Roadside Picnic

  “I didn’t know you meant me, Captain,” I say. “You were yelling at some stalker.”

  “Oh, and you aren’t a stalker anymore?”

  “I’ve served my time, thanks to you—and I’ve given it up since,” I say. “I’m done with it. Thank you, Captain, for opening my eyes. If not for you—”

  “What were you doing in the restricted area?”

  “What do you mean? I work here. For two years now.”

  And to finish this unpleasant conversation, I take out my ID and show it to Captain Quarterblad. He takes it, examines it, practically sniffs the seals, and seems almost ready to lick it. He returns my ID, looking satisfied; his eyes have lit up, even his cheeks colored.

  “Sorry, Schuhart,” he says. “I didn’t expect this. That means my advice to you didn’t go to waste. Really, that’s great. Believe it or not, I always figured you’d make something of yourself. I just couldn’t imagine that a guy like you …”

  And off he goes. Well, I think, just my luck to cure another melancholic. Of course, I listen to him, looking down in embarrassment, nodding, gesturing awkwardly, and even shyly toeing the pavement. The goons behind the captain listen for a while, then get queasy, I bet, and go off somewhere more exciting. Meanwhile, the captain drones on about my future: knowledge is light, ignorance is darkness, God always values and rewards honest labor. Anyway, he tries to feed me the same boring bullshit that the jail priest harassed us with every Sunday. And I need a drink—I just can’t wait. All right, I think, Red, you can endure even this. Patience, Red, patience! He can’t go on like this for long, he’s already out of breath … And then, to my relief, one of the patrol cars signals to us. Captain Quarterblad looks around, grunts in annoyance, and extends his hand to me.

  “All right,” he says. “It was nice to meet you, honest man Schuhart. I would have been happy to drink with you to that. Can’t have anything too strong, doctor’s orders, but I could have had a beer with you. But you see—duty calls! Well, we’ll meet again,” he says.

  God forbid, I think. But I shake his hand and keep blushing and toeing the pavement—doing everything he wants me to. Then he finally leaves, and I make a beeline for the Borscht.

  The Borscht is always empty at this hour. Ernest is standing behind the bar, wiping the glasses and holding them up to the light. This is an amazing thing, by the way: anytime you come in, these barmen are always wiping glasses, as if their salvation depended on it. He’ll stand here all day—pick up a glass, squint at it, hold it up to the light, breathe on it, and get wiping; he’ll do that for a bit, take another look, this time through the bottom of the glass, and start wiping again …

  “Hey, Ernie!” I say. “Leave that thing alone, you’ll wipe a hole through it!”

  He looks at me through the glass, grumbles something indistinct, and without saying a word pours me a shot of vodka. I clamber up onto the stool, take a sip, grimace, shake my head, and take another sip. The fridge is humming, the jukebox is playing something quiet, Ernest is puffing into another glass—it’s nice and peaceful. I finish my drink, putting my glass on the bar. Ernest immediately pours me another one. “Feeling better?” he mutters. “Thawing a bit, stalker?”

  “You just keep wiping,” I say. “You know, one guy wiped for a while, and he finally summoned an evil spirit. He had a great life after that.”

  “Who was this?” asks Ernest suspiciously.

  “He was a barman here,” I answer. “Before your time.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Oh, nothing. Why do you think we got a Visit? He just wouldn’t stop wiping. Who do you figure visited us, huh?”

  “You’re full of it today,” says Ernie with approval.

  He goes to the kitchen and comes back with a plate of fried sausages. He puts the plate in front of me, passes me the ketchup, and returns to his glasses. Ernest knows his stuff. He’s got an eye for these things, can instantly tell when a stalker’s fresh from the Zone, when he’s got swag, and Ernie knows what a stalker needs. Ernie’s a good guy. Our benefactor.

  After I finish the sausages, I light a cigarette and try to estimate how much money Ernest is making on us. I don’t know the going prices in Europe, but I’ve heard rumors that an empty sells for almost two and a half thousand, while Ernie only gives us four hundred. The batteries go for at least a hundred, and we’re lucky to get twenty. That’s probably how it is for everything. Of course, getting the swag to Europe must cost a bundle. You gotta grease a lot of palms—even the stationmaster is probably paid off. Anyway, if you think about it, Ernest doesn’t pocket that much—fifteen to twenty percent at the most—and if he gets caught, that’s ten years of hard labor, guaranteed.

  Here my generous meditations are interrupted by some polite type. I don’t even hear him come in, but there he is at my right elbow, asking, “May I sit down?”

  “Of course!” I reply. “Go right ahead.”

  It’s a skinny little guy with a pointy nose, wearing a bow tie. He looks familiar, I’ve seen him somewhere before, but I can’t remember where. He climbs onto a nearby stool and says to Ernie, “Bourbon, please!” And immediately to me, “Excuse me, I think we’ve met. You work at the International Institute, right?”

  “Yes,” I say. “And you?”

  He promptly pulls a business card out of his pocket and puts it in front of me. I read “Aloysius Macnaught, Immigration Agent.” Right, of course I know him. He pesters people to leave town. Someone must really want us all to leave Harmont. Almost half the population is already gone, but no, they have to get rid of everyone. I push his card away with one finger and tell him, “No, thanks. I’m not interested. I dream of living my entire life in my hometown.”

  “But why?” he asks eagerly. “I mean no offense, but what’s keeping you here?”

  Right, like I’ll tell him what it really is. “What a question!” I say. “Sweet childhood memories. My first kiss in the park. My mommy and daddy. The first time I got drunk, in this very bar. Our police station, so dear to my heart.” I take a heavily used handkerchief out of my pocket and put it to my eyes. “No,” I say. “No way!”

  He laughs, takes a small sip of bourbon, and says thoughtfully, “I can’t understand you people. Life in Harmont is hard. The city is under military control. The provisions are mediocre. The Zone is so close, it’s like living on top of a volcano. An epidemic could break out at any moment, or something even worse. I understand the old folks. They’re used to this place, they don’t want to leave. But someone like you … How old are you? Can’t be more than twenty-two, twenty-three … You have to understand, our agency is a nonprofit, there’s no one paying us to do this. We just want people to leave this hellhole, to return to normal life. Look, we even cover the costs of relocation, we find you work after the move … For somebody young, like you, we’d pay for your education. No, I don’t get it!”

  “What,” I say, “no one wants to leave?”

  “No, not exactly no one. Some do agree, especially people with families. But not the young or the old. What is it about this place? It’s just a hole, a provincial town …”

  And here I give it to him. “Mr. Aloysius Macnaught!” I say. “You are absolutely right. Our little town is a hole. Always was and always will be. Except right now,” I say, “it’s a hole into the future. And the stuff we fish out of this hole will change your whole stinking world. Life will be different, the way it should be, and no one will want for anything. That’s our hole for you. There’s knowledge pouring through this hole. And when we figure it out, we’ll make everyone rich, and we’ll fly to the stars, and we’ll go wherever we want. That’s the kind of hole we have here …”

  At this point I trail off, because I notice that Ernie is looking at me in astonishment, and I feel embarrassed. In general, I don’t like using other people’s words, even if I do happen to like them. Especially since they come out kind of funny. When Kirill’s talking, you can’t stop listening, you almost forget to close your m
outh. And here I’m saying the same stuff, but something seems off. Maybe that’s because Kirill never slipped Ernest swag under the counter. Oh well …

  Here my Ernie comes to and hurriedly pours me a large shot: Snap out of it, man, what’s wrong with you today? Meanwhile, the pointy-nosed Mr. Macnaught takes another sip of bourbon and says, “Yes, of course. The perpetual batteries, the blue panacea … But do you actually think it’ll be like you said?”

  “What I actually think is none of your business,” I say. “I was talking about the town. Now, speaking for myself, I’ll say: What’s so great about your Europe? The eternal boredom? You work all day, watch TV all night; when that’s done, you’re off to bed with some bitch, breeding delinquents. The strikes, the demonstrations, the never-ending politics … To hell with your Europe!”

  “Really, why does it have to be Europe?”

  “Oh,” I say, “it’s the same story all over, and in the Antarctic it’s cold, too.”

  And you know the amazing thing: I’m telling him this, and I completely believe in what I’m saying. And our Zone, the evil bitch, the murderess, is at that moment a hundred times dearer to me than all their Europes and Africas. And I’m not even drunk yet, I simply imagine for a moment how I’d come home strung out after work in a herd of like-minded drones, how I’d get squashed on all sides in their subway, how I’d become jaded and weary of life.

  “What do you say?” he asks Ernie.

  “I’m a businessman,” Ernie replies with authority. “I’m not some young punk! I’ve invested money in this business. The commandant comes in here sometimes, a general, nothing to sneeze at. Why would I leave?”

  Mr. Aloysius Macnaught starts telling him something with numbers, but I’m no longer listening. I take a good swig from my glass, get some change from my pocket, climb down from the stool, and go over to the jukebox to get things going. They have this one song here called “Don’t Come Back Unless You’re Ready.” It does wonders for me after the Zone … All right, the jukebox is screeching away, so I pick up my glass and go into the corner to settle scores with the one-armed bandit. And time begins to fly.

  Just as I’m losing my last nickel, Gutalin and Richard Noonan barge into our friendly establishment. Gutalin is plastered already—rolling his eyes and looking to pick a fight—while Richard Noonan is tenderly holding on to his elbow and distracting him with jokes. A pretty pair! Gutalin is huge, curly haired, and as black as an officer’s boot, with arms down to his knees, while Dick is small, round, pink, and mellow, practically aglow.

  “Hey!” yells Dick when he sees me. “Red’s here, too! Come here, Red!”

  “That’s right!” bellows Gutalin. “There are only two people in this town—Red and me! All the others are pigs, spawn of Satan. Red! You also serve Satan, but you’re still human.”

  I come over to them with my glass. Gutalin grabs me by the coat, sits me down at their table, and says, “Sit down, Red! Sit down, servant of Satan! I love you. Let us weep over the sins of humanity—weep in despair!”

  “Let us weep,” I say. “Swallow the tears of sin.”

  “Because the day is nigh,” proclaims Gutalin. “Because the pale horse has been saddled, and the rider has put a foot in the stirrup. And futile are the prayers of the worshippers of Satan. And only those who renounce him shall be saved. Thou, of human flesh, whom Satan has seduced, who play with his toys and covet his treasures—I tell thee, thou art blind! Awake, fools, before it’s too late! Stamp on the devil’s baubles!” Here he comes to an abrupt halt, as if forgetting what’s next. “Can I get a drink in this place?” he asks in a different voice. “Where am I? You know, Red, I got fired again. An agitator, they said. I was telling them, ‘Awake, you’re blind, plunging into the abyss and dragging other blind men behind you!’ They just laughed. So I socked the boss in the face and left. Now they’ll arrest me. And for what?”

  Dick comes over and puts a bottle on the table.

  “I’m paying today!” I yell to Ernest.

  Dick looks sideways at me.

  “It’s all aboveboard,” I say. “We’ll be drinking my bonus.”

  “You went into the Zone?” asks Dick. “Did you bring anything out?”

  “A full empty,” I say. “For the altar to science. And pocket-fuls of joy. Are you gonna pour or not?”

  “An empty!” Gutalin rumbles sadly. “You risked your life for some empty! You’re still alive, but you brought another work of Satan into this world. And you just don’t know, Red, how much sin and grief—”

  “Quiet, Gutalin,” I tell him sternly. “Eat, drink, and be merry, because I came back alive. A toast to success!”

  That toast gets us going. Gutalin becomes completely depressed—sitting there sobbing, liquid gushing from his eyes like water from a faucet. It’s OK, I’ve seen him do this. It’s one of his stages—streaming tears and preaching that Satan put the Zone there to tempt us, that you can’t take anything out of it, and, if you do, put it back, and live your life as if the Zone didn’t exist. Leave Satan’s works for Satan. I like him, Gutalin. I like eccentrics in general. When he has enough money, he buys swag from anyone, without haggling, and then he sneaks into the Zone at night and buries it there … Lord, is he bawling! Oh well, he’ll cheer up yet.

  “What’s a full empty?” asks Dick. “I’ve heard of empties, but what’s a full one? Never heard of it.”

  I explain it to him. He nods, smacks his lips. “Yes,” he says. “That’s interesting. That’s something new. Who did you go with? The Russian guy?”

  “Yeah,” I reply. “I went with Kirill and Tender. You know, our lab assistant.”

  “You must have had your hands full with them.”

  “Not at all. They both did pretty well. Especially Kirill, he’s a born stalker,” I say. “If he had more experience, learned some proper patience, I’d go into the Zone with him every day.”

  “And every night?” he asks with a drunken laugh.

  “Stop that,” I say. “Enough with the jokes.”

  “I know,” he says. “Enough with the jokes, or I might get a punch in the face. Let’s say you can take a couple swings at me sometime …”

  “Who’s getting punched?” Gutalin comes to life. “Which one of you?”

  We grab his arms, barely getting him into his seat. Dick sticks a cigarette in his teeth and lights it. We calm him down. Meanwhile, people keep coming in. There’s no room left at the bar, and most tables are taken. Ernest has called up his girls, and they’re running around, fetching drinks—beer for some, cocktails or vodka for others. Lately I’ve been noticing a lot of new faces in town—young punks with colorful scarves down to the floor. I mention this to Dick, and he nods.

  “That’s right,” he says. “They’re starting a lot of construction. The Institute’s putting up three new buildings, and they’re also going to wall off the Zone from the cemetery to the old ranch. The good times for stalkers are coming to an end.”

  “Like we stalkers ever had them,” I say. At the same time, I think, What the hell is this? That means I won’t be able to work on the side. Oh well, might be for the best—less temptation. I’ll go into the Zone during the day, like an honest man; the money isn’t as good, of course, but it’s much safer. There’s the boot, the specsuits, and all that crap, and I won’t give a damn about patrols. I can live on my salary, and I’ll drink my bonuses.

  Now I get really depressed. I’ll have to count every cent again: This I can afford, this I can’t. I’ll have to pinch pennies for Guta’s gifts … No more bars, only cheap movies … And everything’s gray, all gray. Gray every day, and every evening, and every night.

  I sit there thinking this while Dick keeps buzzing in my ear. “Last night I go to the hotel bar for a late-night drink, and I see some new faces in there. I didn’t like them from the start. One of them comes over and starts working up to something, tells me he knows about me, knows who I am and what I do, and hints that he’ll pay good money for certain ser
vices …

  “An informer,” I say. I’m not too interested in all this, I’ve seen my share of informers and heard plenty of talk about services.

  “No, my friend, not an informer. You listen. I talked to him for a bit—being careful, of course, playing the fool. He’s interested in certain items from the Zone, and these items are no joke. Trinkets like batteries, shriekers, and black sparks aren’t for him. And he only hinted at what he does need.”

  “So what exactly does he need?” I ask.

  “Hell slime, if I understood correctly,” Dick says, and gives me a strange look.

  “Ah, so he needs hell slime!” I say. “Maybe he’d like a death lamp as well?”

  “I asked him about that, too.”

  “Well?”

  “Believe it or not, he does.”

  “Yeah?” I say. “Then he can go get them himself. It’s easy as pie! We have basements full of hell slime, he can take a bucket and dip right in. It’s his funeral.”

  Dick stays silent, looks at me from beneath his brows, and doesn’t even smile. What the hell, is he trying to hire me or something? And then it clicks.

  “Wait,” I say. “Who could that have been? We aren’t even allowed to study the hell slime at the Institute.”

  “Exactly,” says Dick deliberately, keeping his eyes on me. “It’s research that might pose a danger to humanity. Now do you understand who that was?”

  I don’t understand a thing. “An alien?” I say.

  He bursts out laughing and pats me on the arm. “Why don’t we have a drink, you simple soul?”

  “Why don’t we?” I reply, although I feel mad. Screw this—enough of this “simple soul” business, bastards! “Hey, Gutalin!” I say. “Wake up, let’s have a drink.”

  No, Gutalin’s asleep. He’s put his black face down on the black table and is asleep, arms hanging to the floor. Dick and I have a drink without Gutalin.