Edgar, trying to avoid the open and all-devouring gaze of his companion, wanted to know the price of it, having forgotten to ask the manager.
‘404,’ said the young man, grinning at the amorous boat-lady as she fondled her lover.
‘Not the number of the room,’ he said irritably, trying to push her away. ‘The price.’
‘404,’ the young man repeated. ‘In this hotel the number of the room is also the price. The higher you go, the better the room, the bigger the price. It avoids misunderstanding. How many weeks will you be staying?’
‘Overnight,’ he said, ‘or perhaps two’ – feeling his hand squeezed, and appalled at the expense of the accommodation.
‘Is that all?’ said the youth in a hostile manner. He thrust the key into Edgar’s hand when the lift stopped, and pointed up the corridor: ‘You can find your own room, if that’s the case.’
Chapter 16
Bombed by Nihilitz, the bridgehead
Of the heart goes black
Back to the sealine frontiers
Of effervescing life.
Adam, unsteady though unshaken, stood on a table reciting his ‘Ode to Nihilon’ (composed an hour before) to a silent admiring audience, more numerous than had ever crowded around him so far in his life. The policeman had commanded everyone in the café to be silent, and the proprietor, fully aware of the honour that was being done to his establishment, dimmed all lights except the bright one placed by the poet’s elbow, under which isolating glare Adam had penned his immortal lines.
The policeman stood with cap in hand and lowered head, and the proprietor refused to serve any drinks while the writing or reciting was taking place. A young drunken peasant who began to laugh and shout had to be thrown out by the more understanding and cultured customers. For some minutes afterwards he rampaged around the building, banging on doors and windows, and demanding to be let back in, though he eventually got tired, and either fell asleep or went away. The disturbance hardly penetrated Adam’s inspired state, and a hundred lines of verse came out of him almost as quickly as the Nihilitz had been previously poured in.
Nihilism scorches coffins,
So that the dead may wake
In fires of paradise;
Or waltz with dolphins
In vast halls of ice,
Or walk to vantage points and watch
The splendid fireworks from afar,
And talk, talk, talk.
Talk of the soul by the beat of the heart …
The floor shook at the end of each short section, his audience shouting approval at every noisy word, and when he stopped, having come to an abrupt end, he leapt from the table and buckled both legs under him, without, however, being hurt, for he sprang to his feet and held on to the bar-rail behind.
‘That was magnificent,’ said the proprietor, drying tears on his white apron. ‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am that someone of your talent should bless my humble place with such a performance. Please recite some more. We’d like a few hundred lines about the greatness of Nihilon, and the savage barbarity of those Cronacian wolf-bandits.’
‘We’d all like to hear that,’ said the policeman.
‘Yes,’ the customers cried. ‘A poem about lousy Cronacia!’
‘A war poem,’ shouted the roving young peasant who had woken up and made his way back inside. ‘The oldsters can sing it as they swing out with the left, and latch in with the right!’
Adam confessed that he was now hungry. ‘When you’ve told us another poem,’ said the proprietor, ‘we’ll cook you a couple of rabbits – if we like the show.’
His eyes were sore from glare and smoke, and the exhaustion of a long day. ‘Where’s the nearest hotel?’
‘At Fludd,’ he was told, ‘ten kilometres away.’
‘I must go then,’ he said, trying to push through. The proprietor grabbed him: ‘You promised us another poem.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘If we say you did, then you did, and that’s enough for us.’
‘My performances cost a thousand klipps,’ he told the proprietor, and the policeman who also barred his way, ‘and that’s the fee you’ll have to pay now.’
Knowing that Adam could barely stand, the proprietor pushed him roughly in the chest: ‘It’s outrageous! Calamitous! Horrific! Petty! Mean! Ridiculous! He actually wants money for reciting his mediocre and subversive poems.’
‘Throw him out,’ someone shouted.
‘You’d better go,’ the policeman said, raising his fist, ‘or I shan’t be responsible for your safety.’
‘That’s exactly what I want to do,’ said Adam, and such was the disgust which everyone felt, that they actually made way for him, though one or two punches were aimed at this back before he reached the door.
The cold night air revived him, but only as a reminder of how tired he was. They were still arguing inside, though it seemed more of a quarrel among themselves now. A bottle smashed – empty, he imagined – and then came a breaking of furniture, and high-pitched protestations from the patron. He wiped the dew dry from the handlebars of his bicycle, then set out for Fludd.
Every few metres his dynamo headlight lit up a cluster of pot-holes in the paving, some so deep and steep-sided that he had to clamber over them. It must have been raining in the northern mountains, for streams occasionally flowed over the road, splashing his trousers up to the knees. At one place he fell in to his waist, being forced to let go of his bicycle, which crashed down a slope. Because the lightbeam was dependent on the spinning of the wheels, he was unable to see much during the times when he was obliged to push, and now that his bicycle had slid away it seemed to have gone forever.
A traveller must have faith in himself, he thought. He had such faith, otherwise he wouldn’t have thrown away the buoying comfort of his home. He would deny having left it for the fame or financial rewards which contributing to the guidebook might bring, though when his journey was over he would indeed be able to advise those who had not yet set out on it. His first thoughts had been to test himself on a pilgrimage into the unknown, to find what lay at the centre of what was already known.
He was seeking something, otherwise he would not have come, though he did not know what he might find beyond the perils and uncertainties of the journey itself. Perhaps in this desert of nihilism he was searching for himself in order that others could find themselves should they ever decide to cross it and follow in his wake. He smiled at the conceit of what was probably true, but which could never be put into a guidebook, a thought not less fascinating for occupying his mind as he sat by the roadside, feeling that unique mixture of despair and elation which sooner or later comes during any man’s travelling, the first powerful indication that he belongs nowhere but where he stands.
Looking up, he saw stars shining in patterns of crosses, crescents, animals and gods, route-markers and lifesavers. Each one pierced his heart with light, and if they weren’t exactly friendly they at least appeared to sympathize with his plight. He stood up, shivering. A tangled shadow down the slope led him to his bicycle, and he struggled back with it on to the broken ridge of the road.
He wanted to sit and brood all night, bend his head down to his knees till he could see again the landscape that he had passed during the day, but the flashing of two brilliant headlights in the distance put sudden purpose into him, and he mounted his bicycle, hoping to see signs of Fludd from the next high point of the road.
It twisted and curved, but the surface improved, though presently it became so steep that in places he had to get off and push. The lights belonged to a huge lorry, and as he got close he saw that it was parked in a layby set dangerously on the U of a hairpin bend, so that when coming out it would have no visibility along the road either before or behind.
The town of Fludd lay at the bottom of a steep-sided valley, and its multi-coloured lights comforted him. The streets were wide and well paved, lined with small trees and attractive blocks of flats. He followed sign
s saying ‘Hotel Fludd’, cycling along a level avenue in which people were walking, or sitting at café tables on the pavements. There was an air of gaiety, of men and women enjoying themselves after a day’s hard work.
The hotel was modern, yet unpretentious and homely, a promise of comfort pulling him in at the end of what seemed a very long day. When he pushed his bicycle into the hall and leaned it against the reception desk, a young girl came from the switchboard and smiled: ‘We have a luxury room with bath, at two klipps a night. I’m sure you’ll be satisfied with it. If I were you though, I’d go straight into the dining room for a meal, because it will be closing in an hour. The price of your dinner will be one klipp, including Nihilitz, which goes on your bill.’
This was almost free, and so made him wary at taking advantage of it: ‘Why is it so cheap?’
‘That’s the official price,’ she said agreeably, ‘so please don’t argue. Nobody else does.’
‘I can’t understand it.’
‘Why try?’ she said, holding his hand which he had laid on the counter. ‘The beautiful town of Fludd extends a courteous welcome to all foreign travellers. You’d better go into the dining room now.’
‘I’d rather wash and change first,’ he said, being wet through with sweat and water, grimy, dishevelled, and mentally confused among the lights. She reassured him by saying that there was no formality or false pride in Fludd. The people were tolerant and understanding both of themselves and strangers. Fluddites lived in a light-hearted way, from one minute to the next. ‘In any case,’ she concluded, ‘you look quite presentable for our tastes.’
Several middle-aged couples talked at their tables in subdued tones, a composite mumble that did indeed give off an air of kindliness and mutual interest. An elderly waiter, immaculately dressed and with a white napkin over his arm, guided him in fatherly fashion to a separate table. A second waiter placed a glass, and a large bottle of Nihilitz before him, with the homily that, ‘A good drink will relax you, sir, and set your appetite on edge. It goes with the meal, anyway.’
‘Thank you,’ said Adam, picking up the menu. ‘Will you take my order now?’
‘I am only here to serve you, sir,’ said the waiter, notepad ready.
‘I’ll have fish to begin with, and I shall want it served directly. Is it sea fish, or lake fish?’
‘I can recommend the fish from the reservoir, sir,’ he said, opening the Nihilitz and pouring a glass for him. ‘What about the second course?’
‘I’ll try mutton cutlets, spinach and potatoes.’
‘Very good, sir.’ Adam drank half a glass of Nihilitz, and in a few minutes the fish came, decorated with parsley and sunk in butter sauce, accompanied by a straw platter of fresh-baked bread, so that after eating it he felt that his harrowing adventures of the day were only part of a very old dream. Halfway through a cigarette, the meat course arrived, and he bit hungrily, deciding to give a special mention to this agreeable establishment when the guidebook came to be written. Yet he was not totally at ease. Since entering Nihilon, he had learned to be suspicious about what happened to him, so that even now, in the midst of this considerate and superb treatment, he felt that much had still to be explained. Not that his appetite diminshed in any way, for after the meal he was still hungry, and ordered a further dish of braised pigeon and rice. This was followed by a dessert of monumental splendour, of incredible flavour and sweetness, which made the coffee taste like the best in the world. ‘I ought to let you go home now,’ he said, while choosing a large cigar.
‘Please stay as long as you like, sir,’ said the waiter. ‘I’m happy to be working. It keeps my mind off other things.’ He held a lighter to Adam’s cigar, who told himself that after his day’s tribulations (which had been rather minor ones, after all) he felt more content than he ever had in his life, which state was, now he thought of it, one of the real pleasures of travelling. ‘What things does it take your mind off?’ he asked languidly, blowing smoke across his empty dessert plate.
‘Just the town of Fludd.’
‘Seems a very nice place to me.’
The waiter poured himself a glass of Nihilitz. ‘It is, sir. It’s the best town in the country. None of us can deny that. We all love it. We’re deeply attached to it.’
Adam found him a fascinating old character.
‘What is it, then?’
‘It’s the dam, sir.’
‘Dam?’
The waiter drew up a chair and sat down, choosing a cigar and lighting it. ‘Don’t you know anything about Fludd?’
‘I just stumbled on it in the dark, as it were, though I knew of its existence by the map.’
The waiter leaned towards him, a thrill of fear in his eyes, the cigar trembling in his teeth: ‘Our town is built under the great walls of an unsafe dam.’
Adam almost choked on his own smoke: ‘Really?’
‘Yes, sir. It’s been completed for several months, but we’ve been expecting it to give way any moment ever since. Cracks were there while it was being opened by President Nil, and he and all his party couldn’t get away fast enough. They ran down the hill and back to their cars, top hats flying all over the place. If there was an election in Nihilon they wouldn’t be in power for long. It’s not that we are worried about the dam, but we can’t forgive them for running away.’
‘But why did they build a town under the dam?’
‘Most of it was here already, and they didn’t want to take it away. As soon as people realized what danger they were in, they decided to leave. But the government paid them treble wages, and made everything practically free. That’s why this hotel’s so cheap.’
‘How can you stay here, nevertheless?’ he asked, wanting to get on his bicycle and pedal out of the place at top speed.
‘Well, you see, sir, we’re all in a bit of a dilemma. We’re not only accustomed to the easier life, but we’ve got used to living in danger. If we were to leave – speaking for myself, and I know others feel the same – our lives would be empty. We wouldn’t know what to do. We’d be like dead people. Our lives wouldn’t be worth living. Yet at the same time we know that we’ll die if we stay here, because the dam is bound to give sooner or later, and sweep us all away. So we’re rather contemptuous of people who prefer to live in safety. At first, as you can imagine, it was difficult to sleep, not knowing when we’d drown. Men couldn’t even make love to their wives or girlfriends. But now, we live in the present, as it were, never thinking about tomorrow. It’s somehow made us all human again – you might say. I enjoy talking to you about it, sir. I feel noble at knowing that any moment the hotel walls could burst, and that would be the end of it all.’ He was sweating, and poured himself more Nihilitz. ‘Imagine living in safety!’ he said with great bravado and swagger, draining the liquor with trembling hands.
Adam, in despair, knocked his glass away: ‘Is it true? Or are you telling lies, you bloody old Nihilist?’
‘It’s true,’ the waiter said, standing up, in no way offended. ‘Come with me, and I’ll show you the cracks in the dam, with water beginning to trickle through. They’re lit up every night, and we Fluddites make it one of our favourite walks. We stroll there with our wives and loved ones, even children, to look at it and speculate on when it might break. There’s a café there, so we can split a bottle of Nihilitz together.’
Adam began to sweat: ‘You mean the inhabitants of this town don’t sleep?’
‘Not very much, sir. When they can, they do, but not often. There are thirty thousand inhabitants here, including cats and dogs.’
‘Cats and dogs?’
‘They were included in the last census, naturally.’
‘Why naturally?’
‘Because when the dam bursts the government can call it a really big disaster. We import cats and dogs, and breed them, so that the number of souls drowned will be high. They can claim a catastrophe, which will make sensational news, and say that Cronacian saboteurs blew the dam up, proclaim a national day
of mourning; and declare war. We’d really like to get the hotel full of tourists, if we can, so that we can then claim an international incident and gain the sympathy of foreign governments against those Cronacian bastards.’
‘What you are saying,’ Adam cried, feeling the day’s exhaustion pouring back into him twentyfold, ‘is that your government deliberately built the dam with faults in it so that when it collapses they can say Cronacia did it?’
‘I suppose that’s about the measure of it, sir,’ said the waiter with sad resignation.
He stood up, pushing his chair back with a clatter: ‘I’m going.’
‘Wouldn’t be much good, sir. The roads are closed by the militia every night. If you get out tomorrow you’ll be lucky. Depends on whether any more foreigners are coming up from the frontier to take your place. You look worn out, sir. Don’t you think you’d better get some sleep? I think I’ll try and snatch an hour or two. It’s nearly midnight.’
Adam sat for twenty minutes on his own, head bowed, and unaware of lights being put out around him. When someone tapped his shoulder he looked up and saw the attractive young girl from the reception desk. ‘Is it true about the dam?’
She smiled, showing small white teeth. ‘Yes. Is it true that you’re a poet, as it says in your passport?’
‘Yes.’
‘Come up to bed, then, and we’ll try and get some sleep. They’ll be shutting the hotel doors now.’ He insisted on wheeling his bicycle along the hall and into the lift, so as not to lose sight of it, he explained, because it was his only form of transport. He leaned it against the lift-wall as they ascended, and put his arms around her.
In the opulently furnished room, his bicycle rested against the wardrobe at the bottom of the bed. The girl undressed him, and then herself, but only after much coaxing was he able to make love. The central heating kept up a comfortable temperature in the room, and they rolled around on the covers, playing and loving for an hour, until they crawled exhausted between the sheets, and he fell asleep to the sound of heavy rain. Adam thought of Jaquiline Sulfer, whom he had promised to meet in Nihilon City, and whom he was vaguely aware of having betrayed, but his last thoughts were about the dam. He hoped it wouldn’t burst during the night, or indeed split in any way at all till he had cycled far away from it. He did not know why he stayed where he was, but he felt such awful fatigue that it was utterly impossible for him to stir even one foot towards getting up.