ªnot your aura, or any streams of Power, or any disturbances in the Twilight. And the situation here is quite simple¡ªif you're a fifth-level magician, then you won't be discovered by magicians weaker than you (i. e. , those who are sixth- and seventh-level). If you're a first-level magician, then you're concealed from the second level and below. If you're a magician beyond classification. . . well, then you can hope that no one will recognize you. I was disguised by Gesar himself. Immediately afterward, I spoke to Svetlana¡ªa conversation that was brief, but painful. No, we didn't quarrel. She was just very upset.
And in the second place, you need a cover story. The simplest way to provide a cover story is by magical means¡ªpeople you don't know will gladly believe you're their brother, their son-in-law's father, or the army buddy they drank home brew with when they went absent without leave. But any magical cover story will leave traces that any reasonably powerful Other can spot.
So there was no magic at all involved in my cover story. Gesar handed me the keys to an apartment in the Assol complex¡ª500 square feet of floor space on the eighth floor. The apartment was registered in my name and had been bought six months earlier.
When I opened my eyes wide at that, Gesar explained that the documents had been signed that morning, but backdated. For big money. And the apartment would have to be handed back afterward.
I got the key to the BMW just to add substance to my story. It wasn't a new car, or the most luxurious model, but then my apartment was a small one too.
Then a tailor came into the office¡ªa mournful little old Jew, a seventh-level Other. He took my measurements, promised the suit would be ready by the evening, and then, he said, "This boy will start to look like a man. " Gesar was extremely polite with the tailor. He opened the door for him and then saw him out into the reception, and as he said goodbye, he asked timidly how his "little coat" was coming on. The tailor told him there was no need to worry¡ªa coat worthy of the Most Lucent Gesar would be ready before the cold weather set in.
After hearing that, I wasn't so delighted by the decision that I could keep my suit. The tailor clearly didn't make genuine, monumental things in half a day.
Gesar himself provided me with ties. He even taught me a particularly fashionable knot. Then he gave me a wad of banknotes and the address of a shop and ordered me to buy myself everything else to match¡ªincluding underwear, handkerchiefs, and socks. I was offered the services of Ignat as a consultant¡ªone of our magicians who would have been called an incubus in the Day Watch. Or a succubus¡ªhe didn't really care much either way.
The expedition around the boutiques, where Ignat felt right at home, was amusing. But the visit to the hairdresser's, or rather, the "Beauty Salon," left me completely wrecked. Two women and a young guy who tried to act like he was gay, although he wasn't, took turns inspecting me. They all sighed for a long time and made uncomplimentary remarks about my hairdresser. If their wishes had come true, the hairdresser would have been condemned to shearing the wool off mangy sheep for the rest of his life. And for some reason in Tajikistan. This was clearly the most terrible hairdresser's curse. . . I even decided that after my mission I'd drop into the second-class hairdresser's where I'd been getting my hair cut for the last year, just to make sure they hadn't left an Inferno Vortex hanging over the man's head.
The collective wisdom of the beauty specialists was that my only hope of salvation was a short comb-cut, like one of those small-time hoods who fleece the traders at the market. In consolation they told me that the forecast was for a hot summer and I'd feel more comfortable with a short haircut.
After the haircut, which took more than an hour, I was subjected to a manicure and a pedicure. When Ignat was satisfied, he took me to a dentist, who removed the tartar from my teeth with a special fitting on his drill and advised me to have the procedure repeated every six months. After the procedure my teeth felt somehow naked¡ªit was even unpleasant to touch them with my tongue. I couldn't think of what to say in reply to Ig-nat's ambivalent comment, "Anton, you look good enough to fall in love with!" and just mumbled something incomprehensible. All the way back to the office I served as a defenseless target for his unsubtle wit.
The suit was already waiting for me. And the tailor too, muttering discontentedly that sewing a suit without a second fitting was like getting married on impulse.
I don't know. If every marriage made on impulse was as successful as that suit, the incidence of divorce would be reduced to zero.
Gesar spoke to the tailor about his coat again. They had a long, heated argument about the buttons, until the Most Lucent Magician finally capitulated. And I stood by the window, looking out at the evening street and the small blinking light of the alarm system in "my" car.
I hoped no one would steal my ride. . . I couldn't set up any magical defenses to frighten away petty thieves. That would give me away more surely than the parachute trailing behind the Russian spy Stirlitz, as the old joke goes.
That night I was due to sleep in the new apartment. And I had to pretend it wasn't the first time I'd been there. At least there was no one waiting for me back at home. No wife or daughter or little dog or pussycat. . . I didn't even have any fish in an aquarium. And it was a good thing I didn't.
"Do you understand your mission, Gorodetsky?" Gesar asked. The tailor had left while I was pining at the window. My new suit felt amazingly comfortable. Despite the new haircut, I didn't feel like a thug who terrorized market traders, but someone a bit more serious. Maybe a collector of protection money from small shops.
"Move into Assol. Associate with my neighbors. Look for any signs of the renegade Other and his potential client. When I find them¡ªreport back. In dealings with the other investigators behave civilly, exchange information, be cooperative. "
Gesar stood beside me at the window. He nodded.
"All correct, Anton, all correct. . . Only you've left out the most important thing. "
"Oh yes?" I asked.
"You mustn't cling to any theories. Not even the most likely ones. . . especially the most likely ones! The Other might be a vampire or a werewolf. . . or he might not. "
I nodded.
"He might be a Dark One," said Gesar. "Or he might turn out to be a Light One. "
I didn't say anything. I'd been thinking the same thing.
"And most important of all," Gesar added. "Remember¡ª'He intends to turn this human being into an Other' could be a bluff. "
"And maybe not?" I asked. "Gesar, is it really possible to turn a human being into an Other?"
"Do you really think I would have hidden something like that?" Gesar asked. "So many Others with broken lives. . . so many fine people condemned to live only their short, human lives. . . Nothing of the kind has ever happened before. But there's a first time for everything. "
"Then I'll assume it is possible," I said.
"I can't give you any amulets," Gesar advised me. "You understand why. And you'd better refrain from using any magic.
The only thing that is permissible is to look through the Twilight. But if the need arises, we'll be there quickly. Just call. "
He paused and then added, "I'm not expecting any violent confrontations. But you must be prepared for them. "
I'd never parked in an underground garage before. It was a good thing that at least there weren't many cars; the concrete ramps were flooded with bright light and the security man sitting there watching the internal observation monitors politely pointed out where the parking places for my cars were.
Apparently it was assumed that I had at least two cars.
After I parked, I took the bag with my things out of the trunk, set the car's alarm system, and walk toward the exit. The security man was amazed, and he asked
me if the elevators were out of order. I had to wrinkle up my forehead, wave my hand through the air and say I hadn't been there for about a year.
The security man asked which floor I lived on, in which block, and then he showed me the way to the elevator.
Surrounded by chrome, mirrors, and conditioned air, I rode up to the eighth floor. I actually felt rather insulted that I lived so low down. Well, I hadn't exactly been expecting the penthouse, but even so. . .
On the landing¡ªif you can apply that dreary term to a hall with one hundred square feet of floor space¡ªI wandered from one door to another for a while. The fairytale had come to an abrupt end. One door was completely missing, and behind the blank aperture there was a gigantic, dark, empty room¡ªconcrete walls, a concrete floor, no internal divisions. I could hear the faint sound of water dripping.
It took me a long time to choose between the three doors that were in place¡ªthere weren't any numbers on them. Eventually I discovered a number someone had scratched on one door with a sharp object, and the remains of some figures in chalk on another. It looked like my door was the third one. The most unprepossessing of them all. It would have been just like Gesar to
put me in the apartment that didn't even have a door, but then the cover story would have been shot to pieces. . .
I took out a bundle of keys and opened the door fairly easily. I looked for a light switch and found an entire battery of little levers.
I started switching them on one at a time.
When the apartment was flooded with light I closed the door behind me and looked around thoughtfully.
Maybe there was something to this after all. Maybe.
The previous owner of the apartment. . . okay, okay, according to the cover story, that was me. Anyway, when I started the finishing work, I'd obviously been full of truly Napoleonic plans. How else could I explain the custom-made patterned parquet, the oak window frames, the Daikin air conditioners and other distinctive features of a truly sumptuous residence?
But after that I must have run out of money. Because the immense studio apartment¡ªno internal dividing walls¡ªwas absolute untouched, virginal. In the corner where the kitchen was supposed to be there was a lopsided old Brest gas cooker, which could well have been used for cooking semolina in the days of my infancy. Nestling on its burners, as if to say "Do not use!" was a basic microwave oven. But then there was a luxurious extractor hood hanging above the appalling cooker. Huddling pitifully alongside it were two stools and a low serving table.
From sheer force of habit I took my shoes off and walked over into the kitchen corner. There was no refrigerator and no furniture either, but there was a big cardboard box standing on the floor, full of supplies¡ªbottles of mineral water and vodka, cans of food, packets of dry soup, boxes of crackers. Thanks, Gesar. If only you'd thought of getting me a saucepan as well. . .
From the "kitchen" I moved toward the doorway of the bathroom. Apparently I'd been clever enough not to display the toilet and the Jacuzzi for everyone to see. . .
I opened the door and looked around the bathroom. Not bad, thirty or forty square feet. Nice-looking turquoise tiles. A futuristic-looking shower¡ªit was frightening just to think how much one like that would cost and what fancy bits of technology it was stuffed with.
But there wasn't any Jacuzzi. There wasn't any kind of bath at all¡ªjust the blocked-off water pipes sticking up in the corner. And in addition. . .
I dashed around the bathroom until I finally confirmed my terrible suspicion.
There was no toilet there either!
Just the exit pipe to the drains blocked off with a wooden plug.
Gee, thanks, Gesar!
Stop, no need to panic. They didn't put just one bathroom in apartments like these. There had to be another one¡ªfor guests, for children, for servants. . .
I darted back out into the studio space and found that other door in the corner, right beside the entrance. My premonition had not deceived me¡ªit was the washroom for guests. There wasn't supposed to be a bathtub here, and the shower was simpler.
But instead of a toilet, there was just another plugged pipe.
Disaster.
Now I was really screwed!
Of course, I knew the genuine professionals didn't take any notice of such petty details. If James Bond ever went to the rest-room, it was only to eavesdrop on someone else's conversation or waste the villain hiding in the tank.
But I had to live here.
For a few seconds I thought about calling Gesar and demanding a plumber with a full set of equipment. And then I imagined what his reply would be.
For some reason in my imagination Gesar smiled. Then he heaved a sigh and gave the order, after which someone like the head plumber of all Moscow came and fitted the toilet in person. And Gesar smiled again and shook his head.
Magicians of his level didn't make mistakes in the detail. Their mistakes were cities in flames, bloody wars, and the impeachment of presidents. But not overlooked sanitary conveniences.
If there was no toilet in my apartment, then that was the way it was meant to be.
I explored my living space once again. I found a rolled-up mattress and a pack of bed linen with a cheerful design. I laid out the mattress and unpacked the things from my bag. I changed into my jeans and the T-shirt with the optimistic message about clinical death¡ªI couldn't wear a tie in my own apartment, could I? I took out my laptop. . . Oh yes, was I supposed to get into the Internet via my cell phone then?
I had to make yet another search of the apartment. I found a connection in the wall of the large bathroom, but at least it was on the side of the "studio" room. I decided that couldn't be accidental and glanced into the bathroom. I was right¡ªthere was another socket beside the non-existent toilet bowl.
I'd had some odd ideas when I was working on the place. . .
The power was on. That was good at least, but it wasn't the reason I'd come here.
Simply in order to dispel the oppressive silence, I opened the windows. The warm evening came rushing into the room. On the far side of the river, lights were twinkling in the windows of the buildings¡ªthe ordinary, human buildings. But the silence was just as intense. No wonder, it was after midnight.
I took out my disk player, rummaged through my collection and chose 'The White Guard'¡ªa group that was never going to top the charts on MTV or fill sports stadiums. I stuck the earphones in my ears and stretched out on the mattress.
When this battle is over,
If you survive until the dawn,
You'll realize the scent of victory
Is as bitter as the smoke of defeat.
And you're alone on the cold battlefield,
With no enemies from now on,
But the sky presses down on your shoulders,
What can you do in this empty desert?
But you will wait
For what time
Will bring,
You will wait. . .
And honey will taste more bitter than salt,
Your tears more bitter than the wormwood in the steppes,
And I know of no pain worse than this,
To be alive among so many who are sleeping.
But you will wait
For what time
Will bring,
You will wait. . .
Catching myself trying to sing along out of tune with the quiet female voice, I tugged off the earphones and switched the player off. No. I hadn't come here to lounge around doing nothing.
What would James Bond have done in my place? Found the mysterious renegade Other, his human client, and the author of the provocative letters.
And what was I going to do?
I was going to look for what I needed desperately. If it came to it, there had to be toilet facilities downstairs, at the security point. . .
Somewhere outside the window¡ªit seemed very clo
se by¡ª a bass guitar began growling ponderously. I jumped to my feet, but failed to discover anyone in the apartment.
"Hi there, you mob," said a voice outside the windows. I leaned out over the windowsill and surveyed the wall of the As-sol building. I spotted some windows open two floors up¡ªthat was where those aggressive chords in that unusual arrangement for the bass guitar were coming from.
I haven't squeezed my guts out for a long time, It's a long time since I've squeezed out my guts, And just recently I happened to notice How long it is since I squeezed out my guts. But I used to squeeze them out so fine! No one else could squeeze them out so far! I squeezed them right out there for everyone, I was the only one squeezing them out!
It was impossible to imagine a greater contrast with the quiet voice of Zoya Yashchenko, the lead singer of White Guard, than this incredible chanson to a bass guitar. But there was something about the song I liked. The singer ran through a three-chord bridge and continued with his lament:
Sometimes now I still squeeze them out,
But now it's not the way it used to be.
They just don't squeeze out the same way at all
I'll never squeeze them out again the way I used to. . .
I started to laugh. It had all the distinctive features of Russian "gangster" songs¡ªa lyric hero recalling his former splendor, describing his present fallen state and lamenting that he can never recover the glory of former days.
And I had a strong suspicion that if this song were played on Radio Chanson, ninety percent of the listeners wouldn't even suspect it was a send-up.
The guitar gave a few sighs, and then the voice launched into a new song:
I've never been in the loony bin, So stop asking me about that. . .
The music broke off. I rummaged in the cardboard box, found a bottle of vodka and a stick of smoked salami. I skipped out onto the landing, pulled the door shut, and set off up the stairs.
Finding the midnight bard's apartment was about as hard as finding a jackhammer hidden in a clump of bushes.
A working jackhammer.
The birds have stopped their singing, The lovely sun no longer shines There are no vicious kids frolicking Around the garbage dump outside. . .
I rang the bell, with absolutely no confidence that anyone would hear me. But the music stopped, and about thirty seconds later the door opened.
Standing there in the doorway with an amiable smile on his face was a short, stocky man about thirty years old. He was holding the instrument of his crime¡ªa bass guitar. With a certain morose satisfaction, I observed that he had a "bandit" haircut too. The bard was wearing threadbare jeans and a very amusing T-shirt¡ªa paratrooper in a Russian uniform slitting the throat of a soldier in a U. S. uniform with a huge knife. Below the picture was the defiant slogan "We can remind you who won the Second World War!"
"That's not bad, either," the guitarist said, looking at my T-shirt. "Come on in. "
He took the vodka and the salami and moved back inside his apartment.
I took a look at him through the Twilight.
A human being.
And such a confused jumble of an aura that I decided then and there not to try to understand his character. Gray, pink, red, and blue tones. . . a really impressive cocktail.
I followed the guitarist inside.
His apartment turned out to be twice as big as mine. Oh, he didn't earn the money for that by playing the guitar. . . But then, that was none of my business. What was really funny was that, apart from its size, the apartment looked like an exact copy of mine. The initial traces of a magnificent finishing job hastily wound up and left incomplete.
Standing in the middle of this monstrously huge living space¡ªat least forty-five feet by forty-five¡ªthere was a chair, and in front of the chair a microphone on a stand, a good quality professional amplifier, and two monstrously huge speakers.
Over by the wall there were three immense 'Bosch' refrigerators. The guitarist opened the biggest one¡ªit was absolutely empty¡ªand put the bottle of vodka in the freezer.
"It's warm," he explained.
"I haven't got a refrigerator yet," I said.
"It happens," the bard sympathized. "Las. "
"What do you mean, 'las'?" I asked, puzzled.
"That's my name, Las. Not the one in my passport. "
"Anton," I said, introducing myself. "That is the name in my passport. "
"It happens," the bard sympathized. "Come far?"
"I live on the eighth," I explained.
Las scratched the back of his head thoughtfully. He looked at the open windows and explained, "I opened them so it wouldn't be so loud. Otherwise my ears can't take it. I was going to put in soundproofing, but I ran out of money. "
"That seems to be a common problem," I said cautiously. "I don't even have a toilet. "
Las smiled triumphantly. "I do. I've had it for a week. That door over there. "
When I got back, Las was sadly slicing the salami. Unable to resist, I asked, "Why is it so huge and so English?"
"Did you see the company label on it?" Las asked me. " 'We invented the first toilet. ' Just had to buy it, didn't I, with that written on it? I keep meaning to scan the label and change it a little bit, write: 'We were the first to guess that people need. . . '"
"I get the idea," I said. "But then, I do have a shower installed. "
"Really?" the bard said, standing up. "I've been dreaming of getting a shower for three days. . . "
I held out the keys to him.
"Meanwhile you organize the hors d'oeuvres," Las said happily. "The vodka has to cool for another ten minutes anyway. And I'll be quick. "
The door slammed shut, and I was left in a stranger's apartment¡ªalone with an amplifier that was switched on, a half-sliced stick of salami, and three huge, empty refrigerators.
Well, how about that! I would never have expected the easygoing social relations of a friendly communal apartment¡ªor a student hostel¡ªto exist inside buildings like this.
You use my toilet, and I'll get washed in your shower. . . And Pyotr Petrovich has a refrigerator, and Ivan Ivanovich promised to bring some vodka¡ªhe trades in the stuff, and Semyon cuts the sausage for the snacks very neatly, with loving care. . .
Probably the majority of the people with apartments there had bought them "for posterity. " Using every last bit of money they could earn¡ªand beg, steal, or borrow. And it was only afterward that the happy owners had realized that an apartment that size also required major finishing work. That any construction firm wouldn't think twice about ripping off someone who had bought a home here. That they still had to pay every month for the massive grounds, the underground garages, the park, and the embankments.
So the huge building was standing there half-empty, very nearly deserted. Of course, it was no tragedy if someone was a bit short of cash. But for the first time I could see with my own eyes that it was at least a tragicomedy.
How many people really lived in the Assol complex? If I was the only one who had come in response to a bass guitar growling in the middle of the night, and before that the strange bard had made his racket entirely unchallenged?
One person on each floor? It seemed like even less than that. . .
But then who had sent the letter?
I tried to imagine Las cutting letters out of the newspaper Pravda with nail scissors. I couldn't. Someone like him would have come up with something a bit more imaginative.
I closed my eyes and pictured the gray shadow of my eyelids falling across my pupils. Then I opened my eyes and looked around the apartment through the Twilight. Not the slightest trace of any magic. Not even on the guitar, although a good instrument that has been in the hands of an Other or a potential Other remembers that touch for years.
There was no trace anywhere of blue moss, that parasite of the Twilight that feasts on negative emotions. If the owner of the ap
artment ever fell into a depression, then he did it away from home. Or else he had such a frank and unashamed good time that it burned away the blue moss.
I sat down and started carving the rest of the salami. To be on the safe side, I checked through the Twilight to see if it was really a good idea to eat it. The salami turned out to be all right. Gesar didn't want his agent to go down with food poisoning.
"Now that's the right temperature," said Las, removing the wine thermometer from the open bottle. "We didn't leave it in for too long. Some people cool vodka to the consistency of glycerine, so that drinking it's like swallowing liquid nitrogen. . . Here's to our acquaintance!"
We drank a glass and followed it with salami and biscotti. Las had brought them from my apartment¡ªhe explained that he hadn't bothered to get any food in that day.
"The entire building lives like this," he explained. "Well no, of course there are some people who had enough money to finish their places and furnish them as well. Only just imagine how wonderful it is living in an empty building. There they are, waiting for the petty riffraff like you and me to finish our places off and move in. The cafes aren't working, the casino's empty, the security men are freaking out from sheer boredom. . . two of them were sacked yesterday¡ªthey started shooting at the bushes in the yard. Said they'd seen something horrible. They probably did too¡ªthey were as high as kites. "
After he finished speaking, Las took a pack of Belomor cigarettes out of his jacket pocket and gave me a cunning look. "Like one?"
I hadn't been expecting a man who poured vodka in such good style to fool around with marijuana. . .
I shook my head and asked, "Do you smoke many?"
"This is the second pack today," Las sighed. And then he suddenly realized. "Hey, come on, Anton! These are Belomor! Not dope! I used to smoke Gitanes before, until I realized they were no different from our very own Belomor!"
"Original," I said.
"Ah, what's that got to do with anything?" said Las, offended. "I'm not trying to be original. All you have to do is be some other"¡ªI started, but Las went on calmly "¡ªkind of guy, a bit different from the rest, and right away they say you're putting on a show. But I like smoking Belomor. If I lose interest a week from now¡ªI'll give up!"
"There's nothing bad about being different, some other kind of guy," I said, putting out a feeler.
"But really becoming different is hard," Las replied. "Just a couple of days ago I had this idea. . . "
I pricked my ears up again. The letter had been sent two days earlier. Could everything really have come together so neatly?
"I was in this hospital, and while I was waiting to be seen, I read all the price lists," Las went on, not suspecting a trap. "And what they do there is serious stuff, they make artificial body parts out of titanium to replace what people have lost. Shin-bones, knee joints and hip joints, jawbones. . . Patches for the skull, teeth, and other small bits and pieces. . . I got my calculator out and figured out how much it would cost to have all your bones totally replaced. It came out at about one million seven hundred thousand bucks. But I reckon on a bulk order like that you could get a good discount. Twenty-thirty percent. And if you could convince the doctors it was good publicity, you could probably get away with half a million!"
"What for?" I asked. Thanks to my hairdresser, my hair hadn't stood up on end¡ªthere was nothing left to stand up.
"It's just a fascinating idea!" Las explained. "Imagine you want to hammer in a nail! You just raise your fist and smash it down, and the nail sinks into concrete. Those bones are titanium! Or say someone tries to punch you. . . nah, of course, there are a number of drawbacks. And artificial organs aren't coming on too well yet. But I'm pleased with the general trend of progress. "
He poured us another glass each.
"It seems to me the trend of progress lies in a different direction," I went on, sticking to my guns. "We need to make greater use of the potential abilities of our organisms. All those amazing things that lie hidden inside us! Telekinesis, telepathy. . . "
Las looked a bit sad. I was getting morose too, trying to play the idiot.
"Can you read my thoughts?" he asked.
"Not right now," I confessed.
"I don't think we ought to invent any extra dimensions of reality," Las explained. "We've already known for a long time what man is capable of. If people could read thoughts, levitate and do all that other nonsense, there'd be some proof. "
"If someone suddenly acquired abilities like that, they'd hide them from everybody else," I said, and took a look at Las through the Twilight. "A really different, Other kind of being would provoke the envy and fear of people around him. "
Las didn't betray the slightest sign of excitement. Just skepticism.
"Well, surely this miracle worker would want to give the woman he loves and his children the same kind of abilities? They'd gradually take over from us as a biological species. "
"But what if the special abilities couldn't be inherited?" I asked. "Or they weren't necessarily inherited? And you couldn't transmit them to anyone else either? Then you'd have the people and the Others existing independently. And if there weren't many of the Others, then they'd hide their abilities from everybody else. . . "
"Seems to me like you're talking about a random mutation that produces extrasensory abilities," Las said, thinking out loud. "If that mutation is random and recessive, it's absolutely no use to us. But you can actually have titanium bones installed right now!"
"Not a good idea," I muttered.
We had a drink.
"You know, this is a pretty weird situation we're in here!" Las mused. "A huge empty building! Hundreds of apartments¡ªand only nine people living in them. . . that's if we include you. The things you could get up to! It takes your breath away! And what a video you could shoot! Just imagine it¡ªthe luxurious interiors, empty restaurants, dead laundries, rusting exercise machines and cold saunas, empty swimming pools and casino tables wrapped in plastic sheeting. And a little girl wandering through it all. Wandering around and singing. It doesn't even matter what. "
"Do you shoot videos?" I asked cautiously.
"Nah. . . " Las frowned. "Well. . . just the once I helped this punk band I know shoot one. They showed it on MTV, but then it was banned. "
"What was so terrible about it?"
"Nothing really," said Las. "It was just a song, nothing offensive about it, in fact it was about love. The visuals were unusual. We shot them in a hospital for patients with motor function disorders. We set up a strobe light in a hall, put on the song 'Captain, Captain, Why Have You Left the Horse?' and invited the patients to dance. So they danced to the strobes. Or they tried to. And then we laid the new sound sequence over the visuals. The result was really stylish. But you really can't show it. It has a bad feel somehow. "
I imagined the "visuals" and I squirmed.
"I'm no good as a video producer," Las admitted. "Or as a musician. . . they played a song of mine on the radio once, in the middle of the night, in a program for all sorts of hardcore weirdos. And what do you think? This well-known songwriter immediately called the radio station and said all his life in his songs he'd been teaching people about good, and about eternal values, but this one song had cancelled out his entire life's work. . . You must have heard one song, I think¡ªdid you think it was encouraging people to do bad things?"
"I think it made fun of bad attitudes," I said.
"Thank you," Las said sadly. "But that's exactly the problem¡ª there are too many people who won't understand that. They'll think it's all for real. "
"That's what the fools will think," I said, trying to console the unacknowledged bard.
"But there are more of them!" Las exclaimed. "And they haven't perfected head replacements yet. . . "
He reached for the bottle, poured the vodka and said, "You drop in any time you need to, no need to be shy. And later I'll get you a key for
an apartment on the fifteenth floor. The apartment's empty, but it has a toilet. "
"Won't the owner object?" I asked with a laugh.
"It's all the same to him now. And his heirs can't agree on how to share out the space. "