He opened his briefcase and found the official letter for the Nihilonian Ambassador which said that Mr Benjamin Smith, as a bona fide traveller to Nihilon, was to be admitted to the country and allowed to wander at will without let or hindrance. It was covered with stamps, seals, photographs, fingerprints, dates, and obscene marks of every colour and description. In tiny smudged print at the bottom was a statement saying that anyone disobeying these commands or rendering them null in any way would be shot by order of President Nil. This was a document that Benjamin had thought to use only in absolute necessity, but now that the music had stopped he pushed it towards the frontier guard, disturbing him in the act of filing his nails, for he considered it of vital importance that he should cross the frontier on the same date as Adam the poet, who had no doubt already done so near the coast, a hundred and sixty kilometres to the south.
The policeman looked at the paper closely, to show this supercilious traveller that he could read, and Benjamin got out of his car in case he should need help in its interpretation. Several minutes passed while the reading took place. Then the policemen’s face became blotched with rage, as he ripped the paper into small pieces, and threw them in the air so that they were scattered by the wind back towards Cronacia. ‘Why did you do that?’ Benjamin demanded.
The policeman drew himself to his full height, and stuck out his chest proudly. ‘Because I’m a Nihilist, you Red Fascist Pirate, that’s why.’
‘Oh, are you?’ Benjamin cried, and gave him a great blow in the stomach, then punched him so violently in the jaw that the policeman went sprawling across the pavement. Panting with rage, he stood ready to hit him again should he try to get up, or to fight anyone else who might attempt to arrest him. But the few onlookers smiled, fellow policemen and local cleaners, who obviously thought he had acted properly. The policeman, with a look of tearful despair as he lay on the ground, wearily waved him on.
This is obviously the thing to do, thought Benjamin, as he hurriedly started his car and moved forward. I’m learning once again how to behave in this cesspool of President Nil.
Chapter 3
Adam remembered that ice-maps of the Alpine regions had been prepared by the cartographic staff of the guidebook, but he had not been allowed by the General Editor to bring them with him. This was just as well, for they were no doubt totally inaccurate, and in any case he had no intention of cycling through mountain country if he could help it, much less on ice and snow. His only desire at the moment was to get clear of the too sensitive frontier and find the soldier who had unwittingly taken his one means of sustenance and locomotion.
A short distance from the border, when the sun was drawing sweat through his vest and into his jacket, and his feet were beginning to ache, and also his arms from the effort of carrying the rifle, he entered an area where the road and its confines were an overlapping spread of craters. Between the trees he saw a solitary soldier lying on the lip of one, a stream of ochred blood colouring the soil by his left boot. The face was turned sideways, and going close, Adam recognized it as that of the soldier who had taken his bicycle – which he now saw lying under a tree, unharmed, both panniers intact.
The soldier was still alive, and looked at him: ‘Help me,’ he said, trying to smile from behind his shield of pain. Adam opened the panniers to make doubly sure that everything was still there. Then he went back to the soldier, who by this time had crawled from the shell hole and lay on the flat earth under a tree. He was trying to speak, so Adam gave him a drink of water, hoping he might say something that would be useful for his guidebook. When he put his ear close, the soldier whispered into it: ‘Long live nihilism,’ then fell back dead.
On examining the rifle more closely Adam noticed that the butt was hollow, and, pressing part of it, the steel cap fell on to his hand. He took out a tightly folded map, and put it into his pocket without opening it, then threw the rifle into one of the shell holes.
Trudging along the road with his bicycle, he did not consider what had so far happened to be the best introduction to Nihilon. Of course, frontier skirmishes took place every day, for what border could be more nervous than that of a nihilistic country? And also, no doubt, soldiers died in them, but he felt it would have been better if he could have made his entrance without this onus on his soul. It’s all part of life, he mused, and there’s not much anybody can do about it, above all in a Nihilon.
Birds sang from the trees, which was an improvement, especially when he reached level ground and was able to ride his bicycle. The road went down into a wooded valley, and a fine cantilever bridge at the bottom crossed the spinning roar of the river. He leaned over the parapet to get some of the cool air sprayed from below, then took the fieldbook from his jacket pocket and noted that the road so far had been well paved, though he made no reference to the unfortunate incident at the frontier, sounds of which rolled like thunder behind him. It was once more necessary to push the laden bicycle, for the road went uphill.
He had not eaten since breakfast, and thought that any wayside shack selling bread and drink would be useful to him at this moment, in spite of the clear and beautiful landscape that was beginning to inspire his soul. An old woman blocked his way and asked for money, but when he said that he hadn’t any Nihilon cash, she retorted that a cigarette would do, since he was so destitute. He was happy to meet someone as human as a beggar, and in spite of her insults he gave her two. But when he wanted to go on she stood stolidly blowing smoke from her toothless mouth, and would not let him pass.
‘What do you want?’ he asked.
‘Nothing,’ she said.
‘Who are you, then?’
‘I’m a scout,’ she answered, ‘from a battalion of old-age pensioners being sent to fight in the war. We’re glad to die for our country, you know.’ She gripped the lapel of his jacket, as if wanting to take that too, but he pushed his bicycle around her, thinking she was far gone in senility, and pedalled away.
After another three kilometres he saw a building by the roadside displaying the notice PARADISE BAR above the doors. A further advertisement regarding its functions was painted on a nearby billboard: ‘Last chance to eat before the front.’ The final word had at one time been ‘frontier’ but the ultimate three letters had recently been erased, probably in the last hour. It was a clean-looking, respectable, two-storied dwelling, with a lower floor made of overlapping planks of wood, and an upper portion of solid concrete.
Adam would not have entered this criminally top-heavy structure on a stormy day, but since the air was still enough he decided to go in and get something to eat. A score of tables on the terrace outside were occupied by crowds of old men, some sitting on the steps, others on the ground or stools, or leaning against the actual walls of the unsafe building. A few stayed at the edge of the throng in wheelchairs, and looked as if they had a very uncertain hold on life. But all had rifles, and ammunition belts around their jackets. Bugles and small flags were distributed among them, and many had folded overcoats by their feet, and shopping baskets with packets of food spilling out. Those dressed in city suits, with smart moustaches and clipped hair, watch-chains curving from their waistcoats, sipped small cups of black coffee and smoked cigarettes or thin cigars. Other men wore smocks and cloaks, had beards and cropped hair, took pipes from between their teeth so that they could drink out of huge glasses of beer. Some were merry and loud in their jokes, while others were reflective and dignified, making casual quiet remarks to each other. A few glanced at the sky as if it might rain, but others had no thought except to eat and drink their fill while they could. All seemed to have some set purpose in their eyes.
He stepped respectfully between them and went into the building itself. Part of the main room was cordoned off as a dining saloon, and that, too, was full of old men with their rifles and equipment. Waiters ran among them taking orders, and Adam noticed that they asked for money when they put the beer or food down, as if their customers might be dead before they could collect it in th
e normal course of time.
He leaned on the counter and asked the barman for a glass of milk and a sandwich. He thought this would be sufficient for his lunch, but went on to consume twice that amount before his hunger was satisfied. It was harder work cycling in Nihilon than on his practice runs before departure.
‘Going far?’ the red-faced, harassed, hysterical, youngish barman demanded curtly, snatching his plate away, though there was still a piece of his final sandwich left on it.
‘Nihilon City.’
‘By Zap?’
‘What’s Zap?’
‘A Zap sports car. You’re a foreigner by the sound of it.’
‘I am,’ he admitted, half sad and half proud.
‘Do you like nihilism?’
‘I don’t know, yet.’
‘Don’t let any of these Geriatrics hear you say that. They love nihilism. Ready to die for it. They’re going to, what’s more. Tear you limb from limb if they hear you so cool on it. I wouldn’t blame them either.’ He held out his hand: ‘You’d better pay for your lunch, and be off. Forty-two klipps, and I want it now.’
Adam took a travellers unit from his wallet, worth a hundred klipps at the present rate of exchange. ‘I’ll be glad to go.’
‘I can’t accept that,’ the barman said. ‘You should have changed it at the frontier. Or you can wait till you get to the next town, which should be the day after tomorrow if you haven’t got a Zap. Do you want to buy a Zap?’
‘I’d like to pay for my lunch and leave.’
‘Go on,’ he wheedled, ‘buy a Zap. Be a Nihilist.’
‘Who do I buy it from?’
‘One of the old folk. The Gerries. They’re off to the frontier – front, I mean. Most of ’em have Zaps, and I suppose they wouldn’t be averse to letting one go to a foreigner like yourself. Won’t cost much. I get a commission, you see, on all secondhand Zaps sold at the Paradise Bar. I’ve got a wife and four kids, so I need every klipp I can get.’
Adam pushed his travellers unit across the counter. ‘I’d like to pay and go now.’
‘I’ve told you, I can’t take it,’ snapped the barman.
‘I’ll leave without paying, then.’
The bartender laughed, hysterically. ‘Try it! Go on, try it!’
And old man, frail and thin, wearing a suit, a red cravat, and a white flower at his lapel, strolled from a nearby table, a rifle hanging at his shoulder by a sling.
‘Are you in trouble, young man?’ He appeared to be the most civilized person Adam had met since crossing the frontier, and possibly for a long time before that, with pale-blue eyes, ironic and sensitive lips and fine hands that had perhaps written books or painted pictures. His brow seemed marked with sound ideas, and crowned a face that must have made women happy to be near him and listen to any word he said. He looked about eighty years of age, and the softening effect of so much wisdom and experience seemed even to lurk in the faint waves of his thick grey hair.
‘No trouble,’ said Adam, taking him for a friendly spirit, though he was somewhat puzzled by the rifle. The old man relinquished it, the butt rattling as it hit the floor close to Adam’s feet, and leaned it against the counter. ‘I simply want to pay for my lunch with this travellers unit, and go.’
The old man ceased to smile. ‘To want something is not good nihilism. What you want, you never get. To do – that is the way to nihilism. I can tell you’re a stranger to our country. When you do something, you get something, but not until.’
‘I’m only a tourist.’
‘No man is a tourist,’ he said, his features taking on a harshness that Adam hadn’t read into them at first. The bartender leaned on the counter, entranced at every word from the old man, a fascination expressed mostly by an inane grin. ‘Life is the same wherever you are. It is hard in Nihilon, so why shouldn’t tourists have to fight in order to exist, the same as we do? Much of my life I’ve worked as a poet in order to contribute to Nihilon’s unique civilization. I’m an old poet now, but rhymes still rattle their way into my head.’
‘I’m a poet as well,’ Adam interrupted him, glad that he should have something in common with this fine old man. But the man stared at him coldly: ‘You may think you’re a poet,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t say you were, you liar!’
‘I’ve had several books published,’ Adam said, still trying to smile, though sorry he hadn’t one of the volumes with him so that he could present it to his friend.
‘You aren’t a poet,’ the old man cried. ‘If you say you are, you’re a fraud, an imposter, a saboteur, a renegade, a Cronacian spy!’
Adam stepped away, appalled at this unjust attack. The barman picked up a beer mug to smash his head in for offending the old man, but the old man told him sharply to put it down, then apologized to Adam: ‘He’s a fool, you see. Always attacking people, and I can’t stand it, being a poet. However, just listen to my latest composition.
Freedom’s fight is my last bride
And Nihilon is by my side.
My last sight shall be the sky
For geriatrics never die.
I composed it for this march, and we old Gerries (as the young affectionately call us) will sing it as an anthem when we charge into the Cronacian scum.’
‘You see,’ he went on, ‘in this country we don’t send our young and able-bodied men to fight. Why should they waste their time? They’re too busy working for Nihilon, building it up and breeding children. The principles of rational nihilism never let you down. Since the old have to die anyway, they are sent into battle. Of course, there are disadvantages. Though there is a certain amount of dash, and a great deal of ferocious guts in us Gerries, there can’t be much question of a decisive breakthrough into Cronacia, because we’re never able to keep up the push for long. Nevertheless, when we storm down the hill towards the Cronacian outposts in brigade column, we put the fear of the devil into them, with flags fluttering, trumpets sounding, and the shrill scream of our throats. I haven’t been in a charge yet, but I know what it’s like because the fighting we Gerries do is shown all over the country on television and in the cinemas. I’ve often sat up most of the night at the rest home, cheering them on. The glory won’t go unrecorded, and that makes a difference, because our actions are shown to the young fellows and others who stay at home praising our courage and tactics, and who only wait for the day when they’ll be old enough to have a go. So I shall be there tomorrow morning, because we’re going to deal such a blow against the Cronacians that they won’t forget it in a hurry. We’ll teach them a lesson for the shooting they started this morning. We were called from our rest homes further up the valley as soon as the news came through. Oh yes, we’ll show those pirates. You’ll hear what we do to them. Do you want to see President Nil’s Atrocity Recommendations?’
He fumbled in his pocket to try and find this revealing document, but then began to cough, bent over till the skin of his skull went red, right to the roots of his grey hair. The bartender had listened with tears streaming down his cheeks, and on seeing Adam again, he stopped weeping and grabbed his collar, saying with a ferocious cry:
‘Pay up!’
The old man righted himself, forgetting his search for the piece of paper. ‘How much does he owe?’ he gasped.
‘Sixty-two klipps, sir.’
Adam pulled his travellers unit back across the counter: ‘You said forty-two a few minutes ago.’
‘He means well,’ the old man said to Adam, leaning over and straightening the bartender’s tie. He picked up the travellers unit, put on a monocle, and held it to the light. ‘Change it for him,’ he snapped.
‘Certainly, sir,’ said the bartender. He took the note, put it into the till, and stood by the mirror with arms folded.
‘My change,’ said Adam, after waiting for him to give it back.
‘Sixty-two klipps to the unit,’ said the bartender.
‘It’s a hundred,’ Adam shouted. The old man looked on in disapproval.
‘Certainly,
’ conceded the bartender, ‘that’s what you get at the bank. But here it’s sixty-two. Sixty really, but I’m not going to argue about the other two. Economy is frowned upon in Nihilon, especially among tourists.’
‘You’d better accept it,’ the old man said to Adam.
‘But it’s ridiculous,’ he complained.
‘Life is,’ sighed the old man, picking up his rifle and sliding a bullet into the magazine.
Adam walked away from the bar, sensing danger. On reaching the door he turned for a moment to see the old man and the bartender bent over the counter, dividing a heap of coin between them, which no doubt should have been his change. He hurried outside, anxious once more for the safety of his bicycle.
Chapter 4
Jaquiline Sulfer, the only female member of our guidebook staff, knew that the first-class luxury express trains of Nihilon travelled at twenty kilometres per hour. Popular trains, on the other hand, went at eighty kilometres an hour, since if one wanted speed, one was expected to pay for it by discomfort, because popular trains had hard seats and no sides, and the railway line after the passage of such a train was littered with people and their belongings that had fallen off. Popular trains were frequently ambushed and de-railed either by political dissidents, or by railway employees who did not like their work. Only the poor, or the jaded rich in search of thrills, travelled by popular trains because they were cheaper and got them there sooner. Popular trains (known as ‘fast trains’) went on a narrower gauge of rail than slow express trains, and were sent on more circuitous routes through topographically difficult country – though those passengers who survived made the journey from the northern frontier to Nihilon City in less than half the time of those who travelled by the Grand Nihilon First Class Slow Luxury Wide-Gauge Bed-and-Board Express.
Jaquiline had gathered this elaborate matter on the division of trains from someone who had taken a holiday to Nihilon a few years ago. She worked at that time for an eminent psychiatrist, and had transcribed tape-recordings which he had made at the bedside of a so-called psychotic patient, whose pathetic condition was ascribed to his Nihilon vacation. She now remembered his information word for word, without knowing why, and so was determined to make sure, after crossing the frontier, to get a ticket for the correct train.