TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN BY

Alice Stone Nakhimovsky and Alexander Nakhimovsky



Arkady Strugaisky and Boris Strugaisky
                                     COLLIER BOOKS A Division of Macmillan Publishing Co., Inc.
                                                                                                                      New York
          COLLIER MACMILLAN PUBLISHERS
                                                                                                                         London

Copyright © 1979 by Macmillan Publishing Co., Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the
Publisher.
Macmillan Publishing Co., Inc.
866 Third Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10022
Collier Macmillan Canada, Ltd.

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Strugafskff, Arkadii Natanovich. The ugly swans.
     Translation of Gadkie lebedi.
     I. Strugafskii, Boris Natanovich, joint author. II. Title.
PZ 4.S9i 9Ug 1980 [PG3476.S78835] 891.7Y44
ISBN 0-02-007240-6                               79-21366

First Collier Books Edition 1980 Printed in the United States of America

scanned by AlexQ


        Chapter I


Irma left the room, carefully closing the door behind her. She was a thin, long-legged girl with a wide mouth
and her mother's red lips; she smiled politely, like an adult. When she had gone, Victor attacked his
cigarette. "That's no child," he thought, stunned. "Children don't talk like that. It's not even rudeness, it's
cruelty, no, not even cruelty—she simply doesn't care. You'd think she was proving some theorem to us.
She made her cal-culations, completed her analysis, and duly communicated the results. And then she left,
serenely swinging her pigtails."
    Victor got over his uneasiness and looked at Lola. Her face had broken out in red spots. Her red lips
trembled as if she were about to cry, but of course she had no intention of crying; she was furious.
    "You see," she said in a high voice. "A little snot-nosed bitch. Nothing's sacred to her, every word is an
insult—as if I weren't her mother but a doormat for her to wipe her feet on. I can't face the neighbors. The
little brat."
    "Right," thought Victor. "I lived with this woman. I went for walks with her in the mountains, I read
 Baudelaire to her, I trembled when I touched her, I remembered her fragrance. I even got into fights over
 her. To this day I don't understand what was going through her mind when I read her Baudelaire. No, it's
 just amazing that I managed to get away from her. It boggles the mind—how did she let me? No doubt I
 wasn't any prize myself. No doubt I'm still no prize, but in those days I
                                                                   i
     2 The Ugly Swans

drank even more than I do now, and, what's worse, I con-
sidered myself a great poet "
   "Of course, this wouldn't mean anything to you, how could it?" Lola was saying. "Big city life, ballerinas,
actresses ... I know everything. Don't think that people here don't know. Your money, and your mistresses,
and the constant scandals. If you want to know the truth, I'm completely indifferent to all of it. I haven't
bothered you, you lived the way you wanted to."
   ". . . the thing that spoils her is that she talks a lot. When she was younger she was quiet, reticent,
mysterious. There are women who know from birth how to carry themselves. She knew. In fact, she's not
so bad now, either. When, for example, she sits on the couch holding a cigarette, silent, her knees on
display. ... Or when she suddenly puts her hands behind her head and stretches. A provincial lawyer would
be terribly im-pressed by it." Victor imagined a comfortable t6te-a-t£te: an end table next to the couch, a
bottle, champagne fizzing in crystal glasses, a box of chocolates tied up with a ribbon, and the lawyer
himself, all starched up and wearing a bow tie. Every-thing just as it's supposed to be, and then Irma walks
in. "Aw-ful," thought Victor. "She must be really unhappy."
   "I shouldn't have to explain to you," Lola was saying, "that it's not a matter of money. Money won't help
now." She had already calmed down; the red spots had disappeared. "I know in your own way you're an
honest man, capricious and dis-organized, but not mean. You've always helped us financially and in this
respect I'm not making any demands on you. But now I need a different sort of help. ... I can't say I'm
happy, but you never succeeded in making me unhappy either. You have your life, and I have mine. I'm still
young, you know, I still have a lot ahead of me."
    "I'll have to take the child," thought Victor. "Apparently she's already decided everything. If Irma stays
 here, it'll be sheer hell. All right, but what will I do with her? Let's be honest," he said to himself. "You have
 to be honest here, these aren't toys
                                            The Ugly Swans 3

we're playing with." He very honestly recalled his life in the capital. "Bad," he thought. "Of course, I can
always get a housekeeper. That means renting an apartment. But that's be-side the point. She has to be
with me, not with a housekeeper. They say that the best children are the ones brought up by their fathers.
And I like her, even though she's very strange. And anyway, it's my duty. As an honest man, as a father.
And I feel guilty about her. But all this is playacting. What if I'm really honest? If I'm really honest, then I
have to admit that I'm frightened. Because she's going to stand in front of me, smiling like an adult with her
wide mouth, and what will I be able to tell her? Read, read more, read every day, you don't have to do
anything else, just read. She knows that without me, and I have nothing else to say to her. Which is why I'm
frightened. But that's not completely honest either. I don't feel like it, that's what it is. I'm used to being
alone. I like being alone. I don't want it any other way. That's the way it looks, if I'm honest. It looks
disgusting, like any other truth. It looks cynical, egotistical, and low. If I'm honest."
   "Why aren't you saying anything?" asked Lola. "Are you planning to just sit there and not say anything?"
   "No, no, I'm listening," said Victor, hastily.
   "Listening to what? I've been waiting half an hour for you to deign to respond. After all, I'm not her only
parent...."
   "Do I have to be honest with her too?" thought Victor. "She's about the last person in the world I want to
be honest with. Apparently she's decided that I can settle that sort of question right here, not leaving my
seat, between cigarettes."
   "Get it into your head," said Lola, "I'm not saying that you should take her. I'm well aware that you
wouldn't, and thank God you wouldn't, you're no good at it. But you have connec-tions, friends, you've still
got a name. Help me set her up some-where. There are exclusive schools, boarding schools, special
in-stitutes. After all, she's talented; she's got a gift for languages, and math, and music."
       4 The Ugly Swans

   "A boarding school," said Victor. "Yes, of course. An orphan-
age _ No, I'm not serious. It's worth thinking about."
   "What's there to think about? Most people would be glad to put their children in a good boarding school
or special insti-tute. Our boss's wife—"
   "Listen, Lola," said Victor. "It's a good idea, I'll try and do something. But it's not that simple, it takes
time. Of course I'll write—"
  "You'll write! That's just like you. It's not writing you have to do, you have to go there, ask in person,
beat down doors. You're not doing anything anyway! All you do is drink and hang out with sluts. Is it really
that difficult, for the sake of your own daughter?"
  "Oh, damn," thought Victor, "try and explain things to her." He lit another cigarette, stood, and walked
around the room. Outside it was getting dark. As before, the rain was coming down in large drops, heavy
and patient. There was a lot of it and it clearly wasn't hurrying anywhere.
  "God, am I sick of you," said Lola with unexpected spite. "If only you knew how sick I am of you."
  "Time to go," thought Victor. "It's starting in—sacred ma-ternal wrath, the fury of the abandoned, and so
forth. At any rate, I can't give her an answer today. And I'm not making any promises."
  "I can't count on you for anything," she was saying. "A worthless husband, a talentless father—one of
your popular writers. Couldn't bring up his own daughter. Any peasant un-derstands people better than you
do. Just what am I supposed to do now? You're no help. I'm knocking myself out all alone, and I can't get
anywhere. To her I'm a nothing, a zero; any slimy is a hundred times more important to her than I am.
Never mind, you'll find out. And if you don't teach her, then they will. Pretty soon, she'll be spitting in your
face the way she does with me."
   "Drop it, Lola," said Victor, wincing. "Somehow, you know,
                                        The Ugly Swans 5

you're _ I'm her father, true, but, after all, you're her mother.
You're throwing the blame on everybody else."
   "Get out," she said.
   "Look," said Victor. "I have no intention of quarreling with you. But I also have no intention of making
rash decisions. I'll think it over. And you—"
   She was standing stiffly erect, all but trembling, savoring the intended rebuke and anticipating her
entrance into the fray.
   "And you," he said quietly, "try not to worry. We'll think up something. I'll call you."
   He walked out into the foyer and put on his raincoat. The raincoat was still wet. Victor went into Irma's
room to say good-bye, but she wasn't there. The window was wide open, and rain beat down on the
windowsill. A sign in big red letters was hanging on the wall: "Please don't ever close the win-dow." The
sign was wrinkled, with dark stains on it and frayed edges, as if it had been torn down more than once and
trampled underfoot. Victor closed the door softly.
   "Good-bye, Lola," he said. Lola didn't answer.
   Outside it was already dark. Rain drummed on his shoulders and the hood of his raincoat. Victor bent
over and dug his hands deeper into his pockets. "This is the park where we kissed for the first time," he
thought. "This house wasn't built yet, there was just an empty lot, and behind the lot was a gar-bage
dump—we used to go after cats there with slingshots. There used to be a hell of a lot of cats in this town
and now for some reason I never see any at all. In those days we never opened a goddamned book, and
now Irma has a roomful of them. What was a twelve-year-old girl in my time? A freckled giggler. Snow
White, ribbons and dolls, pictures of bunnies, whispering in twos and threes, paper cones full of candy, bad
teeth. Goody-goodies and tattletales, but the best of them were like us: scraped knees, wild bobcat eyes,
masters of kicks in the shin.
    "So the times have finally changed, have they? No," he
      6 The Ugly Swans

thought. "It's not the times. That is, it's the times too, of course. Or maybe I've got a prodigy on my hands.
There are such things as prodigies, after all, and I am the father of one. An honor, but a bother, and more
of a bother than an honor—in fact, it's no honor at all. ... I always liked this alley because it's so narrow.
And wouldn't you know it, there's a fight. We just can't get along without fights, without fights we simply
can't manage. Since time immemorial. And two against one."
   There was a streetlight at the corner. A car with a canvas top dripped in the rain at the edge of the
illuminated space. Next to the car two men in shining raincoats were forcing a third one, wearing something
black and wet, down to the gutter. The three of them were stumbling along the cobblestones, awkward and
strained. Victor stopped short, then moved closer. It wasn't clear exactly what was going on. It didn't look
like a fight—no one was throwing any punches. Even less did it look like a scuffle from an excess of
youthful energy—there was no wild whooping and braying. Suddenly the one in black, trying to tear himself
free, fell on his back. The pair in raincoats jumped on top of him. Victor noticed that the doors of the car
were wide open; either they had just dragged the one in black out of it, or they were trying to shove him in.
Victor went up close to them and barked, "Stop!"
  The pair in raincoats turned. For a split second they stared at Victor from under their pulled-up hoods.
Victor noticed only that they were both young and that they were panting from the strain. Then with
unbelievable speed they dove into the car, slammed the doors, and sped off into the darkness. The man in
black slowly lifted himself up. Victor looked at him and took a step backward. It was a patient from the
lep-rosarium—a "slimy," or "four-eyes" as they were sometimes called because of the yellow circles that
rimmed their eyes like eyeglasses. The lower half of his face was completely covered by a black bandage.
He was breathing heavily and painfully; vestiges of eyebrows were raised in a look of suffering. Water
streamed down his bald head.
                                       The Ugly Swans 7

   "What happened?" said Victor.
   The four-eyes wasn't looking at him, but past him. His pupils widened. Victor wanted to turn around, but
at that moment something hit him in the back of the head.
   When he came to, he found himself lying face up under a drain pipe. Water was gushing into his mouth;
it was warm and tasted rusty. Spluttering and coughing, he moved away and sat up with his back against
the brick wall. Water that had col-lected in his hood poured under his collar and trickled down his body.
Bells, horns, and drums reverberated in his head. Through the noise, Victor made out a thin, dark face in
front of him. A boy's face. Familiar. "I've seen him somewhere. Be-fore my jaws got smashed together."
He moved his tongue around and shifted his jaw. His teeth were okay. The boy col-lected a handful of
water from the pipe and splashed him in the face.
    "Thanks, pal," said Victor. "That's enough."
    "I thought that you still hadn't regained consciousness," the boy said seriously.
   Carefully, Victor placed his hand under his hood and felt the back of his head. There was a
lump—nothing terrible, no shattered bones, not even any blood.
    "Who got me?" he asked, thoughtfully. "Not you, I hope."
    "Will you be able to walk by yourself, Mr. Banev?" the boy asked. "Or should I call someone? The truth
is, you're too heavy for me."
   Victor remembered who it was.
    "I know you," he said. "You're Bol-Kunats, my daughter's friend."
    "Yes," said the boy.
    "Fine. No need to call anyone and no need to say anything to anyone. Let's just sit here for a minute and
 pull ourselves together."
    Now he could see that Bol-Kunats wasn't completely all right either. There was a fresh gash on his
 cheek, and his upper lip was swollen and bleeding.
        8 The Ugly Swans

  "I think I'd better call someone," said Bol-Kunats.
  "Why should you?"
  "The truth is, Mr. Banev, I don't like the way your face is twitching."
  "Really?" Victor felt his face. It wasn't twitching. "It just seems that way to you. So. Now we're going to
get up. What is essential in order to get up? In order to get up, it is essential to pull your feet in under you."
He pulled in his feet, which did not quite seem to belong to him. "Next, moving slightly away from the wall,
shift the center of gravity in the following manner." He couldn't manage to shift his center of gravity;
something was holding him back. "How did they do it?" he thought. "A good job, really."
  "You're stepping on your raincoat," the boy offered, but Victor had already unraveled the mysteries of his
arms, his legs, his raincoat, and the orchestra under his skull. He stood up. At first he had to support himself
against the wall, but then it got better.
  "Aha," he said. "So you pulled me over here, up to the pipe. Thanks."
  The streetlight was still there, but the car and the four-eyes were gone. Everybody was gone. Only little
Bol-Kunats was carefully stroking his cut with a wet hand.
  "Where could they have gone?" asked Victor.
  The boy didn't answer.
   "Was I here by myself?" asked Victor. "Nobody else was around?"
   "Let me accompany you," said Bol-Kunats. "Where would you prefer to go? Home?"
   "Wait," said Victor. "Did you see how they wanted to make off with that four-eyes?"
   "I saw someone hit you."
  "Who did it?"
  "I couldn't tell. His back was to me."
  "And where were you?"
  "The truth is, I was lying there around the corner."
                                       The Ugly Swam 9

   "I don't get it," said Victor. "Or maybe it's my head. What were you doing lying around the corner? You
live there?"
   "The truth is, I was lying there because they got me even before they got you. Not the same one that got
you; another one."
   "The four-eyes?"
   They were walking slowly, trying to keep to the roadway and avoid the runoff from the roofs.
   "N-no," said Bol-Kunats, thinking. "I don't think any of them were wearing glasses."
   "Oh, God," said Victor. He put his hand under his hood and felt his lump. "I'm talking about the lepers,
people call them four-eyes. You know, from the leprosarium? Slimies—"
   "I don't know," said Bol-Kunats shortly. "In my opinion they were all perfectly healthy."
   "Come on," said Victor. He felt a little uneasy and even stopped. "Are you trying to convince me that
there wasn't a leper there? Wearing a black bandage, dressed all in black?"
   "That's no leper!" said Bol-Kunats with unexpected vehe-mence. "He's healthier than you are."
   For the first time, something boyish had appeared in him. It disappeared immediately.
   "I don't quite understand where we're going," he said after a short silence, in his former serious, almost
impassive tone. "At first it seemed as though you were going home, but now I see that we're walking in the
opposite direction."
   Victor was still standing in place, looking down at him. "Two peas in a pod," he thought. "He made his
calculations, completed his analysis, but decided not to communicate the results. So he's not going to tell me
what happened. I wonder why not. Was it a crime? No, not likely. But maybe it was? Times have changed,
you know. Nonsense, I know what crim-inals are like nowadays."
   "Everything is under control," he said and started walking. "We're going to the hotel, I live there."
   The boy walked next to him, stiff, severe, and wet. Victor
       io The Ugly Swans

overcame a certain indecisiveness and put his hand on the boy's shoulder. Nothing special happened; the
boy tolerated it. Al-though, most likely, he'd simply decided that his shoulder was needed for utilitarian
purposes, to hold up someone in shock.
  "I must say," remarked Victor in his most confiding tone, "that you and Irma have a very strange way of
expressing your-selves. When we were kids we didn't talk that way."
  "Really?" said Bol-Kunats politely. "And how did you talk?"
  "Well, for example, with us your question would have sounded something like this: Whaaa?"
  Bol-Kunats shrugged his shoulders. "Do you mean to say that it would be better like that?"
  "God forbid! I only meant that it would be more natural."
  "It is precisely that which is most natural," Bol-Kunats ob-served, "that is least fitting for man."
  Victor felt a chill deep inside himself. An uneasiness. Or even fear. As if a cat had laughed in his face.
  "The natural is always primitive," Bol-Kunats continued. "But man is a complex being, and naturalness is
not becoming to him. Do you understand me, Mr. Banev?"
  "Yes," said Victor. "Of course."
  There was something incredibly false in the fatherly way he had placed his hand on the shoulder of this
boy, who wasn't a boy. His elbow even began to ache. He carefully removed his hand and put it in his
pocket.
  "How old are you?" he asked.
  "Fourteen," said Bol-Kunats absentmindedly.
  "Oh."
  Any ordinary boy in Bol-Kunats's place would have certainly been intrigued by the irritatingly indefinite
"oh," but Bol-Kunats was not an ordinary boy. He said nothing. Intriguing interjections left him cold. He
was reflecting on the interrela-tionship of the natural and the primitive in nature and society. He regretted
having come upon such an unintelligent com-panion, the more so one who'd just been hit over the head.
                                       The Ugly Swam 11
    They came out onto the Avenue of the President. Here there were many streetlights, and pedestrians,
men and women hunched up under the incessant rain, hurried past. Store win-dows were lit up, and under
an awning by the neon-bathed entrance to a movie house stood a crowd of young people of indeterminate
sex, in shining raincoats down to their heels. And above everything, through the rain, shone incantations in
blue and gold: "Our President is the Father of His People," "The Legionnaire of Freedom is the True Son of
the President," "The Army is Our Awesome Glory."
    Out of inertia they continued to walk in the roadway. A passing car honked and chased them back onto
the sidewalk, splashing them with dirty water.
    "And I thought you were about eighteen," said Victor.
    "Whaa?" asked Bel-Kunats in a repulsive voice, and Victor laughed, relieved. All the same, this was a
boy, one of your ordinary prodigies who had devoured Geibor, Zurzmansor, Fromm, and maybe even coped
with Spengler.
    "When I was a kid," said Victor, "I had a friend who got the idea of reading Hegel in the original. He did
it, but he turned into a schizophrenic. At your age, you undoubtedly know what a schizophrenic is."
    "Yes, I know," said Bol-Kunats.
    "And you're not afraid?"
    "No."
    They reached the hotel.
    "Maybe you'll come up to my room and dry off?" proposed Victor.
    "Thank you. I was just about to ask your permission to come up. First of all, there is something I have to
 tell you, and sec-ond, I have to make a telephone call. You don't object?"
    Victor didn't object. They went through the revolving door past the doorman, who took off his cap to
 Victor, past the sumptuous statues with their electric candelabra, and into the completely empty vestibule,
 permeated with odors from the
        12 The Ugly Swans

restaurant. Victor felt a familiar excitement. He anticipated the coming evening, when he would be able to
drink and shoot his mouth off irresponsibly and shove off onto tomorrow all of today's leftover irritations.
He looked forward to seeing Yul Golem and Dr. R. Quadriga. "And maybe I'll meet someone else, and
maybe something will happen—there'll be a fight, or I'll get an idea for a story. Tonight I think I'll have
some mari-nated eel, and everything will be just fine, and I'll take the last bus to Diana's."
   While Victor was getting his keys from the porter, a con-versation started behind his back. Bol-Kunats
was talking with the doorman.
   "What the hell are you doing here," hissed the doorman, "hanging around restaurants?"
   "I am having a conversation with Mr. Banev," said Bol-Ku-nats. "The restaurant does not interest me."
   "As if a restaurant could interest you, you little punk. In one minute I'll send you packing."
   Victor got his key and turned around. "Uh," he said. He had forgotten the doorman's name. "The young
fellow's with me, everything's okay."
   The doorman didn't answer, but he was obviously annoyed.
   They went up to his room. With great enjoyment, Victor threw off his raincoat and bent over to untie his
soggy shoes. The blood went to his head, and he felt painful, intermittent throbs coming from the vicinity of
his lump. The lump itself was heavy and round, like a leaden egg. He straightened out immediately and,
holding onto the doorjamb, pushed off one shoe with his other foot. Bol-Kunats stood next to him, drip-ping
wet.
   "Take off your things," said Victor. "Hang everything on the radiator, I'll get you a towel."
   "If you don't object, I'll make a phone call," said Bol-Kunats, not budging from the spot.
   "Go to it." Victor kicked off his other shoe and went to the
                                        The Ugly Swans 13

bathroom in his wet socks. Undressing, he could hear the boy talking quietly and calmly. He couldn't make
anything out. Only once, the boy said loudly and clearly, "I don't know." Victor rubbed himself dry and
threw on a robe. He found a clean bath towel and went back into the room.
   "This is for you," he said and saw immediately that there was no need for it. As before, Bol-Kunats was
standing by the door, and as before he was dripping wet.
   "Thank you," he said. "The truth is, I have to be going. There's just one more thing I'd like to—"
   "You'll come down with a cold," said Victor.
  "No, don't worry, thank you. I won't come down with a cold. There's just one more matter I'd like to
clarify with you. Irma hasn't told you anything?"
   Victor threw the bath towel on the couch, squatted down in front of the liquor cabinet, and pulled out a
bottle and a glass.
   "Irma has told me a lot of things," he answered rather sul-lenly. He poured some gin into the glass.
   "She didn't pass on our invitation?"
   "No. She didn't pass on any invitations. Here, have a drink."
   "Thank you, I'd rather not. Since she didn't tell you, then I will. We would like to meet with you, Mr.
Banev."
   "Who's 'we'?"
   "The pupils of our school. The truth is, we have read your books and would like to ask you a few
questions."
   "Hm," said Victor doubtfully. "You're sure that everybody would be interested in this?"
   "I think so."
   "I don't exactly write for middle-school students," Victor reminded him.
   "That doesn't matter," said Bol-Kunats with gentle persis-tence. "Will you accept?"
   Victor thoughtfully stirred the transparent liquid in his glass.
   "Maybe you'll have some anyway?" he asked. "Best way to avoid a cold. No? Then I will." He downed
the glass. "All right,
       14 The Ugly Swans

I accept. Only no posters, no announcements. A small group. You and your friends, and me. When will it
be?"
    "Whenever it's convenient for you. It would be best to have it this week. In the morning."
    "Let's say two days from now. Only not too early. Let's say Friday at eleven. Is that all right with you?"
    "Yes. Friday at eleven, at the school. Should we remind you?"
    "By all means," said Victor. "I always do my best to forget about soirees and banquets, not to mention
meetings, recep-tions, and conferences."
    "Good, I'll remind you," said Bol-Kunats. "And now, with your permission, I'll go. Good-bye, Mr. Banev."
    "Wait, I'll take you down," said Victor. "So the doorman doesn't insult you. For some reason he's out of
sorts today, and doormen being doormen, as you know—"
    "Thank you, don't trouble yourself," said Bol-Kunats. "He's my father."
    And he left. Victor poured himself some more gin and fell into an armchair. "So," he thought. "The poor
doorman. What on earth is his name? It's awkward. Still, he and I are comrades in misfortune, colleagues.
I'll have to talk with him, share experiences. No doubt he's had more experience. But what a concentration
of prodigies in my dank little hometown. Maybe from the increase in humidity." He threw his head back and
winced from the pain. "That bastard, how did he do it, anyhow?" He felt his lump. "Very likely a hard
rubber night-stick. Although how would I know what you get from a hard rubber nightstick. I know what
you get from a Danish modern chair in the Grilled Pegasus. From the butt of a submachine gun, or, for
example, the handle of a pistol. From champagne bottles with and without champagne. I'll have to ask
Golem. All in all, it's a strange business. I'd like to know what's going on." He started to think about it, in
order to drive away the thought about Irma that was surfacing from some secondary
                                        The Ugly Swans 15

level—the necessity of giving something up, accepting some limitations, or else sending off letters and
asking for favors. " 'Sorry to bother you, old man, but I've got this daughter here. She's a bit over twelve, a
terrific little girl, but her mother's a fool and her father's a fool too, so it would be good to set her up
somewhere far away from such stupid people.' I don't want to think about it today, I'll think about it
tomorrow." He looked at his watch. "Anyhow, I've done enough thinking. Enough."
   He got up and began to dress in front of the mirror. "I'm getting a paunch, damn it, why should I be
getting a paunch? I was always the lean, sinewy type. It's not even a paunch, exactly, your noble, working
paunch from a life of moderation and good food. Just a lousy little paunchlet, a dissident's tummy. I'm sure
Mr. President's is quite different. Mr. Presi-dent's, I'm sure, is a noble, glossy, draped-in-black dirigible." He
straightened his tie, moved his face closer to the mirror, and thought suddenly, "Observe this confident
strong face, so beloved by women of a certain sort. Not a handsome face. Rather the courageous face of a
fighter, with a square chin. And what did this face look like at the end of the historic encounter? . . . The
face of Mr. President is also not lacking in courage or rectangularity, but at the end of the historic
encounter it looked, if we come right out with it, between you and me, like a wild boar's snout. Mr.
President had been pleased to work himself up into a terrible state. Spit was flying from his tusked maw,
and I took out a handkerchief and con-spicuously wiped off my cheek. It was probably the most
coura-geous act of my life, if you don't count the time I fought three tanks at once. But I don't remember
how I fought the tanks, I only know about it from the stories of eyewitnesses. But I got out my
handkerchief consciously and with full awareness of what I was headed for. . . . The papers didn't write
about it. Our honest and courageous papers reported with sober frank-ness that belletrist V. Banev
sincerely thanked Mr. President
      16 The Ugly Swans

for the observations and explanations made in the course of their talk."
   "It's strange how well I remember it all." He discovered that his cheeks and the tip of his nose had turned
pale. "That's the way I looked then—who wouldn't go after a guy who looked like that? The old wreck
couldn't have known that I wasn't turning pale from fear but from anger, like Louis XIV. But let's stop
waving our fists after the fight. What difference does it make what I was turning pale from? Okay, we'll
stop. But in order to calm down, in order to get things under control before appearing in company, and
return a homely but courageous face to its normal color, I must observe, Mr. Banev, and I must remind you,
that if you hadn't flaunted your handkerchief in front of Mr. President, at the present moment you would be
biding your time in our glorious capital, under the most pleas-ant conditions, and not in this wet hole."
   Victor finished off the gin and went down to the restaurant.
       Chapter II


"Of course they could have been muggers," said Victor. "Only in my day no mugger would think of taking
on a four-eyes. To throw a stone at one—well, all right. But to grab one, drag him around, and above all
touch him. . . . We were all afraid of them, we thought it was catching."
    "I'm telling you, it's a genetic disease," said Golem. "You can't catch anything from them."
    "What do you mean you can't," said Victor. "They give you warts, just like toads. Everybody knows that."
    "You can't get warts from toads," said Golem expansively. "You can't get them from slimies either. You
should be ashamed of yourself, my dear writer. Though writers en masse are notoriously dense."
    "Like all masses. The masses are dense, but they are wise. And if the masses declare that toads and
slimies give warts—"
    "If it isn't my inspector coming toward us," said Golem.
    Pavor walked over to them. He was wearing a wet raincoat, right from the street.
    "Hello," he said. "I'm soaked to the skin, I want a drink."
    "He smells like slime again," grumbled Dr. R. Quadriga, awakening from an alcoholic trance. "He always
smells like slime. Like a pond. Duckweed."
    "What are you drinking?" asked Pavor.
    "It depends," said Golem. "I, for one, am drinking cognac. As usual. Victor is having gin. And the doctor
 is having one of everything."
                                                       *7
     18 The Ugly Swans

   "Shame!" muttered Dr. R. Quadriga. "Scales. And gills."
   "A double cognac," Pavor shouted to the waiter.
   His face was wet from the rain. His thick hair hung in clumps, and shining rivulets flowed down from his
temples along his smoothly shaven cheeks. "Another hard face," thought Victor. "A lot of people must envy
him. How did a health inspector get a face like that? A hard face. I can see it. The rain is pouring, there are
searchlights. Shadows flash along the wet trains and break off. Everything is dark and glittering, nothing but
darkness and glitter. No discussions, no bullshit, only or-ders, and everyone obeys. It doesn't have to be a
train, maybe an airplane, the airfield, and later nobody knows where he came from. Girls are falling over
backwards, and men feel like doing something manly. Like straightening their shoulders and pulling in their
stomachs. Take Golem. It wouldn't hurt Golem to pull in his stomach. But it won't work, where could he pull
it, there's no room left. Or Dr. R. Quadriga. But he wouldn't be able to straighten his shoulders, he's been
bent over for a long time, forever. In the evening he's bent over the table, in the morning he's bent over a
basin, and during the day he's bent over be-cause his liver hurts him. So I'm the only one capable of pull-ing
in my stomach and straightening my shoulders. But I think I'll direct my manliness toward this glass of gin."
    "Nymphomaniac," moaned Dr. R. Quadriga to Pavor. "Mer-maidomaniac. And seaweed."
    "Pipe down, Doctor," said Pavor. He was wiping his face with paper napkins, which he then crumpled up
and threw on the floor. Then he started to wipe his hands.
    "You've been fighting," said Victor. "Who with?"
    "Raped by a slimy," remarked Dr. R. Quadriga, trying des-perately to focus his pupils which had
wandered off toward his nose.
    "Not with anyone yet," answered Pavor. He gave the doc-tor a long look. The doctor failed to notice it.
    The waiter brought the cognac. Pavor slowly drained his glass and stood up.
                                       The Ugly Swans 19

  "I think I'll go get washed," he said in an even voice. "Noth-ing but mud in the country, I've got shit all
over me." He left, colliding with the chairs.
   "Something is happening to my inspector," said Golem. He flicked a wet napkin off the table. "Something
of universal proportions. You wouldn't happen to know what exactly?"
   "You should know better than I do," said Victor. "He's in-specting you, not me. And then you know
everything. Inci-dentally, Golem, how did you get to know everything?"
   "Nobody knows anything," objected Golem. "Some people have their suspicions. Very few—those who
want to. But you can't ask how they have their suspicions. Where is it raining to? What does the sun come
up with? Would you forgive Shakespeare if he wrote something like that? Actually, you probably would.
We can forgive Shakespeare a lot, he's not Banev. But listen, my dear man of letters, I've got an idea. I'll
polish off my cognac, and you finish this gin. Or are you already plowed?"
   "Golem," said Victor, "did you know I'm a man of iron?"
   "I suspected as much."
   "And what follows from that?"
   "You're afraid of rusting."
   "Well, okay," said Victor. "But that's not what I mean. I mean that I can drink a lot and at length without
losing my moral equilibrium."
   "Oh, I see," said Golem, pouring himself cognac from a decanter. "We'll take up this topic again."
    "I can't seem to recall," said Dr. R. Quadriga suddenly in a
clear voice. "Have I introduced myself to you gentlemen? My
pleasure: Rem Quadriga, artist, doctor honoris causae, honor-
able associate. . . . You I remember," he said to Victor. "We
were in school together, etc., etc. As for you, excuse me "
    "My name is Yul Golem," said Golem carelessly.
    "S'my pleazhure. A sculptor?"
    "No. Physician."
   "Surgeon?"
     20 The Ugly Swans

   "The chief physician of the leprosarium," Golem explained patiently.
    "Oh, yes," said Dr. R. Quadriga, shaking his head like a horse. "Of course. Sorry, Yul. Only why the big
front? You're no doctor. You're breeding slimies. I'll get you an introduc-tion. We need people like you.
Excuse me," he said suddenly. "I'll be right back."
   He got out of his armchair and wandered off toward the exit through a maze of empty chairs. A waiter
hurried over to him, and Quadriga threw his arms around his neck.
    "It's the rain," said Golem. "We're breathing water. This city has been breathing water for three years.
But we're not fish, and either we're going to die, or we're going to get out of here." He looked at Victor
seriously and sadly. "And the rain will fall on an empty city, it will wash the pavements, soak through the
roofs, the rotting roofs. Then it will wash everything away, the city will dissolve into primordial earth, but it
still won't stop, it will keep falling and falling."
    "The apocalypse," said Victor, in order to say something.
    "Yes, the apocalypse. It will rain and rain and the earth will drink its fill. The earth will be sown anew
and as never before, and there shall be no weeds among the grain. But we won't be around to enjoy it."
  "If only he didn't have those gray bags under his eyes," Victor thought, "and that soft sagging belly. If
only his great Semitic nose looked a little less like a topographical map. Only, if you think for a minute,
prophets have always been drunkards, because it's so depressing: you know everything, and nobody
believes you. If we made a government position out of it, then our state prophet would have to have a rank
no less than Secret Councillor in order to strengthen his authority. And still it probably wouldn't help."
  "For his systematic pessimism," Victor said aloud, "which has subverted professional discipline and
undermined faith in a rational future, I hereby order Secret Councillor Golem to be stoned in the executing
chamber."
                                       The Ugly Swans 21

    Golem snorted.
   "I'm only a collegiate councillor," he said. "And then, what kind of prophets do we have nowadays? I
don't know a single one. A lot of false prophets and not a single real one. In our times you can't predict the
future—it's a linguistic impossi-bility. What would you say if you saw in Shakespeare some-thing like
'predict the present? Can you predict a bureau in your own bedroom? But I believe that's my inspector
coming. How are you this evening, inspector?"
    "Wonderful," said Pavor, taking a seat. "Waiter, a double cognac! Our artist is in the lobby surrounded by
four big men. They're trying to tell him where the entrance to the restaurant is. I decided not to intrude. He
doesn't believe anyone and he's in a fighting mood. But what bureaus were you talking about?"
    He was dry, elegant, fresh; he smelled of cologne.
    "We were speaking about the future," said Golem.
    "What sense does it make to talk about the future?" ob-jected Pavor. "The future isn't talked about, the
 future is made. Here's a glass of cognac. The glass is full. I will make it empty. Like this. A wise man
 once said that you can only invent the future, you can't predict it."
    "Another wise man," observed Victor, "said that the future doesn't exist, there's only the present."
    "I don't like nineteenth-century philosophy," said Pavor. "Those people couldn't and wouldn't do anything.
 They just liked to sit around and reason, in the same way as Golem likes to sit around and drink. The future
 is just a thoroughly cleaned-up present."
     "I always feel funny," said Golem, "when I hear a civilian reasoning like a soldier."
     "Soldiers don't reason," objected Pavor. "All they have are reflexes and a little bit of emotion."
     "You could say the same thing about most civilians," said Victor, stroking the back of his head.
     "Right now nobody has time for reasoning," said Pavor. "Nei-
        22 The Ugly Swans

ther soldiers nor civilians. We barely have time to cope. If you're interested in the future, then invent it
quickly, on the run, according to your reflexes and emotions."
   "The hell with inventors," said Victor. He felt drunk and a little giddy. Everything was as it should be. He
didn't want to go anywhere, he wanted to stay where he was, in the half-darkness of this empty, not quite
dilapidated hall, with its stained walls, loose floorboards, and kitchen smells. Especially since it was raining
outside, raining over the whole world, over the cobblestoned pavements and the peaked roofs, over the hills
and valleys. "Someday the rain will wash everything away, but that won't happen for a while . . . although,
if you think about it, you can't say that it would be very long either. Yes, my friends, the time is long past
when the future was nothing but a repetition of the present and changes hovered on a far horizon. Golem's
right: there's no future anymore, it's merged with the present, and now you can't tell the difference."
   "Raped by a slimy," said Pavor maliciously.
   Dr. R. Quadriga appeared at the restaurant door. For a few seconds he stood in place, staring heavily at
the rows of empty tables. Then his face brightened. In a sudden burst of speed, he made for his seat.
   "Why do you call them slimies?" asked Victor. "Did they get moldy from all the rain?"
    "Why not?" said Pavor. "What would you prefer?"
    "Four-eyes," said Victor. "A good old word. Since time im-memorial."
   Dr. R. Quadriga was approaching. In front he was sopping wet—somebody had probably washed him
over a sink. He looked tired and disillusioned.
    "Goddamnit," he grumbled, still some distance away. "That never happened to me before. There wasn't
 any entrance. No matter where you turn, nothing but windows. ... I seem to have made you wait,
 gentlemen." He fell into his chair and saw Pavor. "He's here again," he informed Golem in a
                                         The Ugly Swans 23
confidential whisper. "I hope he's not disturbing you. But you know, the most amazing thing just happened
to me. They got me all wet."
    Golem poured him some cognac.
    "Much obliged," said R. Quadriga, "but I think I'll skip a few rounds. I've got to dry out."
    "In general," said Victor, "I'm for good old things. Let four-eyes stay four-eyes. And in general I don't
want to see any changes. I'm a conservative. Attention!" he said in a loud voice. "I propose a toast to
conservatism. One minute." He poured himself some gin and stood up, leaning on the back of the chair.
"I'm a conservative," he said. "And every year I get more conservative, only not because I'm getting older,
but be-cause I feel that way."
    Pavor, sober, his glass suspended in midair, was looking at him with pointed attention. Golem slowly ate
his marinated eel, and Dr. R. Quadriga seemed overwhelmed by the problem of who was talking.
Everything was fine.
    "People love to criticize the government for being too con-servative," Victor continued. "People love to
extol progress. This is a new tendency, and it's stupid, like everything else that's new. People should pray
God for the most sluggish, back-ward, conformist government possible."
    Now even Golem raised his eyes and looked at him, and Teddy stopped wiping bottles at the bar and
 strained to lis-ten. But then the back of his head began to ache, and he had to put down his glass and rub
 his lump.
    "The government apparatus, gentlemen, has throughout time considered its primary task to be the
 maintenance of the status quo. I don't know to what extent this was justified before, but now it's absolutely
 necessary. I would formulate it as follows: do everything possible to prevent the future from extending its
 feelers into our own time, chop off these feelers, or sear them with hot iron. Make it hard for inventors, but
 encourage wind-bags and pedants. Institute an exclusively classical education in
       24 The Ugly Swans

all schools. All candidates for the highest government posts should be old codgers burdened with families
and debts, mini-mal age fifty, to foster bribe-taking and sleeping at committee meetings."
   "What's all this bullshit for, Victor," said Pavor reproachfully.
   "Why, what's wrong with it?" said Golem. "It's a rare plea-sure to hear a speech of such moderation and
loyalty."
   "I haven't finished yet, gentlemen! Talented scientists should be turned into highly paid administrators. All
inven-tions are to be accepted and then shelved. Inventors must be poorly paid. Draconic taxes should be
extracted for all com-mercial or industrial innovations." "Why am I standing up anyway," thought Victor
suddenly and sat down. "Well, how do you like it?" he asked Golem.
   "You are absolutely right," said Golem. "We have nothing but radicals around here. Even the director of
the middle school. Conservatism is our only salvation."
   Victor tossed off his gin. He was starting to get pathetic. "There isn't going to be any salvation. Because
all these idiot radicals don't only believe in progress, they love it, they think they can't live without it.
Because progress, in addition to every-thing else, means cheap cars, domestic gadgets, more for less. So
every government is forced to use one hand—that is to say, not a hand, of course—to use one foot to step
on the brakes and the other to step on the gas. Like a racing car driver on a curve. The brakes keep you
from losing control and the gas keeps you from losing speed, so that some demagogic champion of progress
doesn't shove you out of the driver's seat."
   "It's difficult to argue with you," Pavor said politely.
   "Don't," said Victor. "It's a bad idea. Arguments may, God forbid, yield truth." He tenderly stroked his
lump. "However, this is no doubt the result of my ignorance. All scientists are champions of progress and
I'm not a scientist. All I am is a not unknown versifier."
   "Why do you keep poking at the back of your head?" asked Pavor.
                                          The Ugly Swans 25

  "Some bastard lit into me," said Victor. "With brass knuck-les. Am I right, Golem? Brass knuckles?"
  "Looks like it," said Golem. "Although it could have been a brick."
  "What are you talking about?" said Pavor. "What brass knuckles? In this backwoods?"
  "So you see," said Victor in a didactic tone. "Progress. Let's have another drink to conservatism."
  They had another drink to conservatism. The clock struck nine. A familiar pair appeared in the hall, a
young man with thick glasses and his lanky companion. They took their ac-customed seats, lit the table
lamp, meekly glanced around the room, and set to studying the menu. The man in glasses had, as usual,
come with his attache case, which he put on an empty armchair next to him. He was always very kind to
his attache' case. The two dictated their order to the waiter, straightened up, and stared silently into space.
"A strange pair," thought Victor. "An astonishing lack of correspondence. As though you were seeing them
through bad binoculars—as soon as one comes into focus, the other fades out, and vice versa. Complete
in-compatibility. You could have a chat about progress with the one in glasses, but not with the lanky one.
Whereas the lanky one could slug me with a set of brass knuckles, but not the one in glasses. But now I'm
going to bring you both into focus. Only how? Well, let's see. . . . The cellar of some government bank.
Cement, concrete, a security system. The lanky one works on the combination lock and the steel block
rotates, revealing the entrance to the depository. The two enter, the lanky one works on a second
combination lock, the doors of the safe roll back, and the one in glasses is up to his elbows in diamonds."
 Dr. R. Quadriga suddenly burst into tears and grabbed Vic-tor's hand. "Sleep," he said. "My place. All
 right?"
    Victor rushed to pour him some more gin. Quadriga gulped it down and wiped his chin.
      26 The Ugly Swans

  "My place. My villa. There's a fountain. All right?"
  "A fountain—that's a good one," said Victor, putting him off. "What else?"
  "A cellar," moaned Quadriga. "Footprints. Frightening. It's awful. Want to buy it?"
  "Make it a gift," said Victor.
  Quadriga blinked. "Can't do it," he said.
  "Tightwad," Victor reproached him. "Comes from your childhood. Can't spare your villa. Well, go choke
on it."
  "You don't like me," said Dr. R. Quadriga bitterly. "No-body likes me."
  "What about Mr. President?" Victor was getting aggressive.
  "The president is the father of his people," said Quadriga, livening up. "A sketch in gold tones. The
President in the Trenches.' A fragment from a painting: 'The President in the Trenches During the Shelling.'
"
  "What else?" inquired Victor.
  " The President in a Cloak,'" said Quadriga quickly. "A panel. Panorama."
  Victor got bored. He cut himself a slice of marinated eel and started listening to Golem.
  "I'll tell you what, Pavor," Golem was saying. "Leave me alone. What else can I do? I showed you our
books. I'm ready to sign your report. If you want to make a complaint about the soldiers, go ahead. If you
want to make a complaint about me—
  "I don't want to write about you," said Pavor, pressing his hands to his heart.
  "Then don't."
   "Then tell me what to do. Can't you give me some idea of what to do?"
  "This is deadly, gentlemen," said Victor. "I'm taking off."
  Nobody paid attention to him. He pushed the table aside and stood up. Feeling very drunk, he moved
toward the bar. The bald barman was wiping bottles. He looked at Victor without curiosity.
                                      The Ugly Swans 27

   "The usual?" he said.
   "Wait," said Victor. "What did I want to ask you . . . Oh, yes. How's it going, Teddy?"
   "It's raining," said Teddy shortly and poured him some hun-dred-and-fifty-proof.
   "Lousy weather we're having," said Victor and leaned against the bar. "What does your barometer say?"
   Teddy stuck a hand under the bar and got out his weather-whiz. The three pins were pressed tightly
against the shin-ing, almost lacquered handle.
   "No clearing," said Teddy, studying the weatherwhiz. "The devil's own invention." He thought for a
minute and added: "But who knows, it might have broken a long time ago. How many years has it been
raining?"
   "Take a trip to the Sahara," proposed Victor.
  Teddy smirked. "It's funny," he said. "This friend of yours, Pavor, a funny business, offered me two
hundred crowns for this hunk of wood."
   "He was probably drunk," said Victor. "What does he need it for?"
   "That's what I told him." Teddy turned the weatherwhiz in his hands and held it up to his right eye. "I
won't give it away," he declared. "Let him get one for himself." He shoved the weatherwhiz under the bar,
looked at Victor playing with his glass, and added, "That Diana of yours stopped by."
   "A long time ago?" asked Victor carelessly.
   "Around five. I gave her a case of cognac. Rosheper is on a binge, he can't stop. He's sending his whole
staff out for cognac. The filthy bastard. A member of parliament. Aren't you worried about her?"
   Victor shrugged. He suddenly saw Diana standing next to him. She took shape next to the bar in a wet
slicker with the hood pulled down. She wasn't looking in his direction. He saw only her profile, and he
thought that of all the women he had ever known, she was the most beautiful and that in all likelihood he
would never have another one like her. She was
      28 The Ugly Swans

leaning against the table, her face was terribly pale and terribly indifferent, and she was the most
beautiful—everything about her was beautiful. And always. When she cried, when she laughed, when she
got mad, and when she didn't give a damn, and when she was freezing cold, and especially when she was
in one of her moods. "God am I drunk," thought Victor, "I probably reek of liquor, like Quadriga." He stuck
out his lower lip and exhaled. "Can't tell."
   "The roads are wet and slippery," Teddy was saying. "It's foggy . . . and then, you know this Rosheper is
a real wom-anizer, a dirty old man."
   "Rosheper is impotent," objected Victor, mechanically swal-lowing his hundred-and-fifty-proof.
   "Did she tell you that?"
   "Drop it, Teddy," said Victor. "Forget it."
   Teddy stared at him for a moment and sighed. Grunting, he squatted down, rummaged around under the
bar, and came up with a bottle of liquid ammonia and an opened packet of tea. Victor glanced at the clock,
then started watching Teddy slowlv get out a clean glass, fill it with club soda, add a few drops of ammonia,
and in the same deliberate manner stir the mixture with a swizzle stick. Teddy pushed the glass toward
Victor. Victor drank it and made a face, holding his breath. The repulsivelv fresh stream of ammonia
exploded in his brain and spread somewhere behind his eyes. Victor drew in a slow breath of air that had
become unbearably cold, and stuck his fingers into the packet of tea.
   "All right, Teddy," he said. "Thanks. Charge everything to my account. They'll tell you how much. I'm
going."
   Concentrating on chewing the tea leaves, he returned to his table. The young man in glasses and his
lanky companion were wolfing down their dinner. The single bottle on the table was local mineral water.
Pavor and Golem had cleared away a place on the tablecloth and were playing dice, and Dr. R. Quad-riga
was holding his shaggy head and muttering over and over
                                       The Ugly Swans 29

again: " 'The Legion of Freedom is the Backbone of the Presi-dent.' A mosaic. ... 'on the Happy
Anniversary of Your High-nesses' Birth.' 'The President is the Father of His Children.' An allegorical
painting...."
  "I'm leaving," said Victor.
  "Too bad," said Golem. "However, I wish you good luck."
  "Say hello to Rosheper," said Pavor, winking.
  "Member of Parliament Rosheper Nant," Quadriga perked up. "A portrait. Not too expensive.
Waist-length."
  Victor picked up his lighter and pack of cigarettes and left. Behind him Quadriga pronounced in a clear
voice: "I believe, gentlemen, that it's time we became acquainted. The name is Rem Quadriga, doctor
honoris causae, but as for you, my dear sirs, I can't seem...." At the door, Victor bumped into the fat coach
of the soccer team Brothers in Reason. The coach was wet and looked worried. He let Victor pass.
       Chapter III


The bus stopped. "Here we are," said the driver.
  "Is this the health resort?" asked Victor. Outside the bus, the fog was dense and milky. The beam of the
headlights dis-solved into it, and nothing could be seen.
   'The resort, what else?" muttered the driver, lighting a cigarette.
   Victor walked toward the exit. "Some fog," he said, stepping off the bus. "Can't see a thing."
   "You'll get there," the driver promised indifferently. He spit
out the window. "They really picked a good place for a health
resort. Fog all day, fog at night "
    "Have a nice trip back," said Victor.
   The driver didn't answer. The engine whined, the doors slammed shut, and the huge, empty bus made its
turn, its glass lit up from inside like a department store closed for the night. No more than a dull spot of light,
it sped off to the city. Victor felt his way along the iron railing, found the gate, and stumbled along the path.
Now that his eyes had gotten used to the darkness, he could distinguish the brightly lit windows of the right
half of the building and the impenetrable darkness of the left half, where the Brothers in Reason slept
soundly after a full day's action in the rain. Through the fog, as though through cotton wadding, you could
hear the usual health re-sort din: the sound of a stereo, the clank of dishes, somebody's hoarse shout. Victor
forged ahead, trying to keep to the mid-dle of the sandy path so as not to knock into some plaster vase.
           o
       3

                                       The Ugly Swans 31

He kept the bottle of gin clasped to his breast and was very careful, but, all the same, he tripped over
something soft and had to stumble ahead on all fours. From behind him came a halfhearted curse and a
suggestion that he should have turned the lights on. In the semidarkness Victor fumbled for the fallen bottle,
again clasped it to his breast, and went on, feeling his way with his free hand. He collided with a parked
car, ma-neuvered around it, and collided with another one. Nothing but goddamned cars in this place.
Victor, cursing, wound his way through them as though through a labyrinth, and for a long time could not
get near the murky glow that indicated the entrance to the lobby. The smooth sides of the cars were wet
from the condensed fog. Somewhere close there was romping and giggling.
   This time the lobby was empty. Nobody was playing blind-man's buff, nobody was jiggling his fat ass in a
game of tag or sleeping in the armchairs. Everywhere there wore crumpled rain-coats, and some joker had
put a hat on a rubber tree. Victor climbed the carpeted staircase up to the second floor. Music blared. On
the right half of the corridor, the doors leading to the Member of Parliament's suite were wide opened,
exuding a rich odor of food, smoke, and overheated bodies. Victor turned left and knocked on the door to
Diana's room. Nobody answered. The door was closed, but the key was in the keyhole. Victor walked in,
turned on the light, and put the gin on the night table. He heard footsteps and looked out. A tall man in a
dark evening suit was retreating along the corridor with a firm, wide step. He stopped at the mirrored
landing, and, craning his neck, fixed his tie. Victor had time to observe his swarthy, faintly yellow eagle's
profile with its sharp chin. And then something happened to the man: he let his shoulders sag, leaned slightly
on one foot, and, swaying his hips in a repul-sive manner, disappeared into one of the opened doors. "Fop,"
thought Victor, not quite sure of himself. "Went to take a puke." He looked to the left. It was dark.
   Victor took off his raincoat. He left the room, locked the
      32 The Ugly Swans

door, and went to look for Diana. "I'll have to look in at Rosheper's," he thought. "Where else could she
be?"
   Rosheper had a three-room suite. The first one contained the remains of a recent feast. The tables were
covered with soiled cloths and piled up with dirty plates, ashtrays, bottles, and crumpled napkins. There was
nobody left, except a single solitary bald head, dripping with sweat and snoring away into a gravy dish.
   In the adjoining room all hell had broken loose. Half-naked girls, imported from the capital, were kicking
their legs on Rosheper's enormous bed. They were playing some strange game with an apoplectically purple
gentleman, his honor the burgomaster, who was diving into them like a pig into a pile of acorns, kicking and
grunting with enjoyment. Among the other guests were his honor the police chief, out of uniform, his honor
the city judge, eyes popping from nervous exhaustion, and some unknown hustling type dressed in lilac. The
latter were competing furiously in a game of miniature billiards that had been propped up on a dressing
table, while in the corner, slumped against the wall and arrayed in a filthy state uniform, sat the director of
the middle school, smiling idiotically, his legs spread wide apart. Victor was on his way out when some-one
grabbed at his trouser leg. He looked down and took a step backwards. Beneath him, on all fours, was the
Knight of the Orders, author of a widely circulated project for fish breeding in the Kitchigan Reservoirs,
Member of Parliament Rosheper Nant.
   "I want to play horsey," whined Rosheper. "Let's play horsey! Giddy-yap!" He was beside himself.
   Victor delicately freed his leg and glanced into the next room. There he saw Diana. At first he didn't
even realize that it was her, and when he did he didn't like it. "Very nice," he thought. The room was full;
men and women, all vague ac-quaintances, were standing in a circle and clapping. In the cen-ter of the
circle Diana was engaged in a wild dance with the
                                      The Ugly Swans 33

sallow-faced fop, the owner of the eagle's profile. Her eyes burned, her cheeks burned, her hair flew
above her shoulders, the devil himself was no match for her. The eagle's profile was trying his best to keep
up.
   "Funny," thought Victor. "What's going on?" Something
was not quite right. "He's a good dancer, he's just a terrific
dancer. He could teach dancing. He's not just dancing, he's
demonstrating how it should be done. He's not even a teacher,
he's a student at an exam, and he really wants an A. No, that's
not it. Listen, pal, you're dancing with Diana! Can you really
be unaware of that?" Victor made his habitual imaginative
leap. "An actor is dancing on the stage, everything is fine,
everything is the way it should be, without any wrinkles, while
at home there is suffering ... no, not necessarily suffering,
they're just waiting for him to return, and he's also waiting for
the curtain to fall and the lights to go out... and he's not even
an actor, he's an outsider, playing an actor who's playing an-
other outsider, this time a real one. Can't she feel it? This is
false. He's a mannequin. There's no closeness between them,
not a drop of seduction, not a shadow of desire. They're saying
something to one another, it's impossible to figure out what.
Chitter-chatter. 'Aren't you hot?' 'Yes, I've read it, it's mar-
velous      '"
   Then he saw Diana pushing aside the guests and running toward him.
   "Let's dance," she shouted when she was still far away.
   Someone barred her path, someone else grabbed her hand, and she tore herself free, laughing, but Victor
kept on looking for her sallow-faced companion. He couldn't find him, and that disturbed him.
   Diana finally reached him, hooked her fingers in his sleeves, and dragged him into the circle.
   "Come on, come on! They're all ours—boozers, whoozers, losers. Show them how to do it! That fledgling
 can't do a thing."
       34 The Ugly Swans

   She dragged him into the circle. Someone in the crowd shouted, "Hurrah for our writer Banev!" The
stereo, silent for a moment, once again groaned and clattered. Diana pressed against him and then moved
back; she smelled of perfume and wine, her body burned, and Victor was blind to everything but her face,
aroused and beautiful, and her streaming hair.
   "Dance!" she shouted, and he started dancing. "I'm glad you came."
   "Right."
   "Why are you sober? You're always sober when you shouldn't be."
   "I'll get drunk."
   "Today I need you drunk."
   "You'll have me."
   "So I can do whatever I want to with you. Not you with me, but me with you."
   "Right."
   She laughed, satisfied, and they danced in silence, seeing nothing and not thinking about anything. As in a
dream. Or a battle. That's the way she was now—like a dream, like a battle. Diana in one of her moods.
Around them people were clapping and shouting, and somebody tried to cut in but Victor pushed him out of
the way, and Rosheper gave a drawn-out cry: "Oh, my poor drunken people!"
   "He's impotent?"
   "Completely. I give him his bath."
   "Well?"
   "Nothing happens."
   "Oh, my poor drunken city!" moaned Rosheper.
   Victor took her by the hand and led her away. The boozers and whoozers made way for them, stinking
of liquor and garlic. At the door a thick-lipped punk with flushed cheeks said some-thing rude, itching for a
fight, but Victor told him, "Later, later," and the punk disappeared. Holding hands, they ran along the empty
corridor. Without letting go of her hand, Vic-
                                         The Ugly Swans 35

tor opened the door, and, without letting go of her hand, locked it again from the inside. It was hot, it had
become unbearably hot and close. The room pulsated around them, and then it became narrow and
confining, and Victor got up and threw open the window. The damp black air poured onto his naked
shoulders and chest. He got back onto the bed, fumbled in the darkness for the bottle of gin, took a swig,
and handed it to Diana. Then he stretched out. To his left was a stream of cold air, and to his right it was
warm, silky, and soft. Now he could hear that the carousing was still going on—the guests were singing in
chorus.
   "How long are they going to keep at it?" he asked.
   "At what?" said Diana sleepily.
   "At this howling."
   "I don't know. What difference does it make?" She turned on her side and put her cheek on his shoulder.
"I'm cold," she complained.
   They disentangled and crawled under the blanket.
   "Don't sleep," he said.
   "Uhuh," she mumbled.
   "Are you happy?"
   "Uhuh."
   "What if we try your ear?"
    "Uhuh _ Leave me alone, it hurts!"
    "Look, do you think I could stay here for a week?"
    "Sure."
    "Where?"
    "I want to sleep. Let a poor drunken woman get some sleep."
   Victor fell silent but didn't move. Diana was already sleep-ing. "So that's what I'll do," he thought. "It'll be
 nice and quiet here. Except at night. Or maybe even at night. He's not going to booze it up every night.
 After all, he's taking a cure here. Stay here for three or four days ... or five or six. Drink less . . . not drink
 at all . . . and get some work done. It's been a long time. To start working, you have to get really bored, so
 bored
        36 The Ugly Swans

that you don't feel like doing anything else." He dozed off, then jerked awake. "Oh, yeah, Irma. I'll write to
Rots-Tusov, that's what I'll do. If only he doesn't squirm out of it, the coward. Owes me nine hundred
crowns. When it comes to Mr. President, nothing really matters, we all turn into cowards. Wonder why?
What are we all so afraid of? Change, that's what. No more going into the writers' bar and polishing off a
glass of hundred-and-fifty-proof, no more bows from the doorman, no more doormen—they'll make you the
doorman. If they send you to the mines, that's really bad. But that's an exception, times have changed, a
weakening of morals. I've thought about it a hundred times, and a hundred times I've decided that there's
nothing to be afraid of, but I still am. Because it's a blind force," he thought. "It's a terrible thing when
there's a blind, pigheaded, pig-bodied force pitted against you, imper-vious to logic and emotion. No Diana
either."
   He dozed off and woke up again. Through his open window came loud talk and hoarse animal laughter.
Branches were snapping.
   "I can't lock them up," said the drunken voice of the police chief. "There's no law for that."
   "There will be," said the voice of Rosheper. "Am I a legis-lator or not?"
   "Where is the law that says there has to be a hotbed of in-fection right outside of town?" barked the
burgomaster.
   "There will be," said Rosheper stubbornly.
   "They're not infectious," bleated the falsetto of the middle-school director. "I mean medically speaking."
   "Hey, middle school," said Rosheper. "Don't forget to pull your zipper down."
  "Where is the law that says you can bankrupt honest citi-zens?" barked the burgomaster. "Where does it
say that?"
  "There will be, I'm telling you," Rosheper said. "Am I a legislator or not?"
  "What can I throw at those assholes?" Victor thought.
                                      The Ugly Swans 37

  "Rosheper!" said the police chief. "Aren't we buddies any-more? I nursed you along, you son of a bitch. I
elected you, you son of a bitch. And now those germs are all over the place, and I can't do anything.
There's no law, understand?"
   "There will be," said Rosheper. "Take my word for it. In view of the poisoning of the atmosphere—"
   "Moral atmosphere," put in the middle-school director. "Moral and ethical."
   "What are you talking about? I'm telling you, in view of the poisoning of the atmosphere and taking into
account the poor spawning of fish in the neighboring reservoirs, the germs are to be liquidated and
reestablished in a remote province. How's that?"
   "How about a kiss from me?" said the police chief.
   "Good boy," said the burgomaster. "What a mind. From me too."
   "Peanuts," said Rosheper. "Nothing to it. Want to sing? On the contrary, I don't. Let's have another drink
and go home."
   "That's right. Another drink, and back home."
   Once again there was a sound of snapping branches, and Rosheper said from somewhere in the
distance, "Hey, middle school, you forgot to zip it up." Then there was silence. Victor dozed off again, slept
through an insignificant dream, and then the telephone rang.
    "Hello," said Diana hoarsely. "Yes, it's me... ." She cleared
her throat. "Never mind, I'm listening. . . . Everything's fine, I
think he liked it _ What?"
    Her body was stretched across Victor's, and he suddenly felt her tense up.
    "Strange," she said. "All right, I'll give a look. . . . Yes. . . . All right, I'll tell him."
    She hung up, climbed over Victor, and lit the lamp.
    "What happened?" asked Victor sleepily.
    "Nothing. Sleep, I'll be right back."
    Through his screwed-up eyes he could see her picking up her
       38 The Ugly Swans

underwear from the floor, and her face was so serious that he got worried. She dressed quickly and left the
room, straight-ening her clothes on the run. "Rosheper got sick," he thought, listening intently. "Drank too
much, the old geezer." The huge building was silent, and he distinctly heard Diana walk-ing down the
corridor, but instead of going to the right, to Rosheper, she made a left. A door creaked, and the footsteps
broke off.
   Victor turned on his side and tried to go back to sleep, but it was impossible. He realized that he was
waiting for Diana and that he wouldn't be able to sleep until she got back. He sat up and lit a cigarette. The
lump on the back of his head started to throb, and he made a face. Diana didn't return. For some reason he
remembered the sallow-faced dancer with the eagle's profile. "What's he doing here?" thought Victor. "An
actor playing another actor who's playing a third actor. The thing is, that was the room he came out of, the
one on the left, where Diana went. Went to the landing, looked in the mirror, and turned into a fop. First he
played the man about town, then a worn-out gigolo." Victor listened again. "God, is it quiet, everybody's
sleeping ... someone's snoring."
   Then a door creaked again, and he could hear footsteps coming closer. Diana walked in. Her face was
serious as before. Nothing concluded; await further developments. Diana walked up to the telephone and
dialed a number.
   "He isn't there," she said. "No, he went out. ... So did I. ... No, don't worry about it, of course.... Good
 night."
   She hung up. For a few seconds she stood looking into the darkness beyond the window, then she sat
down on the bed next to Victor. She was holding a flashlight. Victor lit up a cigarette and gave it to her.
She smoked in silence, turning something over in her mind.
   "When did you fall asleep?" she asked.
   "I don't know, it's hard to say."
   "But after I did?"
                                      The Ugly Swans 39

  "Yes."
  She turned to face him.
  "Are you sure you didn't hear anything? A brawl, fighting?"
  "No," said Victor. "I think it was very peaceful. First they sang, then Rosheper and company urinated
under our window, then I fell asleep. They were already getting ready to go back."
  She threw her cigarette out the window and stood up.
  "Get dressed," she said.
  He snickered and stretched out a hand for his shorts. "Your order is my command," he thought.
"Obedience is a fine thing. No questions asked, ever." "Are we driving or walking?" he asked.
  "What? First we'll walk, then we'll see."
  "Somebody get lost?"
  "Looks like it."
  "Rosheper?"
  He suddenly felt her glance on him. There was doubt in it. She was already regretting that she'd asked
him to come. She was asking herself, who is he anyway that I should take him along?
   "I'm ready," he said.
  She was still vacillating, playing with her flashlight.
   "Well, all right, let's go." She didn't move from the spot.
  "Maybe I should break a leg off the chair?" proposed Victor. "Or the bed?"
   She woke up.
   "No. It won't do any good." She opened the desk drawer and pulled out a huge black pistol. "Take it," she
said.
  Victor braced himself, but it turned out to be nothing more than a low-caliber hunting pistol. It didn't even
have a car-tridge.
   "Let's have some cartridges," he said.
   She looked at him absent-mindedly, then looked at the pis-tol.
   "No. We don't need any. Let's go."
      40 The Ugly Swans

   Victor shrugged and stuck the pistol in his pocket. They went down to the lobby and walked out onto the
porch. The fog had thinned out; it was drizzling weakly. There weren't any cars at the entrance. Diana
turned into a small path between the wet bushes and turned on the flashlight.
   "What an idiotic position," thought Victor. "You're itching to ask what's going on, and you can't. Got to
find out some way of asking. Beat around the bush. An observation with a query in the subtext. Maybe I'll
have to fight? Don't feel like it. Not today. I'll hit him with the pistol. Right between the eyes. How's my
lump doing?" His lump hadn't moved. It hurt slightly. "Funny duties the nurses have in this institution. But
I've always felt that Diana was a woman with a secret. From the first glance and all five days. . . . Ugh, is
it damp, should have taken a swig of something before I left. As soon as I get back, I'll have something.
Aren't I being good?" he thought. "No questions asked. Your order is my command."
   They circled around their half of the building, crawled through the lilac bushes, and wound up near the
fence. Diana shone the flashlight on it. One of the iron rails was missing.
   "Victor," she said softly. "We're going to turn onto a trail. You'll follow. Watch your feet, and don't step
off the trail. Got it?"
   "Got it," said Victor submissively. "A step to the right, a step to the left, and I shoot."
    Diana squeezed through first, then held the flashlight for Victor. They made their way very slowly down
the hill. It was the eastern slope of the health resort hill. All around them unseen trees were rustling in the
rain. Diana slipped, and Vic-tor barely had time to grab her shoulders. She freed herself impatiently and
went on. Every minute she repeated, "Watch your feet. Follow me." Victor obediently watched Diana's
feet, flickering in the dancing pool of light. At first he kept on waiting for a blow on the back of his head,
right on his lump, then he decided it was unlikely. It didn't fit together. Probably it was just some nut who
snuck off, or Rosheper had had a
                                        The Ugly Swans 41

tantrum and they'd have to march him back, frightening him with an empty pistol.
  Diana stopped short and said something, but her words didn't reach Victor's consciousness. Within a
second, at the side of the trail, he saw someone's shining eyes—immobile, huge, and staring intently from
under a wet, protruding fore-head. Only eyes and a forehead, nothing more: no mouth, no nose, no body,
nothing. Just the heavy, damp darkness and in a pool of light, shining eyes and an unnaturally white
forehead.
   "Bastards," said Diana. There was a catch in her voice. "I knew it. The bastards."
   She fell to her knees. The beam of the flashlight skimmed along the black body, and Victor caught sight
of a glistening metallic arc and a chain in the grass. "Quick," commanded Diana, and Victor crouched down
next to her. Only then did he see that it was a trap, and that there was a man's leg caught in it. He put both
hands into the iron jaws and tried to force them apart. They gave way just a little bit and then snapped back
into place.
   "Idiot!" shrieked Diana. "Use the pistol."
   He clenched his teeth, got a better grip, and strained his muscles until his shoulders cracked. The jaws
came apart.
   "Pull," he said hoarsely. The leg disappeared. The iron arcs snapped together, catching his fingers.
   "Hold the flashlight," said Diana.
   "I can't," said Victor guiltily. "I'm caught. Get the pistol out of my pocket."
   Diana, swearing, felt for his pocket. He wrenched the trap apart another time, she put the handle of the
pistol between the jaws, and Victor freed himself.
   "Hold the light," she repeated. "Let me look at the leg."
   "The bone is shattered," said a strained voice in the dark-ness. "Carry me to the resort and call for a car."
   "Right," said Diana. "Victor, give me the flashlight, and you take him."
   She shone the flashlight down. The man was sitting in the
       42 The Ugly Swans

same place as before, leaning against a tree. The lower half of his face was hidden behind a black
bandage. "An owl," thought Victor. "A slimy. How did he get here?"
   "Hurry up, take him," said Diana. "On your back."
   "Right away," he answered. He remembered the yellow cir-cles around the eyes. A lump rose in his
throat. "Right away." He crouched down next to the slimy and turned his back toward him. "Grab me
around the neck," he said.
   The slimy turned out to be thin and light. He didn't move and it seemed as though he wasn't even
breathing. He didn't moan when Victor stumbled, but every time it happened a shudder went through his
body. The trail was much steeper than Victor had thought, and when they reached the fence he was
completely out of breath. Getting the slimy through the gap in the fence proved difficult, but in the end they
managed.
   "Where to?" asked Victor when they had reached the en-trance.
   "Into the lobby for now," answered Diana.
   "Don't," said the slimy in the same strained tone. "Leave me here."
   "It's raining," objected Victor.
   "Stop jabbering," siad the slimy. "I'm staying here."
   Victor didn't say anything and started walking up the steps.
   "Leave him," said Diana.
   Victor stopped.
   "Goddamnit, it's raining," he said.
   "Don't be a fool," said the slimy. "Leave me . . . here. . . ."
   Victor, not saying a word, strode up the steps three at a time, reached the door, and walked into the
lobby.
   "Cretin," whispered the slimy and dropped his head on Victor's shoulder.
    "You dolt," said Diana, catching up with Victor and grabbing his sleeve. "You'll kill him, idiot! Get him out
 of here right away and put him back under the rain. Right away, you hear? What are you standing here
 for?"
                                        The Ugly Swans 43

   "You're all crazy/' sputtered Victor.
   He turned around, kicked the door open, and went out onto the porch. The rain seemed to be waiting for
his return. Before it had been drizzling lazily, and now it poured down in torrents. The slimy moaned softly.
He raised his head and suddenly began panting like a hunted animal. Victor was still dawdling, instinctively
looking around for some shelter.
   "Put me down," said the slimy.
   "In a puddle?" asked Victor, sarcastic and bitter.
   "That's unimportant. Put me down."
   Victor carefully lowered him onto the ceramic tiles of the porch. The slimy stretched out his arms and
legs. His right leg was twisted unnaturally; in the strong light of the porch lamp his great forehead seemed
blue-white. Victor sat down next to him on the steps. He really felt like going back into the lobby, but that
was unthinkable—to leave an injured man in a heavy rain and seek shelter in a warm place.
    "How many times have I been called a fool today?" he thought, wiping his face with his hand. "Pretty
 often. And there's a grain of truth in it too, insofar as a fool, alias dolt alias cretin and so on, is an
 ignoramus, persisting in his ig-norance. Look at that, he's doing better in the rain. His eyes are opened,
 they're not so terrible looking. A slimy," he thought. "Really, a slimy rather than a four-eyes. How the hell
 did he get himself into a trap? And how come there are traps around here? It's the second slimy I've met
 today, and both of them in trouble. They get in trouble and they get me in trouble."
   Diana was in the lobby on the phone. Victor listened.
    "The leg. . . . Yes. The bone is shattered . . . Okay. . . .
 All right -- Quickly, we're waiting."
    Through the glass door Victor saw her hang up the phone and run upstairs. "Something's gone wrong
 with the slimies in this town. Too much fuss around them. For some reason they've gotten into everyone's
 way, even the middle-school di-rector's had it with them. Even Lola," he remembered suddenly.
       44 The Ugly Swans

"It seems she also had something to say about them." He looked down at the slimy. The slimy was looking
at him.
   "How do you feel?" asked Victor. The slimy didn't answer. "Do you need anything?" asked Victor,
raising his voice. "A sip of gin?"
   "Don't yell," said the slimy. "I can hear you."
   "Does it hurt?" Victor sympathized.
   "What do you think?"
   "An exceptionally unpleasant man," thought Victor. "How-ever, the hell with him—we'll go our separate
ways. And he's in pain."
   "Don't worry," he said out loud. "Try to stand it for a few more minutes. They're coming for you."
   The slimy didn't answer. Wrinkles appeared on his fore-head; his eyes closed. He looked like a
corpse—flat and immo-bile in the pouring rain. Diana ran out onto the porch with a doctor's bag, sat down
next to them, and started to do some-thing with the injured leg. The slimy groaned softly, but Diana didn't
say anything comforting, as doctors usually do in cases like that.
   "Can I help you?" asked Victor.
   She didn't answer. He stood up. "Stay for a minute, don't go away," said Diana, not turning her head.
   "I'm not going anywhere," said Victor. He watched her deftly putting on a splint.
    "We'll need you," said Diana.
    "I'm not going anywhere," said Victor again.
   "As a matter of fact you can run upstairs. Run up to the room, take a slug of something while there's still
time, but come right back down."
    "Forget it," said Victor. "I'll manage."
    From somewhere behind the screen of rain came the rumble of a motor and the flash of headlights.
 Victor could make out a jeep carefully turning into the gates. The jeep drove up to the porch, and Yul
 Golem, in his ill-fitting raincoat, clambered
                                         The Ugly Swans 45

out. He climbed up the steps, bent over the slimy, and took his hand.
  "No injections," said the slimy in a hollow voice.
  "All right," said Golem and looked at Victor. "Help me with him."
  Victor took the slimy in his arms and carried him to the jeep. Golem ran ahead of them, threw open the
door, and crawled inside.
  "Let's have him here," came his voice from the darkness. "No, feet first. Don't be afraid. Hold him by
the shoulders."
  Golem, breathing heavily, arranged things in the car. The slimy groaned again, and Golem said something
incomprehen-sible, like "six angles on the neck," or maybe he was cursing. Then he crawled out, slammed
the door shut, and, getting behind the wheel, asked Diana, "Did you call them?"
   "No," answered Diana. "Should I?"
   "It's not worth it anymore," said Golem, "They'll seal the place up. Good-bye."
   The jeep started moving, drove over a flower bed, and sped off down the path.
   "Let's go," said Diana.
    "Let's swim," said Victor. Now that it was all over he felt nothing more than irritation.
    In the lobby Diana linked her arm in his.
   "Never mind," she said. "You'll change your clothes, have some vodka, and everything will be all right."
    "I'm dripping like a wet dog," said Victor. He was angry. "And now perhaps you'll explain to me at long
 last what was going on?"
    Diana gave a weary sigh.
    "Nothing in particular was going on. He shouldn't have left his flashlight behind."
    "Setting traps all over the place is nothing in particular? Is that the way you see it?"
    "The burgomaster does it, the bastard."
       46 The Ugly Swam

   They reached the second floor and walked along the corri-dor.
   "Is he crazy?" asked Victor. "It's a criminal offense. Or is he really crazy?"
   "No. He's just a bastard and he hates the slimies. Like every-one else in town."
   "I've already noticed. We don't like them either, but as for
traps     What did the slimies do to them?"
   "They have to hate somebody," said Diana. "In some places they hate Jews, in other places they hate
blacks, and we hate slimies."
   They stopped in front of a door. Diana turned the key, en-tered, and turned on the light.
   "Wait a minute," said Victor, looking around. "Where are we?"
   "This is the lab," said Diana. "I'll just be a second."
   Victor waited at the door and watched her walk around the large room and close all the windows. There
were puddles on the floor.
    "And what was he doing there in the middle of the night?" asked Victor.
   "Where?" asked Diana, not turning around.
    "On the trail. You knew he was there, didn't you?"
    "Well, you see," she said, "they have a hard time with medi-cal supplies in the leprosarium. So sometimes
 they come here to request...."
   She closed the last window and took a quick walk around the room, checking the tables, the instruments,
 and the glass-ware.
    "The whole thing is shitty," said Victor. "What a govern-ment. No matter where you look, there's some
 dirty business going on. Let's get out of here, I'll freeze to death.
    "One second," said Diana.
    She took a dark piece of clothing off a chair and shook it out. It was a man's evening suit. She hung it
 neatly in the
                                          The Ugly Swans 47

wardrobe for lab coats. "What's that suit doing here?" thought Victor. "I've seen it somewhere."
  "All right," said Diana. "I don't know what you want to do, but I'm going to take a hot bath."
  "Listen, Diana," said Victor carefully. "Who was that . . . with a nose like this, yellowish face? The one
you were dancing with?"
  Diana took him by the hand.
  "As a matter of fact," she said after a short silence, "he's my husband. My former husband."
      Chapter IV
"I haven't seen you for a while," said Pavor. He had a cold.
   "Not that long," objected Victor. "Only two days."
   "May I join you, or would you prefer to be alone?" asked Pavor.
   "Please," said Diana politely.
   Pavor took a seat across from her and looked for the waiter. "A double cognac!" he called out. It was
getting dark; the door-man was letting down the blinds over the windows. Victor switched on the table
lamp.
   "I really admire you," Pavor turned to Diana. "To live in a climate like this and maintain such a rosy
complexion." He sneezed. "Excuse me. These rains will be the end of me. How's the work going?" he
asked Victor.
   "Not too good. I can't work when it's gray out—all I want to do is have a drink."
   "What about this scene you pulled at the police chief's?" asked Pavor.
   "A lot of crap," said Victor. "I was seeking justice."
   "What happened?"
   "That bastard of a burgomaster was hunting slimies with traps. One of them got caught and hurt his leg. I
took the trap, went to the police station, and demanded an investiga-tion."
   "I see," said Pavor. "And then?"
       48
                                      The Ugly Swans 49

  "They have some odd laws in this town. Insofar as the victim did not file a complaint, in legal terms there
was no crime at all, but only an accident, in which nobody but the victim was to blame. I told the police
chief that I'd take note of that. He declared that that was a threat—which is where we left it."
  "Where did all this happen?" asked Pavor.
  "Around the health resort."
  "Around the health resort? What would a slimy be doing around the health resort?"
  "I think that's none of anybody's business," said Diana curtly.
  "Of course," said Pavor. "I was simply surprised." He frowned, screwed up his eyes, and gave a loud
sneeze. "God-damn," he said. "Excuse me."
   He stuck a hand in his pocket and pulled out a huge hand-kerchief. Something fell to the floor with a
bang. Victor bent over. It was a pair of brass knuckles. Victor picked them up and handed them to Pavor.
   "What are you doing with these?" he asked.
  Pavor, burying his face in his handkerchief, fixed his red-dened eyes on the brass knuckles.
   "It's all because of you," he said in a strained voice and blew his nose. "You frightened me with your
story. Incidentally, they say there's some sort of local gang operating here. Either a gang, or an offshoot of
organized crime. It's not to my taste to get beaten up."
   "Do they beat you up often?" asked Diana.
   Victor looked at her. She was sitting in an armchair with her legs crossed, and she was smoking. Her
eyes were lowered. "Poor Pavor," thought Victor. "Now you're in for it." He stretched out a hand and
tugged her skirt over her knees.
   "Me?" asked Pavor. "Do I look like a man who gets beaten up often? I'll have to do something about
that. Waiter, another double cognac! So the next day I went to see a locksmith, and he fixed me up with
these." He looked over his brass knuckles
       50 The Ugly Swans

with a satisfied expression. "A fine piece of equipment, even Golem liked it."
   "So they didn't let you into the leprosarium?" asked Victor.
   "No. They didn't let me in, and they aren't planning to either. I've already lost hope. I've sent written
complaints to three departments, and now I'm sitting and writing my report. How much money the
leprosarium spent on underwear over the past year. Men's and women's separately. Wildly amus-ing.
  "Write that they're having a hard time getting medicine," advised Victor. Pavor raised his eyebrows, and
Diana said lazily, "Better drop your scribbling, have a glass of mulled wine, and go to bed."
  "Got it," sighed Pavor. "Time to go. You know which room I'm in?" he asked Victor. "Stop by
sometime."
  "Two twenty-three," said Victor. "I'd be glad to."
  "Good-bye," said Pavor, getting up. "Have a nice evening."
  They watched him go up to the bar, take a bottle of red wine, and walk toward the exit.
  "You have a big mouth," said Diana.
  "It's true," said Victor. "Sorry. You know, for some reason I like him."
  "I don't," said Diana.
  "Neither does Dr. R. Quadriga. I wonder why?"
  "He has an ugly face," said Diana. "A blond beast. I've seen it before. A real he-man type. No honor, no
conscience, lord of the fools."
  "What do you think of that," said Victor. "And I thought you liked men like that."
  "There aren't any men now," said Diana. "They're either fascists or old women."
  "What about me?" said Victor with interest.
  "You? You're too fond of marinated eel. Though you do like justice."
  "Exactly. But I think that's good."
                                       The Ugly Swans 51

  "It's not bad. But if you had to choose, you'd take the marinated eel, that's what's bad. You're lucky
you've got talent."
  "How come you're so spiteful today?" asked Victor.
  "That's the way I am. You've got talent and I've got spite. If you took away your talent and my spite,
we'd be two copu-lating zeros."
  "There are zeros and zeros," said Victor. "Even as a zero you wouldn't be too bad. A shapely, beautifully
proportioned zero. Besides, if you took away your spite you'd become kind, which is not bad either."
  "If you took away my spite I'd be a jellyfish. In order to be kind, you have to replace spite with
kindness."
  "Funny," said Victor. "Usually women don't like to reason. But once they get started, they become
amazingly dogmatic. Where did you get the idea that you completely lack kind-ness? It doesn't work that
way. You have kindness, too, it's just hidden behind the spite. Every person has a little bit of everything
mixed up in him and life decides what will appear on the surface."
  A group of teenagers burst into the hall, and it immediately got noisy. Their behavior was quite
informal—they swore at the waiter and sent him running off for beer, then took over a table in a far corner,
and started talking and doubling over with laughter. Some thick-lipped, red-cheeked oaf danced over to the
bar, snapping his fingers. Teddy handed him a glass of something which he accepted with two fingers,
pinky raised. He turned his back to the bar, leaned his elbow on it, and, crossing his feet, surveyed the
empty hall. "Greetings to Di-ana!" he yelled. "How's life?" Diana gave him an indifferent smile.
   "Who's that creep?" asked Victor.
   "A certain Flamen Juventa," answered Diana. "One of the police chief's little relatives. The nephew."
   "I think I've seen him somewhere," said Victor.
       52 The Ugly Swans

   "The hell with him," said Diana impatiently. "All people are jellyfish and there's nothing to them. Once in
a while you find some real ones, who have something of their own—kindness, talent, spite—but if you take
that away from them, then there's nothing left, they turn into jellyfish like everyone else. Do you really think
I liked you because of your passion for marinated eel and justice? Nonsense! You're talented, you're
famous, you've written books, but aside from that you're the same hopeless sloth that everyone else is."
   "What you're saying," said Victor, "is so far from the truth that I'm not even offended. But go on, it's
interesting to watch your face change as you talk." He lit up a cigarette and gave it to her. "Go ahead."
   "Jellyfish," she said bitterly. "Stupid slippery jellyfish. They swarm, they crawl, they kill, they don't know
what they want, they don't know how to do anything, they don't really love any-thing. Like worms in a
privy."
   "That's indelicate," said Victor. "The image is striking— but it's decidedly unappetizing. And in general,
you're giving me nothing but banalities. Diana, sweetheart, you're not a thinker. In the last century, in a
small town, this might have gone over—at the very least, the social world would have been sweetly
shocked, and pale youths with burning eyes would have followed at your heels. But today all these things
are truisms. Today everybody knows what man is. The problem is what to do with him. And even that
one's been talked to death."
  "And what about the jellyfish?"
   "What do you mean? What are the jellyfish doing?"
   "I mean what are we doing with them?"
   "As far as I know, very little. I think we can them."
   "All right, enough," said Diana. "Have you managed to get anything written over the last couple of days?"
  "Have I ever! I wrote an incredibly touching letter to my friend Rots-Tusov. If after this letter he doesn't
get Irma into a boarding school, then I'm really good for nothing."
                                         The Ugly Swans 53

   "And that's all?"
    "That's it," said Victor. "The rest I threw out."
    "Terrific," said Diana. "And for that I looked after you, tried not to bother you, chased away Rosheper
..."
    "Gave me a bath," Victor reminded her.
    "Gave you a bath, kept you supplied with coffee..."
    "Wait," said Victor. "I gave you a bath too."
    "That doesn't count."
   "What do you mean, it doesn't count? You think it's easy to work after giving you a bath? I wrote six
variants describing the process and none of them are any good."
    "Let me read them."
   "For men only," said Victor. "Besides I threw them out, didn't I tell you? Anyway, they were lacking in
patriotism and national self-awareness, so I couldn't show them to anyone."
    "Tell me how you do it—do you write first and stick in the national self-awareness later?"
    "No," said Victor. "First I immerse myself in national self-awareness to the very depths of my soul. I
read the speeches of Mr. President, memorize heroic sagas, go to party meetings. Then, when I start to
throw up—not when I start to get nau-seous, but when I start to throw up—I go to work. Let's talk about
something else. Like what we're going to do tomorrow."
    "Tomorrow you have a meeting with the middle-school students."
    "That won't take any time. And then?"
    Diana didn't answer. She was looking past him. Victor turned around. A slimy was walking towards
 them, in all his magnificence: black, wet, and with a bandage on his face.
    "Good evening," he said to Diana. "Golem hasn't returned yet?"
    Victor looked in amazement at the change in Diana's face. It was a face from out of an old painting, a
 face from an icon. The same strangely immobile features, which you stare at not quite sure what got them
 there, an artist's master stroke or a
       54 The Ugly Swans

hack's clumsiness. She didn't respond. She was silent, the slimy looked at her in silence, and there was no
awkwardness in it. They were together, and Victor and everybody else was ex-cluded. Victor was not
amused.
  "Golem is probably on his way," he said in a loud voice.
  "Yes," said Diana. "Why don't you sit down and wait."
  Her voice was normal, and she smiled at the slimy with her usual indifferent smile. Everything was
normal—Victor was with Diana and the slimy and everybody else was excluded.
  "Please," said Victor cheerfully, pointing to Dr. R. Quadriga's armchair.
  The slimy took a seat, putting his black-gloved hands on his knees. Victor poured him some cognac. With
an accus-tomed, careless gesture, the slimy took the glass, tipped it from side to side as if weighing it, and
put it back on the table.
  "I hope you haven't forgotten?" he said to Diana.
  "No," said Diana. "No, I'll bring it right away. Victor, give me the key to the room, I'll be right back."
  She took the key and hurried to the exit. Victor lit up a cigarette. "What's with you, pal?" he said to
himself. "You've been imagining too much the last couple of days. Have you really gotten so sensitive?
Jealous. And for what? None of this has anything to do with you, all these former husbands and strange
acquaintances. Diana is Diana and you are you. Rosh-eper is impotent. Impotent. And let's leave it at that."
  He knew that it wasn't that simple, that he'd already tasted the poison, but he told himself that enough
was enough and for the moment, for the time being, he managed to convince himself that it was.
  The slimy sat across from him, immobile and frightening, like a stuffed bird. He smelled of mildew and of
something else as well, some medicine. "Who would have thought that someday I'd be sitting in a restaurant
sharing a table with a slimy? Progress, gentlemen, is slowly creeping ahead. Or are we the ones that have
changed and become accepting? Has it
                                     The Ugly Swans 55

finally dawned on us that all men are brothers? Humanity, my friend, I am proud of you. And you, sir,
would you let your daughter marry a slimy?"
   "Banev," said Victor, introducing himself. "How is the health of your—uh—injured colleague? The one
who fell into a trap?"
   The slimy quickly turned toward him. "He's facing me across the trenches," thought Victor.
   "Satisfactory," said the slimy drily.
   "If I were him I'd file a complaint with the police."
   "It doesn't make any sense," said the slimy.
   "Why not?" said Victor. "You don't have to go to the local police; you can go to the regional office."
   "We don't need that."
   Victor shrugged.
   "Every crime which goes unpunished leads to a new one."
   "Yes. But that doesn't interest us."
   There was a short silence. Then the slimy said, "My name is Zurzmansor."
   "An illustrious name," said Victor politely. "You wouldn't be a relative of Pavel Zurzmansor, the
sociologist?"
   The slimy squinted.
   "Not even a namesake," he said. "They tell me, Banev, that you're giving a talk at the middle school
tomorrow."
   Victor didn't have a chance to answer. A chair moved behind him, and he heard a sprightly baritone.
   "Get out of here, you filthy germ."
   Victor swung around. Towering above him was the thick-lipped Flamen Juventa, or whatever his name
was—in a word, the nephew. Victor looked at him for no more than a second, but he felt incredibly
annoyed.
    "Just who are you addressing, young man?" he inquired.
    "Your friend," said Flamen Juventa politely. He turned away. "I'm talking to you, you soggy bastard."
    "One moment," said Victor and stood up.
    Flamen Juventa, smirking, looked down at him. A young
       56 The Ugly Swans

Goliath in a ski jacket glittering with innumerable emblems, the paragon of the national sturmfuhrers, the
backbone of the nation, with a nightstick in his hip pocket. The terror of the left wing, the right wing, and
the center. Victor lightly touched Juventa's tie. "What is it you've got there?" he asked, feigning concern
and curiosity. And when the young Goliath instinc-tively inclined his head to see what it was he had there,
Victor grabbed Goliath's nose.
   "Hey!" Juventa yelled, stunned, and tried to free himself. But Victor wouldn't let him. For quite some time
Victor got an icy satisfaction from turning and twisting Juventa's insolent and muscular nose.
    "Behave yourself, you puppy, you spoiled brat, you lousy storm trooper, you son of a bitch."
   Victor's position was ideal. The young Goliath was kicking desperately, but there was an armchair
between them; the young Goliath beat his fists in the air, but Victor's arms were longer and he kept on
twisting and turning until a bottle flew over his head. He looked behind him. The whole gang was crashing
its way toward him, kicking aside tables and knocking over chairs. There were five of them in all, and two
were huge. For a moment everything stopped, as in a film freeze: Zurz-mansor, all in black, calmly reclining
in his armchair; Teddy, hanging in a half-completed leap across his bar; Diana with a white package in the
middle of the hall. In the background, by the doors, the furious mustachioed face of the doorman, and, right
next to Victor, five churlish faces with fangs bared. Then the freeze ended and the film resumed.
    The first gorilla was neatly disposed of with a hook to the jaw. He took off and didn't reappear for some
 time. The second gorilla got Victor in the ear. Someone landed a karate chop on his cheek, apparently
 aiming at the throat. And some-one else—the freed Goliath?—-jumped him from behind. The backbone of
the nation was nothing more than a street gang. Only one of them knew boxing and the others didn't want
to
                                    The Ugly Swans 57

fight so much as maim, gouge out the eyes, rip open the mouth, kick the groin. Had Victor been alone, they
would have muti-lated him. But along came Teddy, bounding in from the rear, devout observer of the
bouncer's golden rule to squelch all fights at their very outset. From the flanks appeared Diana, Diana
Enraged, fiery with hatred, unlike herself, wielding a heavy wickered bottle in place of her white package.
And last but not least, the doorman, an old-timer but, to judge from his grip, a former soldier. The doorman
moved in with his key-chain, swinging it like a soldier's belt with a bayonet hanging from it. Thus, by the
time the two waiters ran in from the kitchen, there was nothing left for them to do. The nephew took off,
abandoning his transistor radio. One of his pals re-mained in prone position under the table, felled by
Diana's bottle. Victor and Teddy took care of the remaining four. Rallying one another with war whoops,
they literally pounded their victims out of the hall, chased them through the lobby, and kicked them through
the revolving doors. Out of inertia they followed them onto the street, and only there, under the rain, did
they acknowledge their victory and calm down.
    "Lousy punks," said Teddy, lighting two cigarettes at once, one for himself and one for Victor. "They've
 hit on something new—a fight every Thursday. Last week I turned around for a minute and they broke
 two chairs. And who has to pay for it? Me!"
    Victor felt his swollen ear.
    "The nephew left," he said, disappointed. "I didn't get to give him what he deserved."
    "Just as well," said Teddy matter-of-factly. "Better not get involved with that thick-lipped bastard. His
 uncle is you-know-who and he himself—Backbone of the Motherland, Backbone of Law and Order, or
 whatever they call it. And you, my dear writer, have learned how to fight. You used to be a pushover-one
 blow and there you were under the table. Good for you."
    "It's my profession," sighed Victor. "A product of the strug-
        58 The Ugly Swans

gle for existence. That's the way we do it—every man for him-self. And Mr. President backs everyone."
   "Does it really come to blows?" asked Teddy innocently.
  "What did you think happens? They give you a good review, they say you're chock full of national
self-awareness. You go to find the critic and he's already got his friends with him, and they're all
hot-tempered young musclemen, Sons of the Presi-dent."
   "You don't say," sympathized Teddy. "And then what?"
   "It depends. You win some and you lose some."
  A jeep drove up to the entrance. The doors opened, and the young man in glasses, carrying his attache'
case, came out into the rain. Behind him, sheltered under the same raincoat, was the lanky companion. The
driver crawling out from behind the wheel was Golem. The lanky companion watched with keen, almost
professional interest as the doorman booted the last hood, still slightly dazed, out the revolving door.
   "Too bad that one wasn't with us," whispered Teddy, eye-ing the companion. "A far cry from you. A real
professional-know what I mean?"
   "Got you," Victor whispered back.
   The young man with the attache case and the lanky com-panion jogged past them and disappeared into
the entrance. Golem, unhurried and smiling at Victor, was about to follow suit. But Mr. Zurzmansor, holding
a white package, blocked his path. Zurzmansor said something in a low voice, after which Golem stopped
smiling and went back to the car. Zurzmansor got in the back and the jeep took off.
   "Hey," said Teddy. "We were fighting the wrong battle, Mr. Banev. People are shedding their blood for
him, and he gets into somebody's car and drives off."
   "Come on, you're overdoing it," said Victor. "A sick, un-happy man, today it's him, tomorrow it'll be you.
You and I are going to go in for a drink, and he's being taken back to the leprosarium."
                                      The Ugly Swans 59

  "We know where they're taking him!" said Teddy, intransi-gent. "You writers don't understand our life."
  "Lost touch with the nation?"
  "The hell with the nation, it's our life you don't know. Try living with us: how many years has this rain
been coming down, everything's rotted in the fields, the children are out of control. Just look what's going
on—not a single cat is left in town, the mice have taken over. Ugh," he said, waving his hand. "Let's get
going."
   They returned to the lobby. "How much did they ruin?" Teddy asked the doorman, who had by now
resumed his post.
   "Not so bad," said the doorman. "You came through all right. They broke a lamp and messed up a wall. I
took the money from—uh—from the last one. Here, take it."
   Teddy went back to the restaurant, counting the money on the way; Victor followed. Quiet had returned
to the hall. The young man in glasses and his lanky friend were lost in boredom over a bottle of mineral
water. In front of them was their ever-present supper, which they chewed melancholically. Diana was
back in her seat. She was very animated and terribly pretty. She even managed to smile at Dr. R.
Quadriga as he took his seat, although on most occasions she couldn't stand him. Op-posite R. Quadriga
was a bottle of rum, but he was still sober and for that reason looked peculiar.
   "To the victor," he intoned mournfully. "A pity that I wasn't present even as a midshipman."
   Victor collapsed into his chair.
    "Some ear," said R. Quadriga. "Where'd you get it? Like a cockscomb."
    "Cognac!" demanded Victor. Diana poured him some cog-nac. "To her and her alone do I owe my
 victory," he said, pointing to Diana. "Did you pay for the bottle?"
    "It didn't break," said Diana. "What do you take me for? But did he fall! Boy, did he ever come crashing!
 I wish all the bastards would—"
       6o The Ugly Swans

   "Let us proceed," intoned R. Quadriga, pouring himself a full glass of rum.
   "He tipped over just like a mannequin," said Diana. "Like a bowling pin. Victor, are you all in one piece?
I saw how they were kicking you."
   "The piece de resistance is still intact," answered Victor. "I watched out for it."
   Dr. R. Quadriga gurgled down the last drops of rum from his glass like a kitchen sink gurgling down the
dishwater. His eyes immediately got glassy.
   "We're already acquainted," said Victor hurriedly. "You are Dr. Rem Quadriga, and I am the writer
Banev."
   "Forget it," said R. Quadriga. "I'm completely sober. But I'll get there. That's the only thing I'm sure of
now. You can't imagine, but when I came here six months ago I was an abso-lute teetotaler. My liver is
bad, my intestines are inflamed, and there's something wrong with my stomach. Drinking in my condition is
absolutely forbidden, and here I am getting drunk day in and day out. Absolutely .nobody needs me. This
has never happened to me before. I don't even get any letters, be-cause my old friends are in the camps
without writing privileges and my new ones are illiterate."
    "No government secrets," said Victor. "I don't have security clearance."
    R. Quadriga poured himself another glass and started sipping the rum as though it were lukewarm tea.
    "It works faster that way," he informed them. "Try it, Banev. It may help. And you don't have to stare at
me," he snapped at Diana. "I beg you to hide your feelings. If you don't like-"
    "Relax, relax," said Victor, and R. Quadriga cooled down.
    "They don't understand a goddamned thing about me," he complained. "Nobody. Only you understand a
little. You al-ways understood me. Only you're awfully crude, Banev, and you always wounded me. I'm
wounded all over. They don't
                                         The Ugly Swans 61

dare denounce me now, all they can do is praise me. And as soon as one of those bastards praises me, I
get a wound. An-other bastard praises me; another wound. But now all that's behind me. They don't know
that yet. Listen, Banev! You have a great woman. I beg you ... ask her, let her come to my studio. No, you
fool! A model! You don't understand anything, I've been looking for a model like that for years."
   "An allegorical painting," Victor explained to Diana. " 'The President and the Eternally Young Nation/ "
    "Fool," whimpered Quadriga. "You all think I'm selling myself. It's true, I sold myself. But I'm not
 painting presidents any more. A self-portrait! Understand?"
    "No," confessed Victor. "I don't understand. You want to paint your portrait as Diana?"
    "Fool," said R. Quadriga. "It will be the face of the artist—"
    "Modeled on my ass," said Diana.
    "The face of the artist!" repeated R. Quadriga. "You're an artist, Victor. And so are all the people sitting
 in the camps without writing privileges. And so are all the people lying in their graves without writing
 privileges. And so are all the peo-ple living in my house, that is to say, not living. You know, Banev, I'm
afraid. I told you, come, live with me for just a little while. I have a villa. A fountain. But the gardener ran
away. Coward. Only I can't live there, I'm better off at the hotel. You think I drink because I sold out?
Bullshit! This isn't some fashionable novel. Live with me for awhile and you'll see. Maybe you'll even come
to know them. Maybe they aren't my friends at all, maybe they're yours. Then I'd know why they refuse to
recognize me. They walk around barefoot . . . they laugh." His eyes filled with tears. "Ladies and
gentlemen!" he said. "How lucky we are that Pavor isn't with us! Your health."
   "Cheers," said Victor, exchanging glances with Diana. Di-ana looked at R. Quadriga with fastidious
 anxiety. "Nobody here likes Pavor," he continued. "Only I am some sort of monster."
      62 The Ugly Swans

  "A still pond," pronounced Dr. R. Quadriga. "A frog jump-ing. Blatherer. Always silent."
  "He's just stewed, that's all," Victor said to Diana. "Nothing to worry about."
  "Gentlemen!" said Dr. R. Quadriga. "Madam! Allow me to introduce myself! Rem Quadriga, doctor
honoris causae."
       Chapter V


Victor entered the middle school a half hour before the ap-pointed time, but Bol-Kunats was already
waiting for him. For-tunately, the boy was tactful. He told Victor only that the meeting would take place in
the auditorium and then excused himself, citing some pressing business. Left alone, Victor wan-dered along
the corridors, looking into the empty classrooms, breathing in the scent of ink, chalk, and dust that never
set-tled. The smell of fights "till the first blood" and the smell of exhausting interrogations at the board. The
smell of prison, the smell of arbitrariness, and the smell of lies, elevated to a moral code. He kept trying to
call forth sweet memories of childhood and youth—his knighthood, his friendships, his first pure love. But
nothing came of it, although he tried hard, ready to melt at the first opportunity. Everything was the way it
always had been: the bright, stuffy classrooms and the scratched-up boards, the desks with their colored
initials and apocryphal inscriptions about boys and handy toys. The thick fortress walls, painted halfway up
in a cheerful shade of green, and the plaster chips in the corners. Everything was the way it had always
been—hateful and vile, inspiring malice and despair. He found his old classroom, though not right away. He
found his seat by the window, though the desk was new. But on the windowsill you could still see the
deeply-etched em-blem of the Legion of Freedom, and he vividly remembered the suffocating enthusiasm
of those times. The white and red
                                                        63
     64 The Ugly Swans

neckerchiefs, the tin piggy banks "for the Legion Fund," the desperate, bloody fighting with the Reds and the
portraits. The portraits in every newspaper, in every textbook, and on every wall: that face which then
seemed handsome and important, but had since turned flabby—a wild boar's snout, punctuated by a huge,
tusked, saliva-spraying mouth. They had been so young, so uninteresting, so identical . . . and so stupid. You
couldn't feel good about that stupidity now, you couldn't feel happy that you'd grown smarter. There was
only a burning shame for what you were then, an efficient little gray fledgling which imagined itself bright,
irreplaceable, and chosen. And your shameful childish desire, your agonizing fear before a girl you'd already
boasted about so much there was no way of getting out of it. And the next day, your father's deafening
anger and your burning ears, and all this is what they call the happy years—grayness, desire, fanaticism.
   "Bad deal," he thought. "What if fifteen years from now I look back and see that today I'm just as gray
and subjugated as I was in my childhood, only worse, because now I consider myself grown up, knowing
enough and having lived through enough to have a basis for self-satisfaction and the right to judge.
   "Modesty and only modesty, right down to self-abasement ... and nothing but the truth, never lie, at least
never to your-self. But it's terrible, abasing yourself when you're surrounded by so many idiots, lechers, and
self-centered liars; when even the best of them are marked with spots, like lepers. Do you want to be
young again? No. But would you like to live another fifteen years? Yes. Because to live is good. Even
when you get hit. As long as you have the chance to hit back. All right, enough. Let us conclude on the
thought that the present life is a means of existence permitting the bearer to hit back. And now let's see
what's become of the children."
   There was a good crowd in the auditorium and the usual hum of voices, which ceased when Bol-Kunats
led Victor onto
                                    The Ugly Swans 65

the stage. He sat him down under a huge portrait of the presi-dent—a gift of Dr. R. Quadriga—at a table
covered with a red and white cloth. Then Bol-Kunats walked to the front of the stage.
    "Today we have with us the well-known writer Victor Banev, a native of our town." He turned to Victor.
"How would you like to do it, Mr. Banev? Should the questions be delivered from the audience directly, or
would you like to read them first?"
    "Makes no difference," grinned Victor. "As long as there are a lot of them."
    "In that case, we are at your service."
   Bol-Kunats jumped off the stage and took a seat in the first row. Victor scratched his eyebrows and
looked over the hall. There were about fifty of them, girls and boys ranging in age from ten to fourteen, and
they were looking at him with quiet expectation. Nothing but prodigies here, flashed through his mind. He
caught sight of Irma in the second row and smiled at her. She smiled back.
    "I was a student in this school," Victor began, "and once I even got to play Osric on this stage. I didn't
know my part, and I had to make it up as I went. That was the first thing I ever made up when not under
threat of an F. They say that school has gotten harder than it was in my day. They say that you have new
subjects, and that what we did in three years you have to cover in a year. But you probably don't notice that
it's gotten harder. Scientists speculate that the human brain is capable of taking in a lot more information
than the ordinary person would think at first glance. All you have to do is be able to cram the
information—" "Right," thought Victor. "Now I'll tell them about hypnopedia." But Bol-Kunats handed him a
note: "Don't talk about the achievements of science. Talk with us as equals. Valeryans, Grade 6."
    "So," said Victor. "Here is a certain Valeryans from the sixth grade who proposes that I talk with you as
 equals and asks me
       66 The Ugly Swans

not to outline the achievements of science. I must confess, Valeryans, that I was really intending to say a
few words about the achievements of hypnopedia. But I shall willingly restrain myself, although I consider it
my duty to acquaint you with the fact that the majority of my equals have only the foggiest understanding of
it." It was uncomfortable for him to talk sitting down; he stood up and walked the length of the stage. "I
must confess to you, my young friends, that I've never been fond of meeting with my readers. As a rule, it's
completely impossible to figure out what kind of reader you're dealing with, what he needs from you and
what exactly interests him. For that reason I try to turn my appearance into a question-and-answer session.
Occasionally this becomes quite amusing. So let's begin, and I'll start the questioning. So. . . . Have you all
read my works?"
    "Yes," responded the childish voices. "We've read them . . .
all of them _ "
    "Fine," said Victor, a bit troubled. "I'm flattered, but none-theless surprised. Well, all right, let's see.
Would the group like me to tell how one of my novels was written?"
    There was a short silence, after which a thin pimply-faced boy in the center of the hall stood up, said
"No," and sat down.
    "Fine," said Victor. "All the better, since despite certain widely held views, there is nothing particularly
interesting in learning how a novel was written. Let's move on. Would my respected audience like to hear
about my creative plans?"
    Bol-Kunats stood up. "The truth is, Mr. Banev," he said politely, "that questions closely related to the
technique of your work would better be discussed toward the end of our meeting, when the general picture
will have been clarified."
    He took his seat. Victor put his hands into his pockets and retraced his steps along the stage. It was
 getting interesting, or, in any case, unusual.
    "Perhaps you would prefer literary anecdotes?" he asked in-
                                         The Ugly Swans 67

gratiatingly. "How I hunted with Hemingway. How Ehrenburg gave me a Russian samovar. Or what
Zurzmansor told me when I met him in a streetcar."
  "Did you really meet Zurzmansor?" came from the hall.
  "No, I'm joking," said Victor. "So what's the decision on literary anecdotes?"
  "Will you take a question?" said the pimply-faced boy, getting to his feet.
  "Of course."
  "How would you like to see us in the future?"
  "Without pimples," flashed in Victor's head, but he pushed the thought aside because he felt that things
were getting hot. The question was a tough one. "If only someone would tell me how I would like to see
myself in the present," he thought. But he had to answer.
  "Intelligent," he said at random. "Honest. Kind. ... I would like you to love your work . . . and to work
only for the good of mankind." ("I'm laying it on," he thought. "But what else can you do?") "Something on
that order."
  A murmur ran through the hall. Then someone asked from his seat, "Do you really think that a soldier is
more important than a physicist?"
  "Do I think that?" Victor flared up.
  "That was my understanding of your novella Misfortune Comes at Night"
  The speaker was a little towheaded bug about ten years of age. Victor took in his breath. Misfortune
could be a bad book and it could be a good book, but it was in no way a children's book. It was so far from
being a children's book that not a single critic could figure it out—they all took it for pornographic trash
which undercut morality and national self-awareness. And the worst of it was that the towheaded bug
really had a basis for believing that the author of Misfortune considered a soldier "more important" than a
physicist, in certain respects, at any rate.
      68 The Ugly Swans

   "The thing is," said Victor with feeling, "that—how can I put it to you—everything's possible."
   "I wasn't referring to physiology," objected the towheaded bug. "I was talking about the general
conception of the book. Perhaps 'important' is the wrong word."
   "I wasn't referring to physiology either," said Victor. "I mean that there are situations in which knowledge
is insignificant."
   Bol-Kunats picked up two notes from the audience and handed them to Victor. "Can a person who
works for the military-industrial complex be considered honorable and kind?" and "What is an intelligent
man?" Victor started with the second question—it was easier.
   "An intelligent man," he said, "is someone who acknowl-edges the imperfection and incompleteness of his
knowledge, strives to overcome it, and is successful in this. Do you agree with me?"
   "No," said a pretty little girl, half-rising.
   "Why not?"
    "Your definition is not functional. Any fool, using your definition, might consider himself intelligent.
Especially if other people support him in his opinion."
    "Right," thought Victor. He was seized by a light panic. "This isn't one of your talks with your
 pen-wielding colleagues."
    "In a sense you are right," he said, surprising even himself by his respectful tone. "However, in general
the concepts of 'fool' and 'intelligent person' are historical and, ultimately, subjective."
    "It follows that you yourself would not take on the task of distinguishing a stupid person from a smart
 one?"
    The question came from the back rows, a dark creature with beautiful biblical eyes and a shaved head.
    "Why not?" said Victor. "I would. But I'm not convinced that you would always agree with me. There's
 an old apho-rism: a fool is just someone who thinks differently." Usually this saying made the audience
 laugh, but this time the audi-
                                            The Ugly Swans 69

torium waited silently for him to continue. "Or someone who feels differently," Victor added.
   He had a sharp sense of the audience's dissatisfaction but he didn't know what else to say. There hadn't
been any contact. As a rule, the audience would easily adopt the position of the speaker, and agree with all
his judgments. What was meant by "fools" would be clear to everyone—with, of course, the under-standing
that in the present company there weren't any. If worse came to worse, the audience wouldn't agree and
would look for a confrontation. But even then it was easy, because you could always use ridicule and
sarcasm. And it's not hard to take on a group singlehandedly, since your opponents con-tradict each other
and you can always pick out the loudest and the stupidest and trample him underfoot to the general delight.
   "I don't completely understand," said the pretty little girl. "You would like us to be intelligent, that is, to put
it in terms of your aphorism, to think and feel the same way as you do. But I've gone through all your books
and find only negativism in them. There is no affirmative program. On the other hand, you would like us to
work for the good of mankind. That is, literally, for the good of those dirty, unpleasant types who fill up
your books. After all, your books are realistic, aren't they?"
    Victor felt that he had finally touched bottom.
    "You see," he said, "by work for the good of mankind I have in mind transforming people into clean and
pleasant types. And this wish of mine bears no relationship to my creative work. In my books I attempt to
depict everything as it is, not to preach or show what should be done. At most I indicate the pressure point,
draw attention to what it is we have to fight. I don't know how to change people—if I did I wouldn't be a
writer. I'd be a superb pedagogue or an eminent psychoso-ciologist. Literature is not the place for teaching,
for proposing specific paths or concrete methodologies. Look at our greatest writers. I bow down before
Tolstoy, but only to the point where he remains an individual, uniquely reflective of reality.
        70 The Ugly Swans

As soon as he starts teaching me to go barefoot and turn the other cheek, I'm seized with pity and
boredom. The writer is an instrument which indicates the condition of society, and is only to an infinitesimal
degree a weapon for transforming it. History shows that society is not transformed by literature, but by
reforms and machine guns, or, recently, by science as well. At best, literature shows whom to shoot at or
what needs changing." He paused, thinking that he'd forgotten about Dostoevsky and Faulkner. But while
he was figuring out how to bring in literature as a tool for studying the individual psyche, a voice came from
the back of the hall.
   "Excuse me, but all this is rather trivial. This isn't the point. The point is that the objects you have depicted
in no way desire to be changed. And then they're so unpleasant, so neglected, so hopeless, that one doesn't
even want to change them. You understand, they're not worth it. Let them rot away by themselves, they
don't have any role to play. So for whose good are we to work, in your opinion?"
   "Now I'm beginning to see," said Victor slowly.
   It had suddenly dawned on him: "My God, these wet-nosed kids really think I only write about the scum
of the earth, that I think everyone belongs there. But they haven't understood a thing, and how could they
have, anyway— they're only children, strange children, sure, intelligent to the point of sickness, but with a
child's experience in life and a child's understanding of people plus whatever they've gotten from all their
books. With a child's idealism and a child's desire to put everything into pigeonholes with the labels 'bad' and
'good.' Just like my pen-wielding colleagues."
   "I've been deceived by your way of talking like grown-ups," he said. "I even forgot that you weren't
grown-ups. I under-stand that it's pedagogically bad to talk this way, but I'm afraid it's necessary, or we'll
never find our way out of this. The whole problem is that you, apparently, can't understand how a man who
is unshaven, unstable, and eternally drunk can be
                                         The Ugly Swans 71

an excellent person, a person it's impossible not to love, some-one you'd bow before and whose hand you'd
be honored to shake, because this man has been through an unimaginable hell, and yet remained a human
being. You consider the heroes of my novels to be dirty bastards, but that's half-forgivable. You consider
that I relate to them the same way as you do. And that's unforgivable. Unforgivable in the sense that we'll
never understand each other."
    God only knows what kind of a reaction he expected from his well-intended lecture. Either that they'd
start exchanging embarrassed glances, or that their faces would light up with understanding, or that a sigh
of relief would flood through the hall as a sign that the misunderstanding had passed and they could begin
again on a new, more realistic basis. In any event, none of this occurred. In the back of the hall, the boy
with the biblical eyes stood up and asked, "Would you mind telling us how you define progress?"
     Victor felt insulted. "Of course," he thought. "And then they'll ask if a machine can think and whether
 there's life on Mars. Everything."
     "Progress," he said, "is the movement of society toward a state in which people don't kill, trample, and
 torment one another."
     "And how do they fill their time?" asked a fat boy to the right.
     "They drink liquor and nibble quantum satis" mumbled someone to the left.
     "And why not?" said Victor. "The history of mankind has seen very few times when people could drink
  liquor and nibble quantum satis. For me, progress is the movement of society toward a state in which
  people don't trample one another and don't kill. And how they'll fill their time then is, in my opin-ion, not that
important. For me, it's the necessary conditions of progress that are paramount; the sufficient conditions
can wait."
    72 The Ugly Swans

   "May I interrupt?" asked Bol-Kunats. "Let us look at the following scheme. Automation proceeds at the
same pace as today. It follows that in a few decades the vast majority of the active population of the Earth
will be thrown out of industry and the service professions because of obsolescence. Picture how good it is:
nobody's hungry, trampling your neighbor makes no sense, nobody bothers anybody—and nobody needs
anybody either. There are, of course, a few hundred thousand persons inventing new machines and insuring
the uninter-rupted work of old ones, but the remaining billions are of no use to one another. Is that good?"
   "I don't know," said Victor. "Of course it's not completely good. It's somehow insulting. But I have to say
that it's still better than what we're seeing now. So that there still would be definite progress."
   "And would you yourself like to live in that world?"
   Victor thought.
   "You know," he said, "I don't picture it very clearly, but to be honest with you, it wouldn't be bad to give it
a try."
   "And could you picture someone who would categorically refuse to live in a world like that?"
   "Of course I could. There are people, I've seen them, who would be bored there. No room for power,
nobody to order around, no reason to trample your fellow man. Naturally, they'd be unlikely to turn down
that rarest of all opportuni-ties—turning heaven into a pigsty ... or into a barracks. They would be delighted
to destroy that world. So, as a matter of fact, no, I couldn't imagine such a person."
   "And what about your heroes, the ones you're so fond of. Would a future like that suit them?"
   "Of course. They'd get the peace they deserve."
   Bol-Kunats sat down, but the pimply-faced boy stood up and shook his head sadly.
   "This is the whole problem. The problem is not whether we understand real life or not, but that for you
 and your
                                         The Ugly Swans 73

heroes a future like that would be completely acceptable, while for us it would be death. The end of hope.
The end of hu-manity. A dead end. That's why we say that we don't want to waste our strength working
for the good of those types, your types, who are longing for peace and up to their ears in filth. It's no longer
possible to instill in them the energy for real life. And whatever you might have intended, Mr. Banev, still, in
your books—in your interesting books, I'm all for them—you didn't show us any pressure point in the human
race, you showed us rather that no such pressure point exists, at least in your generation. You've fed on one
another—excuse the ex-pression—you've exhausted yourselves with your infighting and your lying and the
war against lying which you carry out by thinking up new lies. It's like your song: Truth and lies, you aren't
so far apart, yesterday's truth becomes a lie, yesterday's lie becomes tomorrow's purest truth, tomorrow's
ordinary truth.' So you swing from lie to lie. You simply can't get it into your heads that you're already dead
men, that by your own hands you've created a world which has become your head-stone. You've rotted in
the trenches, you've thrown yourselves under tanks, and who has it helped? You've criticized the
government and criticized law and order as if you didn't know that your generation is, well, simply unworthy
of anything better. You've been beaten on the head, excuse the expression, and you persist in repeating that
man by nature is good, or, even worse, that the name 'man' has a proud ring. And think of the people you've
called 'men'!"
    The pimply-faced orator waved his hand and sat down. Si-lence reigned. Then he stood up again. "When
 I said 'you,' I did not mean you personally, Mr. Banev."
    "Thank you," snapped Victor.
    He felt irritated—this pimply-faced puppy had no right to talk with such finality, it was sheer insolence . .
 . give him a shove and throw him out of the room. He felt awkward—much of what was said was true,
 and he himself felt the same way,
       74 The Ugly Swans

and now he found himself in the position of defending some-thing that he hated. He felt himself at a loss.
He didn't know what to do next, how to continue the conversation and whether it was worth continuing. He
glanced around the auditorium and saw that they were waiting for his answer, that Irma was waiting for his
answer, that all these rosy-cheeked, freckled monsters shared the same thoughts, and the insolent kid with
the pimples had merely expressed the general consensus. And he had expressed it sincerely, with deep
conviction, not be-cause he had just read some forbidden pamphlet. They really didn't feel the tiniest bit of
gratitude or the most elementary respect for him, Victor Banev, for having enlisted in the hus-sars and
attacked tanks on horseback, for having nearly died of dysentery when they were surrounded or for having
cut down a guard with a homemade knife. Or for what he did later on, when he got home—for slapping a
security recruiter in the face and refusing to sign a denunciation. And then wandering around with a hole in
his lung and without work, dealing in black-market fruit even though he'd been offered the most lucrative
positions. "And when you come down to it, why should that make them respect me? Because I moved on a
column of tanks with a bared saber? You have to be an idiot in order to have a government that would get
the army into such a mess." He shuddered, imagining the huge labor of thought these fledglings must have
gone through in order to arrive, com-pletely independently, at the same conclusions that adults reach after
laying bare their very skins, shattering their souls, and ruining their own lives and most of the lives around
them. And not even all adults, but only some of them. The majority to this day believes that everything was
right, everything was just terrific, and if the need should arise they'd be ready to start in all over again. Has
a new age really dawned? He glanced at the audience with something approaching fright. It seemed that
the future had really managed to extend its feelers into the very heart of the present, and that that future
was
                                        The Ugly Swans 75

cold and pitiless. It couldn't care less about the virtues of the past, both the real ones and the imaginary
ones.
   "Look," said Victor. "You young people probably haven't noticed it, but you're cruel. You're cruel out of
the best possi-ble motives, but it's cruelty just the same. And it can't bring anything except fresh grief, fresh
tears, and fresh baseness. That's what you have in mind. And don't think that you're say-ing something very
new. To destroy the old world and build up a new one on its bones is a very old idea. And never once has it
brought the desired results. The same thing that calls forth the desire for merciless destruction in the old
world quickly adapts itself to the process of destruction, to cruelty and mer-cilessness. It becomes essential
to this process and always gets retained. It becomes the master of the new world and, in the final analysis,
kills the bold destroyers themselves. A crow won't peck out the eye of its brother; you can't fight cruelty
with cruelty. Irony and pity, my young friends. Irony and pity!"
   The audience suddenly stood up. It was completely unex-pected, and the mad thought flashed through
Victor's mind that he had finally managed to say something that struck the imagination of his listeners. But
then he saw a slimy walking into the auditorium, thin and light, as immaterial as a shadow. The children
were looking at him, and not only looking, they were being drawn toward him. He made a polite bow to
Victor, mumbled an excuse, and took a seat at the side of the hall, next to Irma. The children also took their
seats. Victor looked at Irma and saw that she was happy, that she was trying not to show it, but the
contentment and joy were bursting out of her. But before he could get his wits together, Bol-Kunats spoke.
   "I'm afraid you've misunderstood us, Mr. Banev," he said. "We're not cruel at all, and if we are cruel
 from your point of view, then it's only theoretical. After all, we're not intending to destroy your old world.
 We intend to build a new one. It's you that are cruel: you can't imagine building the new without
       76 The Ugly Swans

destroying the old. And we can imagine this very well. We'll even help your generation to build its heaven,
and you can drink liquor to your heart's content. We're building, Mr. Banev, only building. We're not
destroying anything, only building."
   Victor finally tore his eyes off Irma and pulled his thoughts together.
   "Yes," he said. "Of course. Go to it, build. I'm all for you. You've overwhelmed me today, but I'm still
with you—maybe for that reason alone. If I have to, I'll even give up my share of the pie. Only don't forget
that old worlds have had to be destroyed because they got in the way . . . got in the way of the new—didn't
like it, crushed it."
   "The present old world," said Bol-Kunats enigmatically, "will not get in our way. It will even help us. Past
history has come to an end, there's no need to refer to it."
   "Well, then, all the better," said Victor, tired. "I'm glad that it's working out so well for you."
   "Terrific boys and girls," he thought. "Strange, but terrific. But I'm sorry for them. They'll grow up, climb
on top of one another, multiply, and begin working for their daily bread. No," he thought with despair.
"Maybe they'll manage without that. They're not at all like we were. Maybe they'll manage without it." He
swept the notes off the table. There were a lot of them. "What is a fact?" "Can someone who works for
the military-industrial complex be considered honest and kind?" "Why do you drink so much?" "Your opinion
of Spengler?"
   "I have a bunch of questions here," he said. "I don't know if it's still worth—"
   The pimply-faced nihilist stood up.
   "As it happens, Mr. Banev, I don't know what questions you have there but the point is, in fact, it doesn't
really matter. We simply wanted to become acquainted with a well-known con-temporary author. Every
well-known author expresses the ideol-ogy of his society or of a part of that society, and we needed to
learn the ideology of contemporary society. Now we know more than we knew before our meeting with
you. Thank you."
                                       The Ugly Swans 77

   There was a rustling in the hall; people began to talk. "Thank you. Thank you, Mr. Banev." Children
were getting up and leaving their seats. Victor stood, crumpling the notes in his hand, feeling like an idiot.
He knew that he was red in the face, that he looked lost and pathetic, but he took himself in hand, stuffed
the notes into his pocket, and left the stage.
   The hardest part was that he hadn't figured out how he should relate to these children. They were unreal,
they were impossible. Their statements, their attitudes toward what he wrote and what he said had nothing
in common with their fly-ing pigtails and disheveled curls, their unwashed necks, their thin, scratched-up
hands and the high-pitched din all around. It was as if some power, on a whim, had merged a kindergarten
with a dispute in a research laboratory. The merging of the unmergeable. That's probably what the cat felt
in the experi-ment: they gave her a piece of fish, scratched her behind the ear, and at the same moment hit
her with an electric shock, fired a cartridge under her nose, and blinded her with a flood-light. "I know,"
sighed Victor to the cat, whose condition he could picture very clearly. "Our psyches are not made for
shocks like that; I could even see us dying from them."
   Suddenly he realized that he was stuck. They had sur-rounded him and wouldn't let him pass. For a
moment panic and terror overtook him. He would not have been surprised if they had quietly and
matter-of-factly stretched him out on the floor and started doing an autopsy for the purpose of ideo-logical
investigation. But they didn't want to do an autopsy on him. They were holding out their opened notebooks,
cheap pads, little bits of paper. They were murmuring, "Could we have your autograph," squealing "Here,
please." Their voices were breaking. "Could you please, Mr. Banev?"
   He got out his fountain pen and started taking the cap off, following his feelings with the curiosity of an
outsider. He was not surprised to find that he was proud. These were the phan-toms of the future, and to
be popular with them was still
       Chapter VI


Back in his room he headed straight for the bar, poured himself some gin, and drank it down in one gulp,
like medicine. Water streamed down his face and down his collar (apparently he had forgotten to put on his
hood). His pants were soaked to the knees and stuck to his legs (he had probably walked along with-out
looking, straight through the puddles). More than any-thing he craved a cigarette. It seemed that he hadn't
had a smoke in over two hours.
   "Acceleration," he declared to himself as he threw his wet raincoat right onto the floor, changed his
clothes, and wiped his head with a towel. "It's nothing but acceleration," he com-forted himself, lighting a
cigarette and taking the first greedy drags. "There it is, acceleration in action," he thought with horror,
recalling the self-assurance of those childish voices mak-ing their impossible pronouncements. "Lord save
the grown-ups, save their parents, enlighten them and make them smarter, now's the time. For Thy own
good I pray Thee, Lord, or they'll build themselves a Tower of Babel, a monument on the grave of all those
idiots you put on this earth to be fruitful and multiply. You never did think through the consequences of
acceleration, did you? Not too bright of you, brother."
   Victor finished his cigarette, spit the butt onto the carpet, and lit up a new one. "What am I getting so
worked up about?" he thought. "My imagination's gotten out of hand. So I saw some kids, so they're old
beyond their years. Is this the
       78
                                       The Ugly Swans 79

first time I've looked at kids who were old beyond their years? Where did I get the idea that they thought it
all up by them-selves? All this local filth got to them. They read a lot of books, they oversimplified, and,
naturally, they came to the conclusion that it was imperative to build a new world. And not all of them are
that way. They have their chiefs, their ringleaders— Bol-Kunats, the one with the pimples, and then that
pretty little thing. Instigators. And the rest were just kids, they sat there, they listened, and they got bored."
He knew that it wasn't true. "Well, suppose they didn't get bored, suppose they were interested—still, a
provincial town, a famous writer. . . . No way you would have caught me reading my books when I was
their age. And you wouldn't have gotten me to go any-where, except to a cowboy film or a traveling circus,
to gawk at the tightrope walkers' thighs. I didn't give a shit about the old world or the new world either, I
didn't even know there was such a thing. I knew how to exhaust myself playing soc-cer. I knew how to
unscrew light bulbs and explode them against a wall, or how to get hold of some momma's boy and cream
him." Victor fell into his armchair and stretched out his legs. "We have all these rosy memories of our
happy child-hoods, and we're sure that that's the way it's always been and always will be, ever since the
days of Tom Sawyer. That it has to be that way. And if it isn't, then the child is abnormal. If you don't
know him well, you feel sorry for him, and if you do, you're overcome with pedagogical indignation. And the
child looks mildly at you and thinks, 'Of course you're a grown-up, you've got muscles, you could flog me.
But you've been a fool ever since you were a child, you're going to stay a fool and you're going to die a
fool. And that's not enough for you, you want to make me into a fool, too.'"
   Victor poured himself some more gin and started remem-bering what it had been like, and he had to take
 a sudden gulp to keep from howling with shame. How he had pushed himself on those kids, self-assured
 and self-satisfied, looking
        8o The Ugly Swans

down on them, a fashionable blockhead. How he had started right in with platitudes, well-meaning
nonsense, and pseudo-masculine clucking. They put him in his place, but he didn't lay off, he continued to
demonstrate his extreme intellectual insufficiency. They did their honorable best to get him back on the right
path, they warned him, but he kept on going with his banalities and trivialities, imagining that mere
momentum would carry him through, that never mind, he'd make it. And when they finally lost patience and
let him have it for real, he burst into cowardly tears and started complaining that they weren't treating him
nicely. And when, out of pity, they started asking for his autograph, he felt disgracefully triumphant. Vic-tor
let out a moan, realizing that with all his self-imposed honesty he would never have the courage to tell
anyone what had happened. Within a half hour or so, in the interests of preserving his spiritual balance, he
would deviously rework the facts, turning his utter collapse into an unusual success, or, if worse came to
worse, into an ordinary and not overly inter-esting meeting with a bunch of provincial prodigies. Prodigies
who were after all—what do you expect?—only children, and didn't understand all that much about
literature or life. "I should go into the Department of Education," he thought hating himself. "They always
need people like that. There's one consolation, though. There aren't too many of them yet and if
acceleration continues even at its present pace, then by the time there get to be a lot of them, I will, God
willing, be safely dead. What a nice thing—to die in time!"
   There was a knock at the door. Victor shouted, "Come in!" and Pavor came in, disheveled, nose swollen,
wrapped in an imitation Bukhara robe.
    "At long last," said Pavor in a nasal voice, taking a seat across from Victor. He retrieved a huge, wet
 handkerchief from the area of his bosom and started sneezing and blowing his nose. It was a piteous
 sight—little remained of the former Pavor.
                                         The Ugly Swans 81

  "What do you mean, at long last?" asked Victor. "Do you want some gin?"
  "Oh, hell, I don't know," sniffed Pavor. "This town is driving me crazy. He-he-hep chuuu! Oh, hell."
  "Gesundheit," said Victor.
  Pavor turned his watery eyes on him.
  "Where have you been keeping yourself?" he asked peevishly. "I came around three times, I wanted to
get something to read from you. I'm going to pieces, the only thing to do around here is sneeze and blow
your nose. There's not a soul in the hotel. I even tried the doorman, but all the old ninny could offer me was
a telephone book and some old brochures. 'Visit our sunny city!' Do you have anything to read?"
   "Not really," said Victor.
   "What do you mean, not really. It's your profession. Oh, I understand, you don't read anyone else, but you
must leaf through your own stuff at least occasionally. That's all anyone here talks about, Banev this,
Banev that. What's the title? Death in the Afternoon? Midnight After Death? I can't remem-ber."
   "Misfortune Comes at Night," said Victor.
   "That's it. Lend it to me."
   "I can't. I don't have it," said Victor decisively. "And even if I did I wouldn't give it to you. You'd sneeze
all over it. And you wouldn't understand it either."
   "Why not?" objected Pavor, indignant. "They say it's all about homosexuals, what's there to understand?"
   "You yourself . . ." said Victor. "Forget it, let's have a drink. You want it with tonic or straight?"
   Pavor sneezed. He muttered something, cast a despairing look around the room, then threw back his
head and sneezed again.
   "A headache," he complained. "Right here. And where have you been? They said you were meeting your
readers. The lo-cal homosexuals."

     82 The Ugly Swans

   "Worse," said Victor. "I was meeting the local prodigies. You know what acceleration is?"
   "Acceleration? That's something connected with premature maturation, isn't it? I've heard about it. At
one time there was a lot of talk on the topic. But then our department appointed a commission which
proved that it was simply a f>art of Mr. President's personal concern for the coming generation of lions and
dreamers. So everything snapped into place. But I do know what you're talking about, I've seen our local
prodigies. God save us from lions like that. They belong in a cabinet of curios."
   "Or maybe we do," objected Victor.
   "Maybe," agreed Pavor. "At any rate, acceleration has noth-
ing to do with it. Acceleration is a biological and physiological
phenomenon. An increase in birth weight, after which the sub-
jects shoot up six feet, like giraffes, and at twelve they're ready
to reproduce. What we've got here is something else—a sys-
tem of education. The kids are absolutely normal. Whereas
their teachers     "
   "What about the teachers?"
   Pavor sneezed.
   "The teachers are, well, unusual" he said in a nasal voice.
   Victor remembered the school director.
   "What's so unusual about the teachers here?" he asked. "That they forget to zip their flies?"
   "What flies?" asked Pavor, taken aback. He stared at Victor. "They don't have any flies."
   "What else?" asked Victor.
    "In what sense?"
   "What else is so unusual about them?"
   Pavor started blowing his nose. Victor sipped at his gin and looked at him with pity.
   "I can see you don't know a damn thing," said Pavor, examin-ing his dirty handkerchief. "Mr. President
was quite right when he observed that the main characteristic of our writers is their chronic ignorance of
life and estrangement from the interests
                                         The Ugly Swans 83

of the nation. Take yourself. You've been here awhile. Have you been anywhere besides the bar and the
resort? Have you spoken to anyone besides that drunken sot Quadriga? God knows what you're getting
paid for."
  "All right, enough," said Victor. "I get enough of that from the papers. Some authority you are—a
runny-nosed critic, a teacher with no fly."
  "You don't like it?" said Pavor with satisfaction. "Have it your way, I'll stop. Tell me about your meeting
with the prodigies."
  "There's nothing to tell," said Victor. "Run of the mill prodigies."
  "Well?"
  "Well, I got there. They asked me some questions. Inter-esting questions, very mature." Victor was silent
for a moment. "To be honest with you, they really gave me a hard time."
   "What kind of questions?" asked Pavor. He looked at Victor with sincere interest, and, it seemed, with
sympathy.
   "It's not the questions," sighed Victor. 'To tell the truth, what struck me most was that they acted like
adults, and not like any adults either. Like superior ones. The incongruity was diabolical, almost sick." Pavor
nodded sympathetically. "In a word, it was bad," said Victor. "I don't want to think about it."
   "Of course," said Pavor. "You weren't the first and you won't be the last. The parents of a
twelve-year-old are always rather pitiful creatures, beset by a multitude of concerns. But our lo-cal parents
are something else. They remind me of the rear of an occupying army in a region of stepped-up partisan
attacks. Anyhow, what kind of things were they asking?"
   "Well, they asked me what progress was. And to their minds it's very simple: Herd us all onto a
reservation so that we won't be running around underfoot and they can be free to study Zurzmansor and
Spengler. That was my impression, at any rate."
        84 The Ugly Swans

   "Why not, it's perfectly plausible," said Pavor. "Like master, like man. You're talking acceleration,
Zurzmansor. But do you know what the nation is saying?"
   "The what?"
   "The nation! The nation is saying that the problem is with the slimies. The kids have gotten warped
because of the slimies."
   "That's because there aren't any Jews around," said Victor. Then he remembered the slimy who came
into the hall, and how the children all stood up, and the expression on Irma's face. "Are you serious?" he
asked.
   "It's not me," said Pavor. "It's the voice of the nation. Vox populi. The cats all ran away, and the children
are in love with the slimies. They hang around the leprosarium, they spend whole days and nights with
them. They're out of control, they don't obey anyone. They steal their parents' money and buy books. They
say that at first the parents were very happy about it—the kiddies weren't tearing up their pants climbing
fences, they were sitting home quietly and reading books. The more so because of the bad weather. But
now everybody sees what came of it and who was responsible. Nobody's happy about it any more. Only
they're still afraid of the slimies, they only mutter about them behind their backs."
   "The voice of the nation," thought Victor. "The voice of Lola and his honor the burgomaster. We've heard
it before. Cats, rain, television programs. The blood of Christian babies."
   "I don't understand," he said. "Are you serious or is it just that you're bored?"
   "It's not me!" repeated Pavor with feeling. "That's what they're saying in town."
   "I'm aware of what they're saying in town," said Victor. "But what do you make of it?"
   Pavor shrugged.
   "The flow of life," he said mysteriously. "One part bullshit, one part truth." He peered at Victor from
under his handker-chief. "Don't take me for an idiot," he said. "Think about the

                                       The Ugly Swans 85

children. Where have you ever seen children like that? Or at any rate, so many children like that?"
    "Right," thought Victor, "children like that. The cats can do as they damn please, but that slimy in the hall
is another story. Not just one of your part-cats part-rain stories. There's an expression, a face lit up from
within. That's what Irma's face looked like then. And when she talks to me it's only lit up on the outside.
And her mother she doesn't talk to at all, she just sputters at her condescendingly. If what he says is right, if
it's really the truth and not just dirty gossip, then it looks extremely distasteful. What do they want with the
chil-dren? They're sick people, they're doomed. And anyway, it's a dirty business, turning children against
their parents, even par-ents like Lola and me. We had enough trouble with Mr. Presi-dent: the Nation
Above and Beyond the Family, the Legion of Honor is your Father and Your Mother, and before you know
it the kid marches to the nearest post and declares that his father called Mr. President a strange man and
his mother called the Legion marches a waste of money. And now on top of that some slimy in a black suit
comes along and with no grounds whatsoever declares that your father is a mindless drunk and your mother
is a stupid whore. It may even be true, but it's still dirty. This is not the way it should be done. And it's none
of their goddamned business, it's not their responsibility, no one asked them to engage in educational
activities. It's patho-logical. And what if that's not all? A child opens its rosy little mouth and starts lisping
about progress and saying terrible cruel things. And it doesn't understand what it's saying, but still, from the
depths of its young being it's getting used to in-tellectual cruelty, to the most terrible cruelty imaginable. And
there they are, peeling faces wrapped in black cloths, standing backstage and manipulating the strings. It's
not a new gen-eration, it's just an old game of marionettes, and I was an ass for taking it to heart. What a
foul joke it is though, this civilization of ours."
   "... who has eyes and sees," Pavor was saying. "They don't
       86 The Ugly Swans

let us into the leprosarium. Barbed wire, soldiers. All right. But some things you can see right here in town.
I saw the slimies talking with some boys, and I saw how those boys were be-having with them, what little
angels they turned into. But go ask one of them how to get to the factory and you'll be dripping from head
to toe with his scorn."
   "They don't let us into the leprosarium," thought Victor. "They've got barbed wire there. But the slimies
go wherever they want. And it's not Golem who's behind this. That bas-tard," he thought suddenly. "The
Father of the Nation. That son of a bitch. So this is his doing, too. The Best Friend of Children. Highly
possible, it's just like him. You know, Mr. President, if I were you I would try to vary my methods
some-what. It's too easy to distinguish your hind quarters from every-one else's. Barbed wire, soldiers, and
passes: the unmistakable sign of Mr. President, the sign of some dirty business."
   "Why the hell did they put barbed wire up?" asked Victor.
   "How should I know?" said Pavor. "There never used to be any."
   "So you've been there before?"
   "What makes you think so? I haven't. But I'm not the first sanitary inspector they've had here. And it's
not a matter of barbed wire, the world is full of barbed wire. It's that nothing stops the kids from entering,
nothing stops the slimies from leaving, and you and I can't get near the place. That's what's surprising."
   "No, it's not the President," thought Victor. "The President just doesn't mix with reading Zurzmansor—or
Banev for that matter. And this destructive ideology—if I wrote that they'd crucify me. I don't get it, there's
something suspicious about it. Suppose I ask Irma," he thought. "I'll just ask and see how she reacts. In
fact, Diana ought to know a few things herself."
   "Aren't you listening?" asked Pavor.
   "Sorry, I was thinking."
    "I was saying that I wouldn't be surprised if the citizens took measures. Their usual type of
 measures—cruel ones."
                                        The Ugly Swans 87

   "I wouldn't be surprised either," muttered Victor. "I wouldn't be surprised if I felt like taking a few
measures myself."
   Pavor stood up and walked to the window.
   "Some weather," he sighed. "I can't wait to get out of here. Are you giving me the book or not?"
   "I don't have any books," said Victor. "Everything I brought with me is at the health resort. Listen, what
do the slimies need our children for?"
   Pavor shrugged.
   "They're sick people," he said. "How should we know? We're healthy."
   There was a knock at the door, and Golem entered, bulky and wet.
   "Let's ask Golem," said Pavor. "Golem, what do the slimies need our children for?"
   "Our children?" said Golem, carefully studying the label on the gin bottle. "Do you have children, Pavor?"
   "According to Pavor," said Victor, "your slimies seem to be inciting the local children against their
parents. What do you know about it, Golem?"
   "Hm," said Golem. "Where do you keep your clean glasses? Aha, ... The slimies inciting the children?
Well, what can you do? They're not the first and they won't be the last." Still in his raincoat, he sank onto
the couch and started sniffing his gin. "And why not incite children against their parents in times like these?
The whites are being incited against the blacks, the yellows are being incited against the whites, the stupid
peo-ple against the smart ones. What's so surprising?"
    "According to Pavor," repeated Victor, "your patients are hanging around town and teaching the children
all sorts of strange things. I noticed something of this myself, although for the present I remain undecided.
That being the case, I find nothing surprising. I'm simply asking you whether or not it's true."
    "To the best of my knowledge," said Golem, attending to his gin, "the slimies have had free access to the
city since time im-
       88 The Ugly Swans
memorial. I don't know what you have in mind when you talk about their teaching all sorts of strange things,
but let me ask you one question as a native of this place: are you familiar with the toy they call a 'nasty
top?"
   "Of course," said Victor.
   "Did you have one?"
   "I didn't, though I remember my friends did." Victor fell silent. "Of course," he said. "The kids said it was
a present from a slimy. Is that what you meant?"
   "Exactly. And the 'weatherwhiz,' and the 'wooden arm.'"
   "Pardon me," said Pavor. "Would it be possible for a visitor from the capital to learn what the natives are
talking about?"
   "No," said Golem. "And to answer your next question, be-cause I don't feel like it. Stop lying, you were
trying to buy a weatherwhiz from Teddy, and you have a perfectly clear idea of what it is."
   "Go to hell," snapped Pavor. "I'm not talking about the weatherwhiz."
   "Hold it, Pavor," said Victor patiently. "Golem, you haven't answered my question."
   "Really? I thought I did. In truth, Victor, the slimies are seri-ously and hopelessly ill. Genetic illnesses are
no joke. But de-spite it they retain their kindness and intelligence, so there's no need to cast aspersions on
them."
   "Who's casting aspersions?"
   "Aren't you?"
   "At this point, no. At this point I'm still inclined to the contrary."
   "Good," said Golem and stood up. "Then let's get going."
   Victor started.
   "Go where?"
   "To the health resort. I'm going to the health resort; you, I see, are also heading for the health resort; and
you, Pavor, should go to bed. Quit giving everyone the flu."
   Victor looked at his watch.
                                          The Ugly Swans 89

   "Isn't it early?" he said.
  "Suit yourself. Only keep in mind that starting today the bus service has been canceled. It wasn't
profitable."
  "Maybe we could have some dinner first?"
  "Suit yourself," Golem repeated. "Except I never have din-ner, and I wouldn't advise you to either."
  Victor felt his stomach.
  "Right," he said. He looked at Pavor. "I think I'll go."
  "What do I care?" said Pavor. He sounded offended. "Bring back some books for me."
  "Sure," Victor promised and started getting dressed.
  They got into the car. Beneath the damp canvas top the air was damp and smelled of tobacco, gas, and
medicine.
  "Can you take a hint?" asked Golem.
  "Sometimes," said Victor. "When I know it's a hint. What of it?"
  "Here's a hint. Stop shooting your mouth off."
   "Hm," mumbled Victor. "And how would you like me to understand that?"
  "As a hint. Stop talking so much."
  "With pleasure," said Victor, and fell silent, thinking.
  They crossed the town, past the cannery and the deserted city park, neglected, drooping, half-rotted from
dampness.
  They sped past the stadium, where the Brothers in Reason, splattered with mud, were busily whacking
waterlogged balls with their waterlogged boots. Finally they drove out onto the road leading to the health
resort. All around, beyond the shroud of rain, the wet steppe stretched out flat as a table— the dry,
scorched, thorny steppe that was slowly turning into a swamp.
  "Your hint," said Victor, "reminded me of a certain conver-sation I once had with his excellency the
advisor to Mr. Presi-dent on government ideology. His excellency called me to his modest office of five
thousand square feet or so and put a ques-tion to me: 'Veektor, would you like to keep on getting your
      90 The Ugly Swans
piece of bread and butter?' Naturally, I answered in the affirma-tive. Then shut your mouth,' barked his
excellency and waved me out of the room."
  Golem snorted, "And what did he want you to shut your mouth about?"
  "His excellency was hinting about my experiments with a banjo in certain youth clubs."
  Golem fixed his narrow eyes on Victor.
  "What makes you so sure I'm not an agent?"
  "I'm not sure," said Victor. "I simply don't give a shit. Incidentally, nobody says 'agent' any more. It's
obsolete. Now everybody who is anybody says 'Fed.'"
  "I don't get the difference," said Golem.
   "In point of fact, neither do I," declared Victor. "So let's keep our mouths shut. Has your patient
recovered?"
   "My patients never recover."
   "You have a great reputation. But I was asking about the poor guy who landed in a trap. How's his leg?"
  Golem was silent for a moment.
   "Which one of them did you have in mind?" he said.
   "I don't understand," said Victor. "I mean, of course, the one who got caught in a trap."
   "There were four of them," said Golem, staring at the rain-swept road. "The first got caught in a trap.
The one you car-ried around on your back was the second one. The third one left with me in the car, and
the disgraceful brawl you started in the restaurant not long ago concerned the fourth."
   Victor, stunned, didn't say anything. Neither did Golem. He skillfully maneuvered the car around the
innumerable potholes in the old asphalt.
   "It's all right, don't think so hard," he said finally. "I was joking. There was only one of them. And his leg
set the same night."
   "Is that another joke?" Victor inquired. "Ha ha ha. Now I see why your patients never recover."
   "My patients," said Golem, "never recover for different
                                           The Ugly Swans gi

reasons. First of all, like every decent physician, I cannot cure genetic diseases. Secondly, they don't want
to be cured."
   "Funny," muttered Victor. "I've already listened to so much talk about those slimies of yours that I'm
ready to believe all of it: the rain, the cats, and the fact that a compound fracture can set in one night."
   "What cats?" said Golem.
   "You know what cats," said Victor. "How come there aren't any cats left in the city? Because of the
slimies. Teddy can't keep up with the mice. You should have advised the slimies to remove the mice at the
same time."
   "A la the Pied Piper?" said Golem.
   "Yes," said Victor lightheadedly. "Exactly." Then he remem-bered how the story about the Pied Piper
ended. "There's noth-ing funny about it," he said. "Today I gave a talk at the middle school. I saw the
children. And I saw them greeting one of the slimies. Now I won't be in the least surprised if one fine day
some slimy appears on the town square with an accordion and lures the kids to kingdom come."
   "You won't be surprised," said Golem. "But what will you do about it?"
    "I don't know. Maybe I'll take his accordion away from him."
    "And start playing yourself?"
   Victor sighed. "It's true. I've got nothing to offer them, that much I understood. I wonder what they have.
 You must know, Golem."
    "Veektor, shut your mouth," said Golem.
    "Suit yourself," said Victor. "I see you're doing your best to get around my questions, and you're more or
 less succeed-ing at it. It's stupid. I'll find out anyway, and you'll have lost the opportunity to impart the
 information in its most advan-tageous emotional light."
    "Privileged medical material," pronounced Golem. "Then again, I don't know anything. I can only guess."
    He slowed down. Up ahead, beyond the veil of rain, some
       92 The Ugly Swans

figures were standing in the road. Three gray figures and a gray road marker with a sign: "Leprosarium—4
miles" and "Warm Springs Health Resort—1 1/2 miles." The figures stepped back onto the shoulder—a
man and two children.
   "Wait a minute, stop," said Victor, suddenly hoarse.
   "What happened?" Golem braked.
  Victor didn't answer. He was staring at the people standing by the road marker: a huge slimy in a black
exercise suit satu-rated with water, a young boy, also raincoatless, in a sopping wet suit and sandals, and a
barefoot little girl, dress clinging to her body. Then he threw open the door and jumped out onto the road.
   The wind and rain whipped at his face, and he even gulped down a mouthful, unaware. He sensed the
onslaught of a fit of unendurable rage, the rage that makes you want to destroy everything, the rage that
comes when you know you're about to do something stupid and the knowledge only gladdens you.
Stiff-legged, he walked straight up to the slimy.
   "What's going on here?" he got out through his teeth. And then, to the little girl looking at him in
astonishment, "Irrna, into the car!" And again to the slimy, "What the hell are you up to?" And then to Irma,
"Get into the car, I'm telling you!"
   Irma didn't budge. The three of them stood as before. Above his black bandage, the slimy's eyes blinked
calmly. "This is my father," said Irma in an almost indecipherable voice. And suddenly he realized, not with
his brain, but with his spinal cord, that this was not the place for screaming and threat-ening, not the place
for raising his hand to her and dragging her by the collar, and in general, not the place for carrying on.
    "Irma," he said very quietly, "go to the car, you're soaking wet. Bol-Kunats, if I were you I'd also get into
the car."
   He was sure that Irma would obey him and she did. Not exactly the way he would have wanted. It
wasn't that she looked up to the slimy for permission to leave, but he was left with the shadow of an
impression that something had occurred,
                                          The Ugly Swans 93

some exchange of opinion or short consultation, as a result of which the question had been decided in his
favor. Irma made a face and set off for the car. Bol-Kunats looked at him po-litely. "Thank you, Mr.
Banev, but I think I'd better stay."
    "Whatever you want," said Victor. Bol-Kunats didn't worry him. Now he had to think up something to
say to the slimy in parting. Victor knew beforehand that it would be something incredibly stupid, but what
can you do? Simply picking himself up and leaving was beyond him. Purely from considerations of prestige.
    "And you, sir," he said haughtily, "have not been invited. Ap-parently you're in your element here."
    He turned around and, throwing an imaginary gauntlet, made his departure. "Having said these words,"
he thought with disgust, "the count proudly took his leave."
    Irma scrambled into the front seat and wrung out her pig-tails. Victor got into the back, groaning with
shame. Golem started the motor.
    "Having pronounced these words, the count took his leave. Let's have your legs, Irma, I'll give them a
rubdown."
    "What for?" said Irma with curiosity.
    "You want to catch pneumonia? Give me your legs!"
    "Go ahead," said Irma, and, twisting around on the seat, proffered him a leg.
    Anticipating that now, at long last, he would be going some-thing natural and useful, Victor took the thin,
wet, touchingly girlish leg in both hands. He wanted to rub it till it turned red, he wanted to take this dirty,
bony icicle, unending source of colds and flu, bronchitis and double pneumonia, into his kind, stern father's
hands and rub it till it glowed. But then he dis-covered that his hand was colder than her leg. Out of inertia
he made a few rubbing motions, and then carefully let it down. "Of course I knew it," he thought suddenly,
"I knew it would be this way when I was still standing in front of them. I knew that there was some trick to
it, that the children were safe and
       94 The Ugly Swans

there wouldn't be any colds or pneumonia. Only I didn't want that, I wanted to save them, tear them from
his claws, explode in just anger, fulfill my duty. And I came out of it looking like an ass again. I don't know
how they do it, but I came out look-ing like an ass again, a real fool for the second time today."
   "Take your leg back," he said, to Irma.
   She took her leg back.
   "Where are we going—to the health resort?" she asked.
   "Yes," Victor answered. He looked at Golem, wondering if this latest disgrace had registered. Golem, his
belly overflowing onto the seat, was calmly watching the road. He was graying, slovenly, hunched-over and
all-knowing.
   "Why?" asked Irma.
   "You'll change into something dry and get into bed," said Victor.
   "That's a good one!" said Irma. "What's the big idea?"
   "All right, all right," muttered Victor. "I'll give you some books, you can read."
   "Really, why in God's name am I taking her there," he thought. "Diana . . . well, we'll see about that. No
drinking, and in general nothing of that sort, only how am I going to bring her back. Oh, hell, I'll grab
somebody's car and take her home. I wish there was something to drink here."
   "Golem . . ." he was about to start, but stopped himself. "Goddamn, I can't, not in front of her."
   "Yes?" said Golem without turning around.
   "Never mind," sighed Victor, fixing his gaze on the neck of a flask sticking out of the pocket of Golem's
raincoat. "Irma," he said wearily, "what were you doing standing there at the crossroads?"
   "We were thinking fog," answered Irma.
   "What?"
   "Thinking fog," Irma repeated.
   "About fog," Victor corrected. "Or of fog."
   "Why about fog?" said Irma.
                                         The Ugly Swans 95

   "Think is an intransitive verb," Victor explained. "It takes a preposition. Didn't you have intransitive verbs
in school?"
   "It all depends," said Irma. "Thinking fog is one thing and thinking about fog is completely different. And I
can't see who would want to think about fog."
   Victor found a cigarette and lit it. "Hold on," he said. "You can't say 'think fog,' it's illiterate. There are
such things as intransitive verbs: think, run, walk. They always take preposi-tions. Walk along the street.
Think about. . . well, whatever."
   "Think stupid thoughts," said Golem.
   "Well, that's an exception," said Victor, slightly flustered.
   "Walk quickly," said Golem.
   "Quickly isn't a noun," snapped Victor. "Don't confuse the child, Golem."
   "Would you mind not smoking, Daddy?" asked Irma.
   Golem must have made some sound, or else it was the motor coughing as they started up the hill. Victor
crushed his cigarette under his heel. They were climbing the hill to the health resort, and to the side, from
the steppe, a thick whitish wall had moved to meet the rain.
   "That's fog for you," said Victor. "You can think it. You can also smell it, run it, and walk it."
   Irma was about to say something but Golem interrupted her.
   "Incidentally," he said. "The verb 'think' can also be transi-tive with a clause as its direct object. For
 example, 'I think that,' etc."
   "That's something else," objected Victor. He was sick of it. He needed to smoke and have a drink of
 something. He looked with longing at the neck of the flask. "You sure you're not cold, Irma?" he asked,
 hopefully but a bit uncertain.
   "No. What about you?"
   "I seem to have the chills," Victor confessed.
   "You should have a drink of gin," said Golem.
    "Not a bad idea. Do we have any?"
    "We do," said Golem. "But we're almost there."
       96 The Ugly Swam

   The jeep careened through the gates, and then there began something that Victor could have foreseen.
The first streams of fog had barely begun to penetrate the garden railing and the visibility was perfect.
Lying on the driveway, clothed in wet pajamas, was a body, and it looked as though it had already spent a
good number of days and nights there. Golem care-fully circumnavigated it. He continued on past the
plaster vase with it's simpleminded drawings and corresponding in-scriptions and ended up by the herd of
cars huddled at the en-trance to the right wing. Irma opened the door. An instant later, a seasoned face
stuck itself out the window of the next car. "Want to have me, honey?" it squealed. Victor, mortified,
climbed out. Irma looked around curiously. Victor grabbed her by the hand and led her to the entrance.
Two whores in their underwear, arms around each other, were sitting on the steps in the rain, screeching
out some ballad about a cruel druggist who wouldn't sell heroin. When they caught sight of Victor they shut
up, but as he passed, one of them tried to catch hold of his pants. Victor pushed Irma into the lobby. Here it
was dark, the shades were drawn, it smelled of tobacco smoke and something sour. A projector was
sputtering, and pornographic pictures danced on the white wall. Grinding his teeth, Victor stepped on top of
someone's feet, dragging the stumbling Irma behind him. After them came an angry burst of four-letter
words. They made their way out of the lobby, and Victor started up the carpeted stairway three steps at a
time. Irma still hadn't said anything, and he didn't dare look at her. On the landing, arms opened wide and
poised for an embrace, stood the purple-faced, blowsy Member of Parlia-ment, Rosheper Nant. "Veektor,"
he wheezed. "Friend!" Then he saw Irma and exploded with delight. "Veektor! You too! With the
beauteous prepubertals!" Victor grimaced, stepped hard on his foot, and poked him in the chest. Rosheper
fell backwards, knocking over a spittoon. Covered with sweat, Vic-tor started down the corridor. Irma
followed him with noise-
                                       The Ugly Swans 97

less little leaps. He stumbled into Diana's door. It was locked; the key was missing. He started knocking
wildly, and Diana responded at once. "Go to hell," she shrieked. "You stinking impotent, you dirty asshole,
you piece of dogshit!"
   "Diana!" barked Victor. "Open up!"
   Diana fell silent, and the door opened. She stood at the threshold, French umbrella positioned for the
attack. Victor shoved her back, dragged Irma into the room, and slammed the door.
   "So it's you," said Diana. "I thought it was Rosheper again." She smelled of liquor. "Oh, God," she said.
"Who is this?"
   "This is my daughter," said Victor with effort. "Her name is Irma. Irma, this is Diana."
   He looked fixedly at Diana with desperation and hope. It seemed, thank God, that she wasn't completely
drunk. Or she had sobered up instantaneously.
   "You must be out of your mind," she said softly.
   "She's wet," he said. "Get her into something dry, put her to bed, and—"
   "I won't," Irma announced.
   "Irma," said Victor. "Kindly listen or I'll wallop you."
   "Somebody here deserves to get walloped," said Diana hope-lessly.
   "Diana," said Victor. "I beg you."
   "All right," said Diana. "Go to your room. We'll manage."
   Victor, immensely relieved, walked out. He set off straight for his room, but even in his own room there
wasn't any peace. As a preliminary step, he found it necessary to dispatch a pair of completely unknown
lovers, followed by a quantity of stained bed linen. Then he locked the door, fell onto the bare mattress, lit
up a damp cigarette, and started contemplating what he'd brought upon himself.
       Chapter VII


The next day Victor woke up late, around lunchtime. He had a slight headache, but his mood was
unexpectedly good.
   The night before, after smoking a pack of cigarettes, he'd gone downstairs and forced open someone's
car with a hair-pin. Then he'd marched Irma out the service entrance and carted her home to mother. At
first they'd driven in silence. Un-pleasant memories had him writhing in his seat, and Irma sat beside him,
neat and spanking clean. Her pigtails had given way to the latest hairstyle and it looked like she even had
lipstick on. More than anything he wanted to get a conversation going, but to start with a confession of his
own incredible stupidity— the only way—seemed pedagogically undesirable. In the end, Irma suddenly
decided to let him smoke, on the condition that all the windows would be opened, and started telling him
how interesting it had been for her. It was just like what she'd read but never really believed, and what a
great guy he was for pro-viding her with such an unexpected but to the highest degree instructive
adventure. And he wasn't at all bad, he wasn't boring and he didn't talk a lot of nonsense, and Diana was
"almost one of us" because she hated everyone. It was too bad that she didn't know very much and was
rather too fond of drinking, but in the final analysis there's nothing so terrible about that, you're also rather
fond of drinking. And the kids liked you be-cause you were honest and didn't pretend to be some reposi-tory
of higher knowledge which is good because you aren't. Even
           8
       9

                                      The Ugly Swans 99

Bol-Kunats said that you're the only worthwhile person in town, not counting Dr. Golem, of course, but
"Golem, in fact, doesn't have anything to do with the town. And then he's not a writer, he doesn't express
ideologies. And what do you think, is it necessary to have an ideology or is it better without one, recent
opinion is leaning towards a future of deideologization."
   It was a fine conversation, the speakers were full of respect for one another, and when he got back to
the hotel (having left the car in some garbage-filled lot) Victor already felt that being a father was not such
a thankless task. Especially if you know a thing or two about life and could use even its seamy sides for
educational purposes. With this in mind, he took a drink with Teddy, who was also a father and also
interested in edu-cation. Teddy's first-born was fourteen—"a bad thing, adoles-cence, and you've still got it
to look forward to"—that is, his first-born grandchild was fourteen. He hadn't done anything about his son's
education because his son had spent his child-hood in a German concentration camp. "You must never beat
your children," Teddy kept saying. "They'll be knocked around all their lives without your interference, and
if you can't do without it, then better hit yourself instead, it'd be more useful."
    After an indefinite number of drinks Victor remembered that Irma had not breathed a word about his
 dreadful behavior at the crossroads. He came to the conclusion that the child was shrewd and that, in
 general, running to the aid of your mistress every time you didn't know how to get yourself out of a tight
 spot—moreover a spot that you alone had gotten yourself into —was at best dishonorable. These thoughts
 distressed him. But then Dr. R. Quadriga came along and ordered his usual bottle of gin, and the two of
 them drank that bottle. Following which, Victor began to see everything in rainbow colors, be-cause it had
 become clear that Irma simply hadn't wanted to hurt him, and that meant that she respected her father and
 maybe even loved him. Then someone else came and ordered something else. Then, most likely, Victor
 went off to bed.
       ioo The Ugly Swam

Most likely. In all probability, he went. It's true that he retained one final memory: a tiled floor with water
spilled all over it. But where the floor was and what the water was doing on it was impossible to
reconstruct. And better not to try.
   Victor pulled himself into shape. He went downstairs, got the morning papers from the desk clerk, and
had a chat about the lousy weather.
   "How'd I do last night?" he asked carelessly. "Not too bad?"
   "Could be worse," said the desk clerk politely. "Teddy will give you the bill."
   "Oh," said Victor, and, deciding not to pursue the matter just yet, went off to the restaurant.
   It seemed to him that there was a slight decrease in the num-ber of table lamps. "Christ!" he thought,
frightened. Teddy hadn't come in yet. Victor bowed to the young man in glasses and his companion, took
his usual seat, and unfolded the pa-per. The world was the same as ever. One country was detain-ing the
merchant marine of another country, and this other country was sending sharply worded protests. Countries
favored by Mr. President were waging just wars of liberation in the in-terests of real democracy. Countries
which Mr. President for some reason did not favor were waging imperialist wars, or, more precisely, were
not waging wars at all, but pursuing a policy of malicious, criminal aggression. Mr. President himself had
delivered a two-hour speech on the necessity of stamp-ing out corruption. Following that, he underwent a
successful tonsillectomy. A critic Victor knew—a lousy son of a bitch-praised Rots-Tusov's latest book,
and that was mysterious, be-cause the book was good.
   The waiter came, an unfamiliar one, probably new, and very friendly. He advised Victor to take the
oysters, then wrote down his order, brushed the table with a napkin, and departed. Victor put down his
newspaper. He lit up a cigarette and, mak-ing himself more comfortable, began to think about his work.
After a good drinking bout he always found it pleasant to
                                      The Ugly Swans 101

think about his work. It would be good to write a happy, opti-mistic story. About a certain man who likes
what he does, and he's not stupid, he likes his friends and his friends value him. About how happy he is—a
fine guy, on the eccentric side, a real wit. There's no story there. And if there's no story, it means it's
boring. And anyway, if you're going to write a story like that then you have to figure out why he's happy,
and the only conclusion you can come to is that he's happy only because he loves his work and doesn't give
a shit about anything else. And how can he be a good person if he doesn't give a shit about anything except
his beloved work? Of course you could always write about a man whose work consists of loving his
neighbor, and who is happy because he loves his neighbor and he loves his work. But that was already
done, a couple of thousand years ago, by Messrs. Luke, Matthew, John, and one other—four of them in all.
Actually there were a lot more of them, but only those four were ideologically reliable, the others lacking
various things, national self-awareness, for example, or mailing privileges. And the man they were writing
about was, unfortunately, feebleminded. Although it would be interesting to write about Christ coming down
to earth today, not like Dostoevsky did it, but like that Luke and company. Christ arrives at staff
headquarters and makes his proposals about loving thy neighbor, etc. And naturally they've got some
anti-Semite sitting there.
    "Do you mind, Mr. Banev?" A pleasant masculine voice rum-bled over him.
   It was his honor the burgomaster himself. Not the apoplecti-cally purple boor, grunting with sick
 satisfaction on Rosheper's oversized bed, but an elegantly rotund, ideally shaven, and im-peccably dressed
 gentleman with a modest ribbon in his button-hole and the Legion's shield on his left shoulder.
    "Not at all," said Victor, far from overjoyed.
    His honor the burgomaster sat down, glanced around the room, and folded his hands on the table.
       102 The Ugly Swans

   "I will do my best not to burden you at length with my presence, Mr. Banev," he said, "as I have every
intention of not disturbing your meal. However, the issue I would like to address you with today has ripened
to the point that all of us, young and old alike, all those who value the honor and well-being of our city, must
be prepared to put aside our private affairs in the interests of its expeditious and effective solution."
   "What can I do for you?" said Victor.
   "We are meeting here, Mr. Banev, in a setting that must be considered unofficial, since, taking your busy
schedule into ac-count, I would not risk disturbing you during your hours of work, particularly if one keeps
in mind the specifics thereof. However, I am addressing you now as an official party—both personally, in
my own name, and in the name of the town council as a whole."
    The waiter brought the oysters and a bottle of white wine. The burgomaster stopped him with a raised
finger.
   "My friend," he said. "A half a portion of Kitchigan sturgeon and a glass of menthol vodka. The sturgeon
without sauce. . . . So, allow me to continue," he said, again turning toward Victor. "In truth, I fear that our
talk will hardly resemble the usual conversation over lunch, since we will be touching on various things and
circumstances which are not only sorrowful, but, I would even say, unappetizing. It was my intention to talk
with you about the so-called slimies, about that malignant tumor which has been eating away at our
unhappy district lo these many years."
    "Yes," said Victor. It was getting interesting.
    The burgomaster delivered a low-key speech, well thought out and elegantly phrased. He spoke about
 the founding of the leprosarium in Horses' Hollow twenty years back, right after the occupation, as a
 quarantine camp for people suffering from the so-called yellow leprosy, or ocularis ringus. Of course, as
 Mr. Banev was well aware, the disease had been around since time immemorial, and in fact, historical
 studies show that for
                                       The Ugly Swans 103

some reason it had always been particularly prevalent in this area. However, it was only thanks to the
efforts of Mr. Presi-dent that the most serious attention was paid to this disease, and only by his personal
directive that these unhappy people, deprived of medical help and dispersed throughout the land, where they
were persecuted by backward elements of the popu-lation (the occupiers had simply exterminated them),
were at last united in a single place. Here they were provided with the opportunity for a tolerable existence
befitting their pitiful state. None of this calls forth any objections, and the measures taken can only be
welcomed. However, as occasionally happens in our country, the best intended beginnings turned against
us. It is not our place here to seek out the guilty parties. We will not engage in an investigation of the
activities of Mr. Golem, activities which may have been selfless, but which, as we later learned, were
fraught with the most unpleasant consequences. Nor will we engage in premature backbiting, although the
posi-tion of certain parties in high places who persist in ignoring our protests strikes us personally as
enigmatic. Let us consider the facts. . . . The burgomaster polished off a glass of vodka and attended to his
sturgeon. His voice became even more vel-vety—it was impossible to imagine him setting out traps for
people. He wordily expressed his desire not to trouble Mr. Banev with certain rumors that had overtaken
the city, rumors, which he must openly confess, were the result of the insufficiently pre-cise and
single-minded adherence to Mr. President's guidelines to be found on certain administrative levels. He had
in mind the widespread belief concerning the fateful role of the so-called slimies in the sharp change in
climate and their responsibility in, one, the increase in the number of miscarriages and sterile unions; two,
the Homeric departure of certain domestic animals from the city; three, the appearance of a particular
species of domestic bedbug, to be precise, the winged bedbug—
   "Mr. Burgomaster," said Victor, letting out a sigh. "I must confess that I find it extremely difficult to
 follow your con-
      104 The Ugly Swans

voluted syntax. Let's talk simply, like good sons of the same nation. Let's not talk about what we're not
going to talk about. Let's talk about what we're talking about."
   The burgomaster threw a quick glance at him. Apparently he was calculating or weighing something,
God knows what. Probably everything went into it. That Victor had boozed it up with Rosheper and that
he'd boozed it up in general, noisily on a nationwide scale. That Irma was a prodigy, that there was such a
woman as Diana, and, no doubt, much more of the same. So that the burgomaster perceptibly lost some of
his polish and called for a glass of cognac. Victor also shouted for a glass of cognac. The burgomaster
guffawed, and glanced around the hall, already grown empty. He slapped his fist lightly on the table.
   "All right, why should we beat around the bush. It's impos-sible to live in this town, for which you can say
thank you to your buddy Golem—incidentally, are you aware of his Commu-nist leanings? Yes, I assure
you, we have evidence; he's hanging by a thread, your Golem. So I'm saying, the children are being
corrupted before our very eyes. The slimies have wormed their way into the school and completely ruined
the kids. The voters are dissatisfied, some of them have left, there are rumblings, the next thing you know
there'll be lynchings, and the district administration does nothing. That's the kind of situation we're in." He
downed his glass. "I must admit I personally hate that scum. I'd rip them to shreds with my own teeth if the
very thought didn't make me sick. You wouldn't believe it, Mr. Banev, but it's gotten so bad that I've been
putting out traps for them. Well, so they've corrupted the children, well, all right. Children are children, you
can corrupt them all you want and they'll still want more. But step into my shoes for a minute. No matter
how you look at it, this rain is their doing. I don't know how they manage it, but that's the way it is. We built
the health resort—healing waters, superb climate—go rake up the money, it's yours. People used to come
here from the capital. And how did it all end? Rain, fog, the guests all have
                                        The Ugly Swans 105

colds, and it only gets worse. This famous physicist comes—I forget his name but you probably know it. He
stays two weeks and it's all over: ocularis ringus. Straight to the leprosarium. Some advertisement that is.
Then another case, and then an-other one, and it's all over—they've cut off our livelihood with a knife. The
restaurant is going bankrupt, the hotel is going bankrupt, the health resort is hardly holding its own. Thank
God some crazy coach turned up and brought his Brothers in Reason, he's coaching a special team to play
in wet climates. And of course Mr. Rosheper helps to a certain extent. Can you sympathize with me? I
tried to come to an agreement with this Golem. It's like talking to a brick wall. Once a red, always a red. I
sent a letter to my superiors; no results. I tried their superiors; still nothing. I went still higher, and they said
they would take it into account, that they'd send the matter down through the ranks. I hate them, but I
forced myself and went to the leprosarium. They let me in. I begged them, I showed them. Christ are they
disgusting. They wink at you with those scaly eyes of theirs as if you were some sparrow, as if you didn't
exist." He bent over toward Victor. "I'm afraid of a revolt," he whispered, "there'll be blood flowing. Can
you sympathize with me?"
"Yes," said Victor. "But what do I have to do with it?" The burgomaster leaned back in his chair, got a
half-smoked cigar out of an aluminum case, and lit up.
   "In my position," he said, "there's only one thing left to do: pull out all the stops. We need publicity. The
city coun-cil put together a petition to the Department of Health. Mr. Rosheper will sign it, and you, I hope,
will also sign it but that's no big deal. What I need is real publicity. I need a good expose\ I need it in an
influential paper and I need it under a famous by-line. Your by-line, Mr. Banev. A hot issue like this
demands an advocate of your caliber. I beg you. In my own name, in the name of the town council, in the
name of the un-happy parents. Make them take their leprosarium and get it the hell out of here. I don't care
where, as long as not a single
    io6 The Ugly Swans

slimy footprint remains. Scum! That's what I had to tell you."
   "Yes, yes, I understand," said Victor slowly. "I understand you very well."
   "You may be a boor," he thought, "you may be a dirty swine but there's no problem understanding you.
But what's hap-pened to the slimies? They used to be timid and hunched over, they kept to themselves.
People never used to talk this way about them. They said they smelled, they said they could in-fect you,
they said they made great toys and all sorts of things from wood. I remember Fred's mother saying that
they had the evil eye, that they made milk go bad, and that they'd bring us war, pestilence, and famine. And
now they've got themselves behind barbed wire, and what are they up to there? A whole lot of things.
They're playing with the weather, they're winning over the children (why?), they've chased the cats away
(another why), they've got their bedbugs airborne."
   "No doubt you're thinking that we're sitting here with our hands folded," said the burgomaster. "In no
way. But what can we do? I'm preparing a case against Golem. The sanitary inspector Mr. Pavor Summan
has agreed to serve as consul-tant. We're basing it on the fact that the question of infectious-ness is far
from resolved, and that Golem, who has Communist leanings, is making use of this. That's one thing.
Further, we are trying to fight terror with terror. The town Legion, our pride and joy, we've gotten a terrific
bunch of kids together, real eagles. But that's not exactly what we need. The orders from above just
haven't come, the police are in a false position, and in general. ... So we set up whatever barriers we can.
We hold back the freight that's being sent to them. Private things, of course, there's nothing industrial, and
no sanitary necessities or anything like that. But they do get all sorts of books, they order them. Today we
held up a truck, and I'm breathing just a little bit more freely. But all this is child's play; we're doing it from
despair. What we need is something radical."
   "So," said Victor. "Eagles, you say. What's his name— Flamenda? You know, the nephew?"
                                      The Ugly Swans 107

   "Flamen Juventa," said the burgomaster. 'Tes, sir. My right hand in the Legion, an eagle! You already
know him?"
   "Not well," said Victor. "Why would you want to hold up books?"
   "What do you mean, why? It's silly, of course, but we're only people, we're only human beings, it mounts
up. And then . . ." The burgomaster gave an embarrassed smile. "It's ridiculous, of course, but there are
rumors that they can't live without books, like normal people can't live without food and so forth."
   They fell silent. Victor, without appetite, poked at his steak.
   "I don't know much about the slimies," he thought, "and what I do know doesn't arouse my sympathy
toward them. Maybe it's because I never particularly liked them as a kid. But the burgomaster and his gang
I know well. The Fat and Lard of the Nation. The President's lackeys, pogrom-makers. No, my friend,
once you're against the slimies it means there's some-thing to them. On the other hand, I can always write
your ex-pose^ even a really steamy one. Nobody's going to print me any-way. The burgomaster would be
satisfied, I'd milk him for whatever it's worth, and I'd be in clover. Which of our real writers can boast that
he lives in clover? I could set myself up here, get some sinecure as, for example, the town beach in-spector,
and write to my heart's content. About how good it is to be a good man who is absorbed in his beloved
work. And then I could give a talk on the subject to the local prodigies. It's all a matter of learning how to
wipe yourself off. You got spat at in the face and you wiped yourself off. The first time you were ashamed
to do it, then you were puzzled, and here you go, wiping yourself off with grace and even getting a cer-tain
satisfaction out of it."
   "Of course, we wouldn't presume to hurry you," said the burgomaster. "You are a busy man, and so
 forth. How about something, oh, say, in about a week? We'll give you all the ma-terial you need, we can
 even give you a bit of an outline, a little plan it would be most desirable for you to . . . All you
       io8 The Ugly Swans

have to do is touch your masterful hand to the paper, and we're in business. And the signatories would be
three of the most outstanding sons of our town: Member of Parliament Rosheper Nant, the well-known
writer Victor Banev, and the National Laureate Dr. Rem Quadriga."
   "Nice work," thought Victor. "They've got it all over us lib-erals. We can't come near that sort of
persuasiveness. We drag things out, beat around the bush, anything so as not to overdo the pressure and
hurt someone's feelings; God forbid they might suspect us of acting in our own self-interest. Outstanding
sons! And the bastard is completely convinced that he'll have my expose* and my signature; that the poor,
disgraced Banev will hold up his hands and use the sweat of his soul to pay off a quiet stay in his native
town. And that little outline of his. We know what kind of outline that is and what kind of out-line that has
to be to insure that our friend Banev, sprayed with presidential spit, gets published without delay. That's the
way it goes, Mr. Banev. You like your cognac and your girls, you like your marinated eel with onions, now
go pay for them."
   "I've thought over your proposal," he said, smiling. "The project strikes me as sufficiently interesting, but
its realiza-tion would require a certain straining of the conscience. As you of course know, we writers are
not up for sale, we work exclu-sively according to the dictates of conscience." He gave the burgomaster an
outrageous, obscene wink.
   The burgomaster chuckled.
   "But of course! The Conscience of the Nation, the True Mirror, and so on. How could I forget it?" He
 again leaned toward Victor with a conspiratorial air. "I invite you to my place tomorrow," he intoned. "A
 small circle of good friends. Only watch out—no wives. How about it?"
    "Here," said Victor, rising, "I am obliged to make a decisive and straightforward refusal. I have some
 business to attend to." He gave another obscene wink. "In the health resort."
  They parted almost friends. The writer Banev was admitted
                                     The Ugly Swans 109

to the ranks of the town elite, and, so as to calm his nerves which were quite shaken by the honor of it, he
was obliged to empty a glass of cognac as soon as the burgomaster's back had disappeared behind the
door.
   "I could of course take off from here and head for the sticks," thought Victor. "They'd never let me out
of the coun-try, and I don't even want to get out of the country. What would I do there—it's the same story
everywhere. But even here there are a good dozen places where you can hide and sit it out." He imagined
some distant, sunny place: beech woods, intoxicating air, taciturn farmers, the scent of milk and honey,
manure and mosquitoes, the stench of the privy, and the awful boredom, every night, ancient televisions and
the local in-telligentsia, the sharp priest with an eye for the ladies and the teacher hooked on moonshine.
"Although what am I thinking about, there are places I could go. Except that's just what they need, for me
to run off and hide, crawl into my burrow, and all by myself, too, without coercion. Because it's a pain in
the neck to exile me, it would get around, people would start talk-ing. And that's the whole problem: they'd
be terribly pleased. The troublemaker's quieted down, he's stopped shooting his mouth off. Gone and
forgotten."
    Victor paid for his meal, went to his room, put on his rain-coat, and walked out into the rain. He had a
 sudden desire to see Irma again. He wanted to talk to her about progress, explain why he drank so much
 (as a matter of fact, why did he drink so much?). Maybe Bol-Kunats would be there, and, in any event,
 Lola wouldn't. The streets were wet, gray, and empty; apple trees on the front lawns were quietly perishing
 from the damp. For the first time Victor noticed that some of the houses were boarded up. The town had
 really changed a lot. Fences were falling in, white mold was breaking out under the cornices, paints were
 fading, and on the streets the rain held sway over everything. Rain was falling simply, rain was spraying
 from the rooftops in a fine, watery dust, rain caught in the crosswinds was gathering into swirling columns
 of mist and whipping
       no The Ugly Swans

from wall to wall. Rain thundered out of rusty downspouts, rain poured down the gutters and streamed
through the furrows between the well-washed cobblestones. Gray-black clouds moved slowly over the very
roofs. A man on the streets was an uninvited guest, and the rain had no pity for him.
   Victor emerged onto the town square and saw some people. They were standing under an awning on the
porch of the police station—two policemen in regimental raincoats and a small, grubby-looking youth in
oilcloth overalls. A huge truck with a canvas top loomed awkwardly in front of the porch, its left wheels on
the side walk. One of the policemen was the chief himself. Having stuck out his powerful lower jaw, he
looked off to the side. The kid, desperately waving his arms about, his voice breaking, was trying to prove
something. The second policeman looked sour. He said nothing and dragged at his cigarette. Victor was
walking toward them, and at about twenty paces from the roof he began to hear snatches of conversation.
   "What do I have to do with it?" The kid was shouting. "Did I break any rules? No! Do I have all my
papers? Yes! I've got the right load, here's the invoice. It's not like it's the first time I've come here."
  The chief noticed Victor, and his face took on an extraor-dinarily hostile expression. He turned to his
colleague, com-pletely ignoring the young kid.
  "All right, you stay here. Make sure everything's in order. Don't go climbing into the cab or everything'll
get stolen. And don't let anyone near it. Got it?"
  "Got it," said the policeman. He looked extremely hostile.
  The police chief climbed down the porch stairs, got into his car, and took off. The grubby driver spit
vindictively on the floor and called to Victor.
   "Hey, mister, why don't you tell them if it's my fault or not." Victor stopped momentarily, and the driver
took heart. "I'm driving along minding my own business, I've got a load of books for the restricted zone.
This is the thousandth time I've done it. So what happens—I get stopped and I'm told to go to
                                      The Ugly Swans in

the police station. What for? Did I break any rules? No. Are my papers in order? They are, look at my
invoice. They took my license so I wouldn't run away. And just where would I run to?"
   "That's enough out of you," said the policeman.
   The kid turned to him.
   "But what did I do? Did I break the speed limit? No! They'll fine me for standing here. And now my
license is gone."
   "It'll work out," said the policeman. "What are you getting so upset over anyway? Go get yourself a drink,
this doesn't concern you."
   "Look at the big shots," groaned the kid, shoving his cap onto his tousled head. "There's no justice
anywhere. You make a wrong move and they stop you, you make a right move and they still stop you." He
turned to leave, then paused. "Maybe I can pay a fine or something?"
   "Go get lost," said the policeman.
   "But they promised me a bonus for a quick delivery! I was on the road all night."
   "Get lost, I'm telling you," said the policeman.
   The driver spat again, and walked over to his cab. He gave two kicks to the front tire, then suddenly
hunched over and, sticking his hands in his pockets, sashayed across the square.
   The policeman looked at Victor, then at the truck, then at the sky. His cigarette went out. He spit out the
 butt and, throw-ing off his hood, disappeared into the building.
   Victor stood there for a while, then slowly circled the truck. It was a massive, powerful affair, the kind
 they used to trans-port troops in. He looked around. A few yards in front of the truck a police Harley stood
 soaking under the rain, its right wheel turned to the side. There were no other cars in sight. "They may
 catch up with me," thought Victor, "but there's no way they'll stop me." He started feeling happy. "What the
 hell," he thought. "The well-known writer Victor Banev, inebriated as usual, went for a joyride in a vehicle
 which did not belong to him; fortunately there were no casualties."
        112 The Ugly Swans

    He understood that it wasn't that simple, that he wouldn't be the first person who, out of sheer
restlessness, presented the authorities with a convenient pretext for hauling him off to jail. But he didn't feel
like thinking; he wanted to give in to his impulse. "If worst comes to worst, the schmuck will have his
expose," flashed through his head.
    He quickly opened the door and sat behind the wheel. There was no key; he had to find the wires leading
to the starter and make a connection. When the motor had finally started, before slamming the door, Victor
glanced back at the police station. The policeman was standing on the porch with his old dissatis-fied
expression, a cigarette hanging from his lip. It was obvious that he saw everything and couldn't understand
  it.
    Victor slammed the door, carefully pulled off the sidewalk, shifted gears, and tore off into the nearest
cross street. It was good to race along the empty, ever empty streets, your wheels raising waterfalls from
the deep puddles. It was good to turn the heavy wheel, straining with your whole body: past the cannery,
past the park, past the stadium where the Brothers in Reason like wet mechanical toys kept kicking at their
soggy balls. And farther on, on the main road, how good it was to slam along the potholes, jumping in your
seat and hearing from behind the heavy thump of the poorly secured load. The rearview mirror revealed no
sign of a chase, and indeed how could you see it so quickly and in such rain. Victor felt very young, very
needed, and even drunk. Paper beauties cut out from magazines winked at him from the roof of the cab.
He found a pack of cigarettes in the glove compartment, and he felt so good that he almost missed the
crossroads, but he managed to brake in time and turned in the direction of the road sign's arrow:
"Leprosarium 4 miles." He felt like an explorer —he had never been on this road before. And the road
turned out to be a good one, nothing like the road kept up by the city. It was asphalt, very smooth and well
cared for. Then it turned into concrete, and when he saw the concrete he im-
                                     The Ugly Swans 113

mediately remembered the barbed wire and the soldiers. Five minutes later he saw it all for himself.
   The single row of barbed wire began at the road and stretched out on both sides, disappearing beyond the
screen of rain. The entrance was blocked by a high gate with a guard booth. The door of the booth was
already opened, and a soldier in a helmet and boots was standing on the threshold, the butt of his
submachine gun sticking out from under his poncho. A second soldier, without a helmet, peered through the
window. "I'd never seen the camps before," sang Victor, "but what the future had in store . . ." He took his
foot off the gas and braked right before the gate. The soldier left the booth and went over to the car—a
young, freckled kid, no older than eighteen.
   "Howdy," he said. "Why the delay?"
   "Well, uh, circumstances," said Victor, astonished at the liberal attitude.
   The soldier took a closer look at him and straightened up.
   "Your documents," he snapped.
    "What documents?" said Victor gaily. "I've been telling you, there were circumstances."
   The soldier pursed his lips.
   "What are you bringing?" he asked.
   "Books," said Victor.
    "You have a pass?"
    "Of course not."
    "Aha," said the soldier and his face brightened. "So that's it. Then wait a minute. In that case I'm afraid
 you'll have to wait a minute."
    "Keep in mind," said Victor, raising his finger. "It's possible that I'm being chased."
    "Don't worry, I'll be quick," said the soldier and, pressing his submachine gun to his chest, raced over to
 the booth.
    Victor climbed out of the cab and, standing on the running board, looked behind him. Nothing was visible
 in the rain. He
     114 The u$y S wans

got back behind the wheel and lit up a cigarette. It was terrific. There in front of him, beyond the gates and
the barbed wire, rain was swirling in all directions. You could barely make out some dark structures, houses
or maybe towers, but it was impossible to say anything definite about them. "Are they really not going to
invite me in for a look?" thought Victor. "That would be dirty of them. Maybe I should try Golem, he must
be somewhere around here. That's a good idea," he thought. "I'm not playing the hero for nothing."
   The soldier once again emerged from the booth, followed by an old friend, the pimply-faced nihilist, naked
except for his underwear. The boy looked very cheerful and free from all traces of universal anguish.
Running ahead of the soldier, he jumped onto the running board, took a look into the cab, recognized Victor,
and burst out laughing.
   "Hello, Mr. Banev! Is it really you? Great! You brought the books, right? And we've been waiting for
them."
   "Well, is everything under control?" asked the soldier, who had come up to the truck.
   "Yes, it's our truck."
    "Then take it in," said the soldier. "And you, sir, will have to leave the cab and wait."
    "I would like to see Mr. Golem," said Victor.
    "You can see him out here," proposed the soldier.
    "Hm," said Victor, fixing an expressive gaze on the boy. The boy threw up his hands guiltily.
    "You don't have a pass," he explained. "And they don't let anybody in without one. Of course we'd be
 happy. . . ."
    There was no way out of it, he'd have to climb out into the rain. Victor jumped down onto the road and,
 raising his hood, watched the gates swing open. The truck jerked forward and passed beyond the barrier.
 Then the gates closed. For some time, Victor could still hear the rumble of the motor and hiss-ing of the
 brakes. Then all was silent save the splash and mur-mur of the rain.
    "So that's that," thought Victor. "And what about me?" He
                                         The Ugly Swans 115
felt frustrated. Only now did he understand that his heroism had not been entirely disinterested, that he had
counted on seeing and understanding a great deal, on penetrating, so to speak, into the epicenter. "Oh, the
hell with it," he thought. He looked down the road. Four miles till the cross roads and thirteen miles from
there to town. He could, of course, go right to the health resort—a little over a mile. The dirty ingrates . . .
and in the rain. He suddenly noticed that the rain had died down. "Thanks for that, anyway," he thought.
   "Should I call Mr. Golem for you?" asked the soldier.
   "Golem?" Victor brightened. In fact, it wouldn't be such a bad idea to make the old boy take a walk in the
rain. And then he had a car. And a flask. "Well, why not, call him."
   "That's within the rules," said the soldier. "We'll call him. Only he'll never come, he'll say he's busy."
   "It doesn't matter," said Victor. "Say that Banev is asking for him."
   "Banev? All right, I will. Only he still won't come. But it's easy enough for me to tell him. Banev, you
say." And the soldier left, such a friendly soldier, gentle, nothing but freckles under a helmet.
   Victor lit up a cigarette, and then heard the roar of a motor-cycle engine. Out of the fog, traveling at a
crazy speed, ap-peared the policeman's Harley, fixed up with a side carriage. It flew right up to the gate
and stopped. Straddled in the seat was the policeman with the sour face; another officer, wrapped up to the
eyes in canvas, sat in the side carriage. "Here goes," thought Victor, pulling his hood on tighter. It didn't
help.
   The policeman with the sour face got off the motorcycle and walked over to Victor.
   "Where's the truck?" he barked.
   "What truck?" asked Victor in a surprised voice, trying to win time.
   "Don't go kidding me," hollered the policeman. "I saw you. I'll haul you into court for this. Making off with
a detained vehicle."
       n 6 The Ugly Swans

  "Don't shout at me, please," said Victor in a dignified voice. "You're being boorish. I'll file a complaint."
  The second policeman, kicking off his canvas vestments, walked up to them.
  "Is this the one?" he asked.
   "It's him all right," said the policeman with the sour face, taking his handcuffs out of his pocket.
   "Careful now," said Victor, taking a step backwards. "This is arbitrariness. How dare you?"
   "Don't compound your guilt by resisting," advised the sec-ond policeman.
   "I'm not guilty of anything," said Victor insolently, sticking his hands in his pockets. "You're mistaking me
for someone else, friends."
   "You made off with the truck," said the second policeman.
  "What truck?" yelled Victor. "Why do you keep bringing up this truck? I came here to visit Mr. Golem,
the head physician. Ask the guards. What are you bringing up some truck for?"
   "Maybe he's the wrong one," said the second policeman doubtfully.
   "What do you mean, the wrong one," objected the police-man with the sour face. Readying his handcuffs,
he moved toward Victor. "All right, let's see your hands," he said in a businesslike way.
   At that moment the door banged open. "Break it up!" said someone in a high, penetrating voice.
   Victor and the policeman both jumped. By the door of the booth stood the freckled soldier. He had taken
his submachine gun out from under his poncho.
   "Away from the door!" he screamed.
   "Who do you think you're talking to, buster?" said the policeman with the sour face. "This is the police."
   "The congregation of more than one unauthorized person at the gates of the restricted zone is forbidden!
Three warnings and I shoot! Clear the gates!"
                                         The Ugly Swans 117

   "Go on, go on, move away," said Victor, full of concern, gently prodding both policemen in the chest. The
policeman with the sour face gave him a nervous look, pushed away his hand, and stepped toward the
soldier.
   "Listen, pal, have you gone off your rocker or something?" he said. "This big-mouth here made off with a
truck!"
   "No trucks!" cried the friendly, gentle soldier in a high-pitched drawl. "My last warning! Both of you, a
hundred yards back from the gates!"
   "Listen, Roch," said the second policeman. "Let's move away, the hell with them. We'll get him later,
there's nowhere for him to go."
   Officer Roch, his sour face crimson with rage, was about to open his mouth, but at this point the doors
opened to reveal a fat sergeant. In one hand he held a bitten-off sandwich and in the other a glass.
   "Private Jura," he said, chewing. "Why aren't you firing?"
   The freckled face under the helmet turned brutal. The two policemen threw themselves on the
motorcycle, made a quick U-turn and sped off past Victor, who had assumed the pose of a traffic cop. The
purple-faced policeman shouted something at him, but he couldn't hear it over the roar of the motor. About
fifty paces away the motorcycle stopped.
    "Too close," quibbled the sergeant. "What are you standing there for? They're too close."
    "Get back!" shrieked the soldier, waving his submachine gun.
    The two policemen drove some distance back and disap-peared from view.
    "A lot of unauthorized persons hanging around here lately," advised the sergeant, eyeing Victor. "Well, all
right, return to your duties." He went back to the guard booth, and the freckled soldier, slowly cooling
down, paced a couple of rounds in front of the gates.
    Victor waited a few minutes, then made a tentative inquiry.
    "Excuse me, but what's the story on Mr. Golem?"
       n8 The Ugly Swans

  "He's out," muttered the soldier.
  "What a pity," said Victor. "Then I guess I'll be going." He looked into the rain and fog, where the two
policemen were lying in wait.
  "What do you mean you'll be going?" said the soldier ner-vously.
  "Isn't it allowed?" asked Victor, also nervously.
  "Why not?" said the soldier. "I mean the truck. You'll walk off, and what about the truck? Trucks cannot
be left at the gate."
  "What does that have to do with me?" asked Victor, getting even more nervous.
   "With you? You drove it here, didn't you? That is, uh, that's the way it always is, what did you think?"
  "Shit," thought Victor. "What'll I do with it?" From a hun-dred yards away he could hear the policemen
revving up their engine.
   "Did you really steal it?" asked the soldier, curious.
   "Sure. The police were detaining the driver, so I, like an idiot, decided to help."
   "So-o," sympathized the soldier. "I really don't know what to tell you."
   "And what if, say, I were to walk off now?" asked Victor deviously. "You wouldn't shoot?"
   "I don't know," confessed the soldier. "I don't think regula-tions require me to. You want me to go ask?"
   "Ask," said Victor, trying to figure out how long it would take him to get beyond the limit of visibility.
   At that moment a horn sounded behind the gates. The gates opened, and the unfortunate truck slowly
rolled out of the zone. It stopped next to Victor, the door opened, and Victor saw that behind the wheel, in
place of the expected boy, was a bald, bent-over slimy. The slimy stared at him. Vic-tor didn't budge,
whereupon the slimy removed a black-gloved hand from the wheel and tapped the seat next to him in a sign
of welcome. "So Their Excellencies have deigned to no-
                                       The Ugly Swans 119

tice me," thought Victor bitterly. The soldier was overjoyed.
   "There, you see, everything's worked out, have a nice trip."
   The thought flashed through Victor's mind that if the slimy was intending to deposit the truck somewhere
in town, if the slimy, that is, was intending to do the depositing himself and make his own peace with the
police, then it would be best for Victor to say his good-byes now and head straight across the field to the
health resort. The best maneuver to avoid the motorcycle ambush.
   "The police are waiting up ahead," he said to the slimy.
   "It doesn't matter, get in," said the slimy.
   "The problem is that I stole the truck. It was being de-tained."
   "I know," said the slimy patiently. "Get in."
   The moment was lost. Victor said a polite and warm fare-well to the soldier, clambered onto the seat,
and slammed the door. The truck moved forward, and a minute later they saw the Harley. It was parked at
right angles to the road. The two policemen were standing next to it, motioning for them to pull over. The
slimy came to a stop, turned off the motor, and leaned out the window.
   'Take away your motorcycle, you're blocking the road."
   "Pull over!" ordered the policeman with the sour face. "And let me see your papers."
  "I'm on my way to police headquarters," said the slimy. "Perhaps we could talk there."
  The policeman made a couple of false starts, muttering something on the order of "we know your type."
The slimy waited patiently.
  "All right," said the policeman finally. "Only I'll drive the truck. Your friend there can go in the
motorcycle."
  "Certainly," said the slimy. "Only if it's possible I'll go in the motorcycle myself."
  "So much the better," muttered the policeman with the sour face, which seemed to grow sweeter. "Climb
out."
  They changed places. The policeman, throwing Victor an
      i2o The Ugly Swans

ominous sideways glance, started fidgeting and squirming in his seat, trying to straighten out his raincoat.
Victor, one eye on the policeman, watched the slimy walk over to the motorcycle and climb into the
sidecar. Pigeon-toed and even more bent over, he looked, from the back, like a huge, emaciated monkey.
The rain grew more intense, pouring down as if from an over-turned bucket, and the policeman turned on
the windshield wipers. The cortege started moving.
   "I'd like to know how this is going to end," thought Victor with a certain feeling of oppression. He derived
a vague hope from the slimy's intention to appear at police headquarters. "Your present-day slimy is a
brazen one. Brazen and insolent. Of course they'll fine me, there's no getting out of it. The po-lice would
hardly lose the opportunity to collect a fine. Oh, I don't give a shit, no matter what I'll have to clear out of
here. Everything's okay. At least I got it off my chest."
   He got out a pack of cigarettes and offered it to the police-man. The policeman grunted indignantly but
took one. His lighter wasn't working, and he was compelled to grunt once more when Victor offered him
his own. In fact, it wasn't all that difficult to understand him. He wasn't so young anymore, probably about
forty-five, and still a junior officer. Probably one of the former collaborators. Jailed the wrong people and
licked the wrong asses, how could he have learned which ass was the right one? The policeman smoked,
and his face already looked a little less sour: things were taking a turn for the bet-ter. "If only I had some
booze," thought Victor. "First I'd give him a swig, then I'd tell him a few Irish jokes, then I'd curse out his
superiors for only promoting their favorites, then I'd swear at the students and before you knew it the guy
would melt."
    "No way out of it, look how it's teeming," said Victor.
    The policeman gave a rather neutral grunt, without ill feeling.
    "But what a climate we had here before," continued Victor. Then it hit him. "Think about it—there's no
 rain at the lep-
                                        The Ugly Swans 121

rosarium, but the moment you get near town it starts pouring."
   "Sure," said the policeman. "They've got themselves a good spot in that leprosarium."
   The connection took. They talked about the weather—what it used to be like and what the hell had
happened to it. They found their common acquaintances in town. They talked about life in the capital, about
miniskirts, about the blight of homo-sexuality, about French cognac and smuggled dope. They ob-served,
naturally, that there had been a deterioration of law and order—things just weren't the way they'd been
before the war or, say, right after it. That being a policeman was a lousy way to earn a living, even though
the papers called them the Good Strict Guards of Law and Order, the Irreplaceable Cogs of the
Government Machine. Retirement age kept going up, for injury in the line of duty they gave you peanuts,
and now they were confiscating weapons. Who would stick his neck out under con-ditions like that? In
short, their relationship had developed to the point that had they had a couple of drinks to top it off, the
policeman would have said, "All right, pal, let's drop it. I didn't see you, and you didn't see me."
Unfortunately they didn't have a couple of drinks to top it off, and the moment to slip him a ten-spot hadn't
ripened. So when the truck rolled up to the station, the policeman resumed his churlish state and drily told
Victor to follow him and make it snappy.
   The slimy refused to give an explanation to the officer on duty and demanded to be taken to the chief at
once. The officer on duty responded that the chief would probably be willing to see him, but only him. As
for this citizen here, who is under suspicion of stealing a truck, he has no business seeing any chiefs. He's
staying here for questioning, after which we will draw up the appropriate complaint.
   "No," said the slimy in a firm and quiet voice, "none of this is going to happen. Mr. Banev is not going to
 have to answer any questions and he will not sign any complaints, for reasons which concern the chief
alone."
     122 The Ugly Swans

   The officer on duty, who didn't much care, shrugged his shoulders and went to make his report. While he
was at it, the driver walked in, still in his oilcloth overalls. The driver, who knew nothing and was by now
strongly under the influence, immediately began yelling about justice and innocence and other frightening
things. The slimy carefully relieved the driver of the invoice which he was waving about in the air, leaned
against the railing, and put his signature to it. The driver, taken aback, stopped yelling, and then the slimy
and Victor were motioned toward the inner offices.
   The police chief met them coldly. He looked at the slimy with evident displeasure, and avoided looking at
Victor at all.
   "What can I do for you?" he asked.
   "May we sit down?" the slimy inquired.
   "Yes, of course," said the chief with forced politeness, after a short pause.
   They sat down.
   "I have been instructed," said the slimy, "to register with you our second protest concerning the unlawful
detainment of goods intended for the leprosarium."
   "Yes, I've heard about this," said the police chief. "The driver was drunk and we were obliged to detain
him. I believe that the matter will be resolved in the near future."
   "You detained the goods, not the driver," objected the slimy. "However, that's no longer important.
Thanks to the kindness of Mr. Banev, who is sitting before you here, the goods were delivered with only a
short delay. You are in fact most in-debted to him, as a significant delay in the delivery which could be
traced to police interference or, more specifically, to the interference of the police chief, would bring about
extremely unpleasant consequences for you."
   "Funny," said the police chief. "I don't understand what you're talking about, and I have no desire to. As
 an office-holder I will not tolerate threats. As far as Mr. Banev is con-cerned, he will be treated in
 accordance with the criminal code
                                        The Ugly Swans 123

which contains provisions for such incidents." He was clearly unwilling to look at Victor.
  "I see that you really don't understand your position," said the slimy. "But I have instructions to bring to
your attention that if our goods should be detained a third time you will be dealing directly with General
Pferd."
  There was a short silence. Victor didn't know who General Pferd was, but the police chief obviously did.
  "In my opinion, that's a threat," he said hesitantly.
  "It is," said the slimy. "And a very real one."
  The police chief jerked to his feet, followed by Victor and the slimy.
  "I will take everything into consideration," announced the police chief. "Your tone, sir, leaves much to be
desired. How-ever, I promise your superiors that I will look into the matter and that the guilty parties will be
punished. This includes Mr. Banev as well."
  "Mr. Banev," said the slimy. "If you have any trouble with the police on account of this incident,
immediately inform Mr. Golem. Good-bye," he said to the police chief.
  "Best regards," said the chief.
       Chapter VIII


At eight in the evening, Victor went down to the restaurant. He was about to go right to his table, where
the usual company had gathered, when Teddy called to him.
   "Teddy!" said Victor, leaning against the bar. "How are things?" Then he remembered. "Of course. The
bill. I had a bad night, didn't I?"
   "It's not the bill," muttered Teddy. "The bill isn't so bad— you broke a mirror and twisted off a
washstand. The problem, if you remember, is the police chief."
   "What do you mean?" said Victor, surprised.
   "I didn't think you'd remember," said Teddy. "Your eyes, brother, were like the eyes of a boiled piglet.
You had no idea what you were doing. What happened"—he touched a finger to Victor's chest—"is that
you backed him into the toilet. Then you barricaded the door with a broom and refused to let him out. And
we didn't know who was in there. He'd just come in, and we thought it was Quadriga. So we thought, all
right, let him sit there. And then you dragged him out, and started yelling 'you poor bastard, you got yourself
all dirty in there.' Then you tried sticking his head into the washstand. The washstand twisted off, and we
barely got you out of there."
    "No kidding," said Victor. "How do you like that? No won-der he's been giving me dirty looks all day."
   Teddy nodded sympathetically.
       124
                                      The Ugly Swans 125

   "Only it's one hell of a position to be in," said Victor. "I've got to excuse myself somehow. How'd he let
me get away with it? The guy's still strong."
   "I was afraid they'd make out a complaint against you," said Teddy. "This morning we even had a cop
walking around tak-ing evidence. They'll stick you with article sixty-three, insult-ing actions under
aggravating circumstances. Or even worse— an act of terrorism. You see what that smacks of? If I were
you...." Teddy shook his head.
   "Well?" asked Victor.
   "I hear that the burgomaster came to see you today," said Teddy.
   "He did."
   "And?"
   "A lot of crap. He wanted me to write an article. Against the slimies."
   "So that's it!" said Teddy and livened up. "Then it's really only a lot of crap. Write him his article and
everything'll be all right. If the burgomaster is satisfied, the police chief won't dare let out a peep, you can
take him every day and stick his head down the toilet if you want. The burgomaster has him in his fist. Like
this." Teddy made a gesture with his huge, bony fist. "So everything's all right. For that I'll give you a drink
on the house. Vodka?"
   "Vodka, if you want," said Victor, distracted.
   He saw the burgomaster's visit in a completely new light. "They've really got me," thought Victor. "Either
clear out, or do as you're told or we'll screw you. Unfortunately clearing out of here is not so easy. If it's
really an act of terrorism, then they'll find me. Oh, brother, you old alcoholic, it's disgusting to look at you.
You didn't pick just anyone, did you. The po-lice chief. Well designed and well executed." He didn't
re-member anything except the tiled floor flooded with water, but he could easily imagine the whole scene.
"Yes, Victor Banev, old friend. Yes, you boiled piglet and kitchen dissident,
       126 The Ugly Swans

or rather toilet one. My dear favorite of Mr. President, the time has come for you to sell out. Rots-Tursov is
an experienced man, and he says that selling out must be done lightly and for a good price. The more
honest your pen, the more the powers that be will have to pay for it—so that in selling out, you cause your
enemy to take a loss, and it is your duty to see that this loss is maximized." Victor finished off his vodka
without the slightest sense of satisfaction.
   "All right, Teddy," he said. "Thanks. Let's have the bill. How much am I out?"
   "You can handle it," smirked Teddy. He took a piece of paper out of the cash register. "You owe as
follows: seventy-seven for the bathroom mirror, and sixty-four for the large porcelain washstand, that
makes, you can see for yourself, a total of one hundred forty-one. The lamp we wrote off on the last fight.
There's only one thing I don't get," he continued, watching Victor count out the money. "How did you
manage to smash the mirror? It was a heavy mirror, two fingers thick. What did you do, beat your head
against it?"
   "Not mine," said Victor sullenly.
   "All right, don't take it to heart," said Teddy, taking the money. "You'll write your little article, you'll get
rehabili-tated, you'll take your payment, and all your accounts will be settled. Pour you some more?"
   "No, later. I'll stop by after supper," said Victor and went to his place.
   In the restaurant everything was as usual: the semidarkness, the smells, the clash of dishes in the kitchen.
The young man in glasses with his attache case, companion, and bottle of mineral water; Dr. R. Quadriga,
all hunched over; and Pavor, straight-backed and elegant despite his cold. Golem sprawling in his chair, a
drunken prophet with a cavernous nose. A waiter.
  "The eel," said Victor. "A bottle of beer. And something with meat in it."
  "You're done for," Pavor reproached him. "I told you to stop drinking."
                                     The Ugly Swans 127

   "When did you tell me? I have no recollection."
   "And how come you're done for?" inquired Dr. R. Quadriga. "What did you do, murder somebody?"
   "So you don't remember either?" Victor asked him.
   "You mean last night?"
   "Yes, last night. I drank myself into a stupor," said Victor, turning to Golem, "and locked the police chief
into the lava-tory."
   "Oh, that," said R. Quadriga. "That's all lies. Which is just what I told the investigator. The investigator
came to see me this morning. There I was, I had this awful heartburn, my head was pounding, and I'm
sitting staring out the window, and then this oaf appears and starts sewing up the case."
   "What did you say?" asked Golem. "Sew?"
   "Yes, sew," said R. Quadriga, drawing an imagined needle through an imagined piece of cloth. "Only not
pants, but a case. I told him straight out: It's all lies. Yesterday I spent the whole evening in the restaurant
and everything was quiet and civilized, as always. No scenes. Boring as could be. Don't worry," he said
cheerfully. "No big deal. But why did you do it? Don't you like him?"
   "Let's not talk about it," proposed Victor.
   "Then what will we talk about?" asked an offended Quad-riga. "These two can't stop arguing about
who's keeping whom out of the leprosarium. Then at long last something interest-ing happens, and right
away we can't talk about it."
   Victor took a bite of eel, chewed it, and washed it down with beer.
   "Who's General Pferd?" he asked.
    "A horse," said R. Quadriga. "A stallion. Der Pferd. Or maybe das."
    "Seriously," said Victor, "has anybody heard of him?"
    "When I was in the army," said Dr. R. Quadriga, "our di-vision was commanded by His Excellency
General of the Infantry Arschmann."
    "So what," said Victor.
       128 The Ugly Swans

  "Arsch means ass in German," said Golem, breaking his silence. "The doctor is making a joke."
  "And where did you hear about General Pferd?" Pavor asked.
  "In the police chiefs office," said Victor.
  "Well?"
  "That's it. So nobody knows who he is? Fine. I was just asking."
  "And the general was called Battoks," announced Quadriga. "General Battoks."
  "So you know English as well?" asked Golem.
  "If we stick to certain fields," answered R. Quadriga.
  "Let's have a drink," Victor proposed. "Waiter, a bottle of cognac!"
  "Why a whole bottle?" asked Pavor.
  "So there'll be enough for everybody."
  "You'll make another scene."
  "Drop it, Pavor," said Victor. "You're hardly a teetotaler."
  "I never said I was," said Pavor. "I like a drink and I never pass up the chance to have one, like any real
man. But I don't see why you have to get drunk. And I especially don't see why this has to happen every
evening."
  "Back again," sighed Quadriga. "Too soon."
  "We won't get drunk," said Victor, giving everyone some cognac. "We will simply drink. Along with a
good half of the nation. The other half is getting drunk, but the hell with them, we'll just drink."
  "That's just the point," said Pavor. "When the entire country is drinking itself sick, and not just the country
but the whole world, it's the duty of every decent man to retain his sense of balance."
  "Do you really consider us decent men?" asked Golem.
  "In any event, civilized."
  "In my opinion," said Victor, "civilized people have far more reason to get drunk than uncivilized ones."
                                      The Ugly Swans 129
  "Possibly," said Pavor. "Except that a civilized person is obliged to keep himself in certain bounds.
Civilization obliges him to. Look at us, we sit here practically every night, talking, drinking, shooting dice.
And during all this time has even one of us said something which if not intelligent is at least serious? Sneers
and wisecracks, nothing but sneers and wisecracks."
   "Why should we say anything serious?" Golem asked.
   "Because the world is toppling into an abyss, and we're sneering and making wisecracks. We're feasting
during a plague. In my opinion, it's disgraceful, gentlemen."
   "All right, Pavor," said Victor peaceably. "Tell us something serious. If not intelligent, then at least
serious."
   "I don't want anything serious," said R. Quadriga. "Leeches. Hummocks. Ugh!"
   "Shush," said Victor. "Go back to sleep. Really, Golem, let's at least once talk about something serious.
Pavor, you begin. Tell us about the abyss."
   "Is that another wisecrack?" said Pavor bitterly.
  "No," said Victor. "I give you my word. Maybe I'm being ironic. But that's because all my life I've been
hearing about the abyss. Everyone insists that humanity is falling into one, but nobody can prove it. And if
you look more closely, all that philosophical pessimism turns out to be the result of family problems or
insufficient income."
   "No," said Pavor. "No. Humanity is falling into the abyss because humanity has become bankrupt."
   "Insufficient income," muttered Golem.
   Pavor didn't pay any attention to him. He was addressing Victor alone, and he spoke sullenly, with his
head down.
   "Humanity is bankrupt in the biological sense. The birthrate is falling, cancer is spreading along with
feeblemindedness and neuroses of all sorts, people are turning into drug addicts. Every day they consume
hundreds of tons of alcohol, nicotine, or simply narcotics, they started with hashish and cocaine and ended
with LSD. We're degenerating. We've ruined the natural
       130 The Ugly Swans

world and the man-made one is ruining us. And we've bank-rupted ourselves ideologically. We've gone
through all phil-osophical systems and discredited every one, we've tried all possible ethical systems and
we've stayed the same amoral louts we always were, no better than troglodytes. And that's the worst of it,
that this whole ignorant human mass is not going to improve, it started out as trash and that's the way it's
going to stay. It thirsts after gods and leaders, law and order, it demands them. And every time it gets its
gods, its leaders, and its order, it becomes dissatisfied because in fact it doesn't need any of it. It doesn't
need gods and it doesn't need order, what it needs is chaos and anarchy, bread and circuses. Right now the
iron will of necessity has forced it into dependence on a weekly paycheck. But it's sick of this necessity,
and it escapes from it every evening into alcohol and narcotics. But the hell with it, the hell with this rotting
pile of shit, it's been stinking for ten thousand years and that's all it's good for. There's something more
frightening—that this process of dis-integration has seized us as well, the real people, the individ-uals. We
see this disintegration and we imagine that it doesn't affect us. But it's mastering us through hopelessness,
it's eating away at our will, swallowing us up. And then this damned democratic upbringing: egalite,
fraternite, all men are brothers, we're all made the same. We're constantly identifying with the common
herd and we blame ourselves if we happen to find that we're smarter, that we have different needs and
differ-ent goals in life. It's time we understood this and drew some conclusions from it. It's time to save
ourselves."
    "It's time to drink," said Victor. He was already regretting that he'd agreed to a serious talk with a
sanitary inspector. It was unpleasant to look at Pavor. Pavor had become over-wrought; his eyes were
even twitching. It was out of character for him. He was spewing forth the sheerest banalities, like all
adepts of the abyss. You felt like saying to him: quit disgracing yourself, Pavor, we prefer you in profile
with your usual ironic grin.
                                       The Ugly Swans 131

  "Is that all you can say to me?" Pavor asked.
  "One more piece of advice. More irony, Pavor. Don't get so heated up. You can't do anything about it
anyway. And even if you could do something, you wouldn't know what."
  Pavor grinned ironically.
  "I do know what," he said.
   "Well?"
   "There's only one means of stopping disintegration."
   "We know, we know," said Victor lightly. "Issue the fools their golden shirts and let them march. The
whole of Europe under our feet. It's been tried."
   "No," said Pavor. "That's just a delaying tactic. There's only one real way to do it: destroy the masses."
   "You're in a fine mood today," Victor said.
   "Destroy ninety percent of the population," continued Pa-vor. "Maybe even ninety-five. The masses have
fulfilled their purpose—they have brought forth the flower of humanity, the creators of civilization. Now
they are dead, like a rotten po-tato that has given life to a new plant. And when the corpse starts to rot, it's
time to bury it."
   "Christ," said Victor. "And all this just because you have a cold and they won't give you a pass to the
leprosarium? Or maybe you're having family problems?"
   "Don't play the fool," said Pavor. "Why don't you want to think about things that are utterly clear to you?
What is it that has distorted our brightest ideas? The obtuseness of the ignorant masses. What is it that has
caused war, chaos, every sort of outrage? The obtuseness of the ignorant masses, who choose a
government which is worthy of them. Why is it that the Golden Age is as far from us now as it ever was?
The stag-nation and ignorance of the masses. In principle Hitler was right, subconsciously he was right, he
sensed that much on this earth is superfluous. But he was a product of the masses and spoiled everything.
It was stupid to start the destruction on racial grounds. And besides, he didn't have the real means for
carrying it out."
        132 The Ugly Swans

   "And what grounds do you intend to use?" asked Victor.
   "Inconspicuousness," said Pavor. "If a person is dull, if he's inconspicuous, then he has to be destroyed."
   "And who is going to determine whether a person is con-spicuous or not?"
   "Drop it, those are just details. I'm giving you the theory. Who, what, and how are nothing but details."
   "Then why get involved with the burgomaster?" asked Vic-tor, fed up with Pavor.
   "You mean—"
   "What the hell do you need this court case for? You're getting petty, Pavor. And that's the way it always
is with you supermen. You're preparing to plow over the whole earth, you won't agree to less than three
billion dead, and the whole time you're worrying about your rank or getting treatments for gonorrhea, or
wasting your time helping doubtful people do their dirty little deeds."
   "Take it easy," said Pavor. It was clear that he was furious. "Look at you, an indolent drunk—"
   "In any case I don't go around manufacturing political law-suits, and I'm not trying to remake the world."
   "That's right," said Pavor. "Because you're not even capable of it, Banev. All you'll ever be is a
bohemian, that is, in short, a lousy son of a bitch, a cheap dissident, and a piece of shit. You yourself don't
know what you want, and you only do what other people want you to. You titillate some readers who are
sons of bitches like yourself, and you think that makes you an earthshaker and a free artist. You're nothing
but a producer of dirty rhymes, a graffiti artist of the public Johns."
   "That's all correct," said Victor. "It's only a pity that you never said this before. You had to be insulted
before you'd say it. The result of it is that you're a dirty little individual, Pavor. Simply one of many. And if
they're going to start de-stroying, then they'll destroy you too. On the grounds of incon-spicuousness. A
philosophizing sanitary inspector? Into the ovens!"
                                        The Ugly Swans 133

   "It would be interesting to see what we look like from the outside," he thought. "Pavor is sickening. What
a filthy smile. What's gotten into him? And Quadriga is fast asleep—what does he care about all these
ignorant masses? And Golem is sprawled out like a spectator at a show—shot glass at his finger-tips, arm
flung over the back of the chair. He's waiting for the outcome: who strikes who with what? For some
reason Pavor isn't saying anything. What is he doing, putting together his arguments?"
   "Well, all right," said Pavor finally. "We had our little talk and that's enough."
   His smile disappeared, and once again his eyes hardened into the eyes of a Sturmbannfuhrer. He threw
some money on the table, finished his cognac, and left without saying good-bye. Victor felt pleasantly
disappointed.
   "You know, for a writer you have absolutely no understand-ing of people," said Golem.
   "That's not my business," said Victor lightly. "That's for psychologists and security police. My business is
to isolate tendencies with the heightened sensitivity of an artist. But why are you telling me this? Another
case of 'Veektor, shut your mouth'?"
   "I told you: leave Pavor alone."
   "For Christ's sake," said Victor. "First of all, I'm leaving him alone. He's the one that isn't leaving me
alone. And second, he's a pig. You know that he's helping the burgomaster haul you into court?"
   "I guessed as much."
   "That doesn't bother you?"
   "No. His reach is short. That is to say, the burgomaster's. Also the court's."
   "And Pavor's?"
   "And Pavor's is long. Therefore stop shooting your mouth off in front of him. You see that I don't."
   "I wonder, who you do shoot your mouth off in front of?" muttered Victor.
       134 The Ugly Swans

   "From time to time in front of you. I have a weakness for you. Pour me some cognac."
   "My pleasure." Victor poured it. "Maybe we should wake Quadriga up? What's gotten into him, he didn't
even defend me against Pavor."
   "No, don't. Let's talk. Why are you getting yourself mixed up in this? Who asked you to steal the truck?"
   "I felt like it," said Victor. "I don't believe in confiscating books, I think it's lousy. And then the
burgomaster provoked me. He impinged on my freedom. Every time they impinge on my freedom I start
misbehaving. Incidentally, Golem, maybe this General Pferd can put in a good word with the burgomaster?"
   "He pisses on you and the burgomaster both," said Golem. "He's got enough problems of his own."
   "You tell him, let him put in a word. If not, I'll write an expose of your leprosarium, about how you use
the blood of Christian infants for treating ocularis ringus. You think I don't know why the slimies are luring
in the children? First of all, they suck their blood, and second of all, they defile them. I'll shame you before
the whole world. A bloodsucker and defiler masquerading as a physician." Victor clinked glasses with
Golem. "Actually, I'm being serious. The burgomaster is forc-ing me to write an expose. Of course you're
aware of this, too."
   "No, I'm not," said Golem. "But it's insignificant."
   "Everything is insignificant for you," said Victor. "The en-tire city is against you: insignificant. You're
being hauled into court: insignificant. The sanitary inspector Pavor is disturbed by your conduct:
insignificant. The fashionable writer Victor Banev is also annoyed and is readying his angry pen: once
again, insignificant. Maybe General Pferd is a pseudonym for Mr. President? By the way, does the
all-powerful general know you're a Communist?"
   "And why is the writer Banev annoyed?" asked Golem tranquilly. "Only stop shouting, Teddy is
looking at us."
                                        The Ugly Swans 135

  "Teddy's on our side," objected Victor. "Besides, he's an-noyed too: the mice have gotten to him." He
frowned and lit a cigarette. "Wait a minute, what was it you were asking me? Oh. I'm annoyed because
you didn't let me into the lep-rosarium. No matter how you look at it, I performed a noble deed for you. It
might have been stupid, but they always are. And before that I carried a slimy on my back."
  "And fought on his behalf," Golem added.
  "Exactly."
  "With the fascists," said Golem.
  "Right again."
  "Do you have a pass?" Golem asked.
  "A pass. You don't let Pavor in either, and he's turning into a demophobe right before your eyes."
  "Yes, Pavor just isn't having any luck here," said Golem. "He's a good operator, but nothing seems to be
working out for him here. I keep on waiting for him to start putting his foot in it. I think he's started."
  Dr. R. Quadriga raised his disheveled head.
  "Hard. I'll walk in and then we'll see. Out of breath." His head thumped back onto the table.
  "Still, Golem," said Victor, lowering his voice. "Is it true that you're a Communist?"
  "I seem to recall that the Communist party is illegal here," observed Golem.
  "Christ," said Victor. "What party is legal? I'm not asking about the party, I'm asking about you."
  "As you see, I'm legal," said Golem.
  "Have it your way," said Victor. "I don't care. But the burgomaster—although you don't give a shit about
the burgo-master. But what if it gets to General Pferd?"
  "We simply won't tell him," winked Golem. "And why should a general dip into these petty matters? He
knows that there's such a thing as the leprosarium, that in the leprosarium there's someone named Golem
and some sort of slimies; enough."
  "An odd general," said Victor thoughtfully. "General of the
     136 The Ugly Swans

Leprosarium. Although he'll be having his troubles because of those slimies soon. I feel that with the
heightened sensitivity of an artist. The town is dead set against them."
   "If it were only the town," said Golem.
   "But what's the problem? They're just sick people, ap-parently they're not even infectious."
   "Don't get devious, Victor. You're perfectly well aware that they're more than just sick people. They're
even infectious in a certain way."
   "Meaning?"
   "Meaning that Teddy, for example, can't be infected by them. And the burgomaster can't, to say nothing
of the po-lice chief. But somebody else can."
   "You, for example."
  Golem took the cognac, spent a moment admiring its color, and poured himself some.
   "I can't either. Not anymore."
   "What about me?"
   "I don't know. In general, all this is only my hypothesis. Don't pay any attention to it."
   "I won't," sighed Victor. "What makes them unusual?"
   "What makes them unusual?" repeated Golem. "Perhaps you've noticed yourself, Victor, that all people
can be divided into three big groups. More precisely, into two big groups and one little one. There are
people who can't live without the past, more or less distant; they're completely immersed in it. They live by
traditions, customs, and dogmas; the past is their model and their source of happiness. Take Mr. President,
for example. Where would he be without our illustrious past? Where would he find his justification, and how
could he even have come about? Then there are people who live for the present and don't wish to know
either the future or the past. For example, you. All your ideas about the past have been ruined by Mr.
President. No matter what past you looked into, Mr. President got there first. As for the future, in my
opinion you don't have the slightest conception of it, and you're
                                        The Ugly Swans 137

afraid to have one. And finally there are people who live for the future. They have appeared in noticeable
quantity only re-cently. They don't expect anything good out of the past, in which expectation they're
completely justified, and the present for them is just something to build the future with, raw ma-terial. You
could say that they're already living in the future— on islands of the future, which have formed around them
in the present." Golem, smiling strangely, raised his eyes to the ceil-ing. "They're intelligent," he said
tenderly, "they're incredibly intelligent, as opposed to most people. Every single one of them is talented,
Victor. They have strange desires and com-pletely lack the normal ones."
   "Normal desires—that would be, for example, women?"
   "In a certain sense, yes."
   "Vodka, circuses?"
   "Absolutely."
   "A terrible disease," said Victor. "I don't want to. . . . And no matter that I can't understand. I don't
understand anything. I can understand why intelligent people are put behind barbed wire. But why they're
allowed out, and we're not allowed in...."
   "Maybe they're not the ones behind the barbed wire, maybe you are."
   Victor smirked.
   "Wait a minute," he said. "That's not all I don't understand. Take Pavor. I can see why they don't let me
in, I'm an outsider. But doesn't somebody have to inspect the bed linen and the toilets? Maybe it's
unsanitary there."
   "And what if that's not what interests him?"
   Victor in confusion looked at Golem.
   "You're joking again?" he asked.
   "Again, I'm not joking," said Golem.
   "So you think he's a spy?"
  "Spy is too broad a concept," Golem objected.
  "Hold on," said Victor. "Let's start over. Who put up barbed wire and ordered the guards?"
     138 The Ugly Swans

   "Oh, that wire again," moaned Golem. "You can't imagine how many uniforms have gotten torn because
of it, and the soldiers are constantly suffering from diarrhea. You know the best cure for diarrhea?
Tobacco and cheap wine, or rather, cheap wine and tobacco."
   "All right," said Victor. "So, General Pferd. Aha," he said. "And that young man with the attache case. So
that's it. You've got a military think tank going. It's all clear. And Pavor is a civilian. A different branch of
the service. Or maybe he's not our spy, maybe he's a foreign one."
   "God forbid!" said Golem, shuddering. "Just what we need."
   "So. . . . And does he know who the guy with the attache* case is?"
   "I think so," said Golem.
   "And the attache case knows who Pavor is?"
   "I think not," said Golem.
   "You didn't say anything to him?"
   "Why should I?"
   "And you didn't tell General Pferd?"
   "I wouldn't think of it."
   "That's unfair," said Victor. "He should be told."
   "Listen, Victor," said Golem. "I've allowed you to shoot your mouth off on this topic only to get you
scared, to stop you from sticking your nose into other people's business. This isn't doing you any good.
They've got an eye on you as it is. They can stamp you out whenever they want, you won't have time to let
out a squeak."
   "It's not that hard to get me scared," said Victor, sighing. "I've been scared since childhood. But I still
can't understand it—what do they all want from the slimies?"
   "Who's 'they'?" said Golem, tired, reproachful.
   "Pavor. Pferd. The one with the attache' case. All those rep-tiles."
   "God," said Golem. "What do reptiles need intelligent and talented people for in our time? What I can't
 understand is what you need them for. Why are you getting involved in all
                                        The Ugly Swans 139

this? Don't you have enough problems of your own? Isn't Mr. President enough for you?"
   "More than enough," agreed Victor. "I've had it up to my ears."
   "Well, then, fine. Go to the health resort, take some paper with you, if you want I can give you a
typewriter."
   "I work in the old style," said Victor. "Like Hemingway."
   "Wonderful. I'll give you a pencil stub. Do your work, love Diana. Maybe you'd like a plot as well?
Maybe you've written yourself out?"
   "Plots grow out of themes," pronounced Victor. "I'm study-ing life."
   "Go right ahead," said Golem. "Study life as much as you want. Only keep your nose out of lawsuits."
   "That's impossible," objected Victor. "The instrument un-avoidably affects the experimental picture. Don't
you remem-ber your physics? We don't observe the world as such, but the world plus the observer's effect
on it."
   "You've already had a taste of their brass knuckles, the next time they'll simply shoot you."
   "Well," said Victor. "First of all, maybe it wasn't brass knuckles, maybe it was a brick. Second of all, this
isn't the only place in the world where it could happen. They can get me at any moment—does that mean I
can't leave my hotel room?"
   Golem bit his lip. He had the yellow teeth of a horse.
   "Listen, instrument," he said. "The first time you inter-fered in the experiment it was a matter of chance,
and they wasted no time taking care of you. If, now, you do it con-sciously—"
   "I didn't interfere in any experiments," said Victor. "I had just left Lola's and I was walking along minding
my own busi-ness when I suddenly saw—"
   "Idiot," said Golem. "Minding his own business and looking at the same time. You should have crossed
the street, block-head."
    "Why in God's name should I have crossed the street?"
       140 The Ugly Swans
   "Because a good acquaintance of yours was busy fulfilling his professional duties, and you marched in
there like an ass."
   Victor straightened up.
   "What good acquaintance? There wasn't a single acquain-tance there."
   "Your acquaintance came from behind with the brass knuckles. Do you know anyone with brass
knuckles?"
   Victor gulped down his cognac. It came back to him with astonishing clarity: Pavor with his nose red
from the flu tak-ing a handkerchief out of his pocket, and the brass knuckles banging onto the floor—heavy,
dull, custom-made.
   "Drop it," said Victor, sputtering. "Nonsense. Pavor couldn't."
   "I haven't named any names," objected Golem.
   Victor put his hands on the table and stared at his clenched fists.
   "What do you mean by his duties?" he asked.
   "Somebody needed a living slimy, apparently. A kidnap-ping."
   "And I prevented it?"
   "You tried to."
   "In other words, they got him anyway?"
   "And carried him away. You can say thank you that they didn't seize you as well to avoid leaving any
witnesses. The future of literature is not one of their concerns."
   "So it was Pavor," said Victor slowly.
   "No names," Golem reminded him. He was severe.
   "Fucking bastard," said Victor. "All right, we'll see. But what did they need a slimy for?"
    "What do you mean, what for? Information. Where can they get information? You know it
yourself—barbed wire, soldiers, General Pferd."
    "So they're questioning him there now?" Victor continued.
   Golem was silent for a long time.
    "He died," he said finally.
    "Did they beat him?"
                                        The Ugly Swans 141

   "No. On the contrary." Golem was silent again. "They're idiots. They didn't give him anything to read, and
he died of starvation."
   Victor threw a quick glance at him. Golem was smiling sadly. Or crying from grief. Victor felt overcome
by horror and de-spair, a suffocating despair. The lamp grew suddenly dim. It was like a heart attack.
Victor, choking, managed to undo the knot of his tie. "My God," he thought, "he's a snake, a criminal, a
murderer in cold blood. Right after that, an hour after that, he washed his hands, sprinkled himself with
cologne, weighed up what his superiors owed him for it, and sat down next to me. And he was clinking
glasses with me, and smiling at me, and talking to me as a friend, the bastard. And he was lying, smiling and
lying, lying with the greatest enjoyment. He was laughing at me, giggling up his sleeve whenever I turned
around and winking at himself, and then inquiring sympa-thetically about my head." Through a black fog
Victor saw Dr. R. Quadriga slowly raise his head, open his caked-up mouth in a silent scream, and start
jerking his shaking hands over the tablecloth like a blind man. And his eyes were like a blind man's when he
twisted his head and kept screaming and scream-ing, and Victor didn't hear a sound. "And that's right, I'm
also shit, a shabby, useless mediocrity, kick him in the face and grab his arms, don't let him wipe the spit
away. Why should anybody need me, they should have hit harder, so that I couldn't get up, and I was like a
sleepwalker beating my fists in the air. And my God, why am I living, why is anybody living? Because it's
so simple, you come up from behind with a piece of iron and land a blow on the head, and nothing changes,
nothing in the world changes, at the same instant a thousand miles away another little bastard is being born."
Golem's puffy face grew ever more flaccid, darkening suddenly from the stub-ble on his chin. His eyes
seemed to sink into his fleshy cheeks. He was sprawled motionless in his chair like a wineskin full of rancid
oil. Only his fingers were moving, as he slowly took a wine glass from the table, soundlessly broke off the
Stem and
       142 The Ugly Swans

dropped it on the floor, and then took another glass, and broke off the stem and dropped it on the floor.
"And I don't love anybody, I can't love Diana. It doesn't matter who I sleep with, anybody can do that, but is
it really possible to love a woman who doesn't love you, and a woman can't love when you don't love her!
And everything is spinning in a damned inhuman ring, spinning like a serpent chasing its tail, like animals
cou-pling and uncoupling—only animals don't think up words and don't create poetry, they just couple and
uncouple." Teddy was weeping with his elbows on the bar, with his bony chin resting in his bony fist. His
bald forehead shone saffron-bright under the lamp, and tears were flowing endlessly along his sunken
cheeks, and they were also shining under the lamp. "And all because I'm shit, in no way am I a writer, what
kind of writer can I be if I can't stand writing, if writing is torture for me, a painful unpleasant activity, like a
disease of the bodily functions, like diarrhea, like pus squeezing out of boils? It's horrifying to think that I'll
have to do this for the rest of my life, that I'm condemned to it, they won't let me free, they'll keep on
demanding let's have it, let's have it, and I'll give it to them, but I can't now, I can't even think about it now,
oh God, don't let me think about it or I'll throw up." Bol-Kunats was standing behind R. Quadriga and
looking at his watch. He was thin and wet, with a wet, fresh face and wonderful dark eyes. A fresh smell
was coming from him, cutting through the thick hot closeness of the room: a smell of grass and spring
water, a smell of lilies, sun and dragonflies above a lake. The world came back to him. There remained only
a troubled remembrance or sensation, or the remembrance of a sensation flashing like a shadow in a
corner; somebody's desperate, broken-off scream, an incomprehensible screeching and ringing, the crunch
of glass.
    Victor licked his lips and stretched out his hand for the bot-tle. Dr. R. Quadriga, head on the tablecloth,
was muttering hoarsely: "Don't need anything. Hide me. The hell with . . ."
                                        The Ugly Swans 143

Golem was concentrating on clearing bits of glass from the table.
   "Please excuse me, Mr. Golem," said Bol-Kunats. "I have a letter for you." He put an envelope before
Golem and once again glanced at his watch. "Good evening, Mr. Banev," he said.
   "Good evening," said Victor, pouring himself some cognac.
   Golem read the letter attentively. Behind the bar, Teddy was loudly blowing his nose into a checkered
handkerchief.
   "Listen, Bol-Kunats," said Victor. "Did you see who hit me that time?"
   "No," said Bol-Kunats, looking him straight in the eye.
   "How could that be?" asked Victor, frowning.
   "He had his back to me," explained Bol-Kunats.
   "You know him," said Victor. "Who was it?"
   Golem made an indefinable noise. Victor threw a quick look at him. Golem, not paying anybody any
attention, was thoughtfully tearing the note into little shreds. He hid the pieces in his pocket.
   "You're mistaken," said Bol-Kunats. "I don't know him."
   "Banev," muttered R. Quadriga. "I beg you. ... I can't be there by myself. . . . Come with me. . . . It's
terrifying. . . ."
   Golem rose and rummaged through his vest pocket.
   "Teddy!" he shouted. "Write me up a bill. And keep in mind that I broke four glasses. Well, I'm off," he
said to Victor. "Think hard and make a wise decision. Maybe it would even be best for you to leave."
    "Good-bye, Mr. Banev," said Bol-Kunats politely. Victor thought he saw the boy ever so lightly shaking
his head.
    "Good-bye, Bol-Kunats," he said. "Good-bye."
   They left. Victor, lost in thought, finished the cognac. The waiter came. His face was swollen and
covered with red spots. He started to clear the table, and his movements were un-usually awkward and
hesitant.
    "You haven't been here long, have you?" asked Victor.
       144 The ^BJy Swans

  "No, Mr. Banev. Starting this morning."
  "What happened to Peter? Is he sick?"
  "No, Mr. Banev. He left. He couldn't stand it. Probably I'll leave too."
  Victor looked at R. Quadriga.
  "Take him up to his room," he said.
  "Yes, of course, Mr. Banev," answered the waiter in an un-steady voice.
  Victor paid up, waved good-bye to Teddy, and went out into the lobby. He went up to the second floor,
walked over to Pavor's room, and raised his hand as if to knock. He stood there for some time. Then, not
having done anything, he went downstairs. The desk clerk was sitting and staring at his hands in
astonishment. His hands were wet, and clumps of hair were stuck to them. Hairs were strewn all over his
tuxedo and there were fresh scratches on his face, over both cheeks. He looked at Victor and his eyes
were crazed. But now was not the time to notice odd details, it would have been tactless and cruel, and
even worse would have been to say something about it. It was imperative to pretend that nothing had
happened, every-thing had to be put off until tomorrow or maybe even the day after. Victor spoke.
   "Could you tell me the room number of that, uh, you know, the young man in glasses, he always carries
an attache* case."
   The desk clerk wavered. Seeking a way out, he looked at the numbered board with the keys on it, then
answered anyway.
   "Number three twelve, Mr. Banev."
   "Thank you," said Victor, putting a coin on the desk.
   "Only they don't like to be disturbed," warned the desk clerk halfheartedly.
   "I know," said Victor. "I wasn't intending to disturb them. I was just asking. A little prophesying: if it's an
 even number, then everything will be all right."
   The desk clerk gave him a weak smile.
   "What kind of problems could you have, Mr. Banev?" he said politely.
                                      The Ugly Swans 145

   "All sorts," sighed Victor. "Big ones and little ones. Good night."
   He went up to the third floor, moving slowly, intentionally slowly, as if to give himself time to think it all
over and weigh the possible consequences, and consider everything for three years in advance. But in fact
he was thinking that it was really time for them to change the carpet on the staircase; it was worn thin.
And only just as he was about to knock at the door of number three twelve (deluxe class: two bedrooms
and a sitting room, a television, a good radio, a refrigerator, and a bar), he almost said aloud: "You are
reptiles, gentlemen. My pleasure. I'll have you feeding on one another."
   He had to knock for a long time; at first a few light taps with his knuckles, and then, when there wasn't
any response, a more decisive rap with his fist, and when even that brought no reaction, just a squeaking of
floorboards and someone's breath at the keyhole, he turned around and banged with his heels, having lost
all pretense at politeness.
   "Who's there?" asked, at long last, a voice behind the door.
   "A neighbor," answered Victor. "Open up for a minute."
   "What do you want?"
   "I have to say a few words to you."
   "Come in the morning," said the voice behind the door. "We're already sleeping."
    "You goddamned fools," said Victor, furious. "Do you want me to be seen here? Open up, what are you
afraid of?"
   The key clicked, and the door opened slightly. In the crack appeared the dull eye of the lanky
professional. Victor spread open his hands.
    "A few words," he said.
    "Come in," said the professional. "Only no funny business."
   Victor walked into the foyer, and the professional closed the door behind him and lit the light. The foyer
was small, the two of them barely fitting into it.
    "Well, speak," said the professional. He was wearing stained pajamas. Victor sniffed in
 astonishment. The professional had
       146 The Ugly Swans

liquor on his breath. His right hand was, according to form, hidden in his pocket.
   "Are we going to talk here?" inquired Victor.
   "Yes."
   "No," said Victor. "I don't care for the surroundings."
   "As you wish," said the professional.
   "As you wish," said Victor. "It's your loss."
   They fell silent. The professional, no longer trying to hide it, scrutinized Victor carefully.
   "It seems your name is Banev?" he said.
   "So it seems."
   "Aha," glowered the professional. "Then what kind of neigh-bor are you? You live on the second floor."
   "It's the same hotel," explained Victor.
   "Aha. And what you want from us, I can't understand."
   "I have something to tell you," said Victor. " A certain piece of information. But I'm already starting to
change my mind, I'm not sure it's worth it."
   "Well, all right," said the professional. "Let's move to the bathroom."
   "You know," said Victor, "I think I'll go."
   "What do you have against the bathroom? Why so choosy?"
   "You know," said Victor, "I changed my mind. I think I'll go. In the final analysis, it's not my problem."
   The professional grunted, perplexed by contradictory feel-ings.
   "If I'm not mistaken, you're a writer," he said. "Or maybe I'm taking you for someone else."
   "A writer," said Victor. "Good-bye."
   "No, wait a minute. You should have said so right away. Let's go. This way."
   They entered the sitting room which was hung over with cur-tains, curtains to the right, curtains to the
left, curtains straight ahead and over the large window. A huge color television flickered in the corner, but
the sound was turned off. In the
                                        The Ugly Swans 147

other corner, the young man in glasses, dressed in pajamas and slippers, sat in a soft chair by a lamp and
stared at Victor from over the top of his opened newspaper. On the table next to him was a four-sided
decanter and a seltzer bottle. The attache* case was out of sight.
   "Good evening," said Victor.
   The young man silently inclined his head.
   "He came to see me," said the professional. "Pay no at-tention."
   The young man nodded again and disappeared behind his paper.
   "This way, please," said the professional. They went into the bedroom on the right, and the professional
sat down on the bed. "There's a chair," he said. "Sit down and let's have it."
   Victor sat down. The bedroom smelled heavily of tobacco smoke and officers' eau de cologne. The
professional sat on the bed and stared at Victor, his hand still in his pocket. A newspaper rustled in the
sitting room.
   "All right," said Victor. It wasn't as though he had com-pletely overcome his disgust, but now that he was
here, he had to start. "I have some idea of who you are. I may, of course, be mistaken, in which case
everything is all right. But if that's not so, then you might find it useful to know that you are being followed
and your work may be interfered with."
    "Let us suppose," said the professional. "And who is follow-ing us?"
    "Your activities have attracted the interest of a certain Pavor Summan."
   "What?" said the professional. "The sanitary inspector?"
    "He is not the sanitary inspector. That's all I wanted to tell you." Victor stood up, but the professional
didn't move a muscle.
    "Let us suppose," he repeated. "How, if I might ask, do you know this?"
    "Does it matter?" asked Victor.
       148 The Ugly Swans

  The professional thought for some time.
  "Let us suppose that it doesn't," he announced.
  "Verifying it is your problem," said Victor. "That's all I know. Good-bye."
  "Wait a minute, where are you going?" said the professional. He bent over to the night table and pulled
out a bottle and a glass. "You wanted to see us so badly and now you're leaving so soon. Is it all right if we
share a glass?"
  "It depends on what's in it," answered Victor and sat down again.
  "Scotch," said the professional. "Does that suit you?"
  "Real Scotch?"
  "The real thing. Allow me." He held out the glass to Victor.
  "Some people have it good," said Victor and drank.
  "We've got nothing against you writers," said the profes-sional and also drank. "But if you could tell us in
more detail."
  "Forget it," said Victor. "You get paid for that. I told you the name and the address, it's your business, go
get busy. The more so that I really don't know anything. Except for—" Victor stopped and pretended that
something had just dawned on him. The professional took the bait.
   "Well?" he said. "Well?"
   "I know that he kidnapped a slimy and that he was working in collusion with the town legionnaires.
What's his name— Flamenta, Juventa...."
   "Flamen Juventa," the professional helped him.
   "That's it."
   "About the slimy. You're sure that's right?" asked the pro-fessional.
   "I'm sure. I tried to step in, but his honor the sanitary in-spector knocked me on the back of the head with
his brass knuckles. And then when I was sprawled out on the street they drove him away."
   "Interesting," said the professional. "So it was Summan. Listen, you're really all right, Banev. Want some
more whisky?"
                                         The Ugly Swans 149

  "Please," said Victor. No matter what he told himself, no matter how much he steeled himself or tried to
overcome it, he was still disgusted. "Well, all right," he thought. "At least now I know that I wouldn't make a
good informer. No satis-faction there at all, even though now they really will start feed-ing on each other.
Golem was right—it was stupid of me to get involved in this. Or maybe Golem was cleverer than I
thought?"
  "Your turn," said the professional, holding out a full glass to him.
       Chapter IX



"What time is it?" asked Diana sleepily.
   Victor, razor in hand, made a neat sweep through the lather on his left cheek. Then he looked at himself
in the mirror.
   "Sleep, little one, sleep. It's still early."
   "You're right," said Diana. The bed creaked. "It's nine o'clock. What are you doing?"
   "I'm shaving," answered Victor, removing some more lather. "I got this sudden urge to shave. You
know—I said to myself— I think I'll have a shave."
   "You're crazy," said Diana, yawning. "You should have shaved last night. You scratched me all over with
your bristles. Cactus."
   Through the mirror, he watched her stumble over to the armchair, curl up in it, and start looking at him.
Victor winked at her. This was yet another Diana, tender, soft, and gentle, tucked into a ball like a
contented cat, petted and blessed. It was completely different from the Diana who had torn into his room
the night before.
   "Today you look like a cat," he announced to her. "And not even a cat—a kitten, a soft, silky. What are
you smiling for?"
   "Not because of you. I just remembered."
   She yawned and stretched out luxuriously. She was drowning in his pajamas—out of the formless pile of
silk on the armchair you could see only her wonderful face and thin arms. As out of a wave. Victor started
to shave faster.
       150
                                     The Ugly Swam 151

  "Don't hurry," she said. "You'll cut yourself. I have to leave soon anyway."
  'That's why I'm hurrying," said Victor.
  "No, don't, I don't like it that way. Only cats do it that way. How are my clothes doing?"
  Victor stretched out a hand and felt her dress and stockings, draped over the radiator. Everything was
dry.
  "Where are you rushing to?" he asked.
  "I told you. To Rosheper."
    "There's something here I don't remember. What's the mat-ter with Rosheper?"
    "I told you, he hurt himself," said Diana.
    "Oh, right," said Victor. "Right, you were saying some-thing. He took a fall from somewhere. So he
really got banged up, did he?"
    "That idiot," said Diana, "suddenly decided that he wanted to kill himself and dove into the window. He
charged it like a bull, headfirst, and broke the glass, but he forgot that his room was on the first floor. He
hurt his knee, started howling, and now he's in bed."
    "What got into him?" asked Victor. "Hallucinations?"
    "Something like that."
    "Wait," said Victor. "So it's because of him that you didn't come to see me for two days? Because of that
lummox?"
    "Why else? The head doctor ordered me to sit with him be-cause he, that is, Rosheper, couldn't manage
without me. He couldn't, and that's that. He couldn't do anything. Even uri-nate. I had to pretend I was a
bubbling brook and tell him about pissoirs."
    "What do you know about that?" muttered Victor. "There you were expounding about pissoirs, and I was
 in agony here all by myself. I couldn't do anything either, I didn't write a single line. You know, I never did
 like to write, but recently. ... In general, my life...." He stopped. "What does she care," he thought.
 "Coupling and uncoupling." "Yes, listen," he said. "When were you saying Rosheper took this nose dive?"
        152 The Ugly Swans

   "Two days ago," answered Diana.
   "In the evening?"
   "Uhuh," said Diana nibbling at a cookie.
   "At ten o'clock," said Victor. "Between ten and eleven."
   Diana stopped chewing.
   "That's right," she said. "How did you know? Did you pick up his necrobiotic waves?"
   "Wait," said Victor. "I'm going to tell you something in-teresting. But first tell me. What were you doing at
that mo-ment?"
   "What was I doing? Oh, I know. That was the evening that I broke down. I'd been rolling bandages, and
then this in-credible despair came over me, like a headache, I could have killed myself. So I buried my head
in the bandages and started bawling. I hadn't bawled that way since I was a child. Whole rivers of tears
were—"
   "And suddenly it was all over," said Victor.
   Diana thought.
   "Yes. No. Then Rosheper started howling outside and I got scared and jumped up."
   She was about to say something else when there was a knock at the door. Someone was turning the
doorknob. Then Teddy's hoarse cry came through from the corridor. "Victor! Victor, wake up! Open the
door, Victor!" Victor, razor in hand, stood stock still. "Victor!" sputtered Teddy. "Open up!" The door-knob
rattled madly. Diana jumped up and turned the key. The door flew open and Teddy burst in, wet and
lacerated, with a sawed-off shotgun in his hands.
   "Where's Victor?"
   Victor emerged from the bathroom.
   "What's going on?" he asked. His heart was pounding. An
arrest... war _
   "The children are gone," said Teddy, breathing heavily. "Get your things together, the children are gone."
   "Hold it," said Victor. "What children?"
                                       The Ugly Swans 153

  Teddy flung his weapon onto the table on top of a pile of scribbled-on, crossed-out, crumpled paper.
  "They've lured the children away, the bastards!" he yelled. "They've lured them away, the sons of
bitches! Well, that's the end! That's enough, we've been patient long enough. That's the end!"
  Victor still didn't understand anything, he only saw that Teddy was beside himself. He had seen Teddy
that way only once before, when someone broke his cash register in a res-taurant brawl. Victor, in
confusion, stared blankly at him. Diana grabbed her underwear from the back of the chair, slipped into the
bathroom, and closed the door. At that mo-ment, the telephone started ringing, shrilly, nervously. Victor
grabbed the receiver. It was Lola.
   "Victor," she whined. "I don't understand anything, Irma's gone off somewhere, she left a note that she's
never coming back, and everyone's saying that the children have left town. I'm frightened! Do something!"
She was almost crying.
   "All right, all right, right away," said Victor. "Let me put my pants on." He threw down the receiver and
looked at Teddy. The barman was sitting on the unmade bed, muttering terrible words to himself. He had
gotten hold of Victor's liquor bottles and was pouring what remained into a single glass. "Hold on," said
Victor. "No panicking. I'll be ready in a minute."
   He went back to the bathroom and started shaving the rest of his lathered chin. He kept cutting himself,
but there was no time to sharpen the blade. Diana, in the meantime, had jumped out of the shower; he could
hear her clothes rustling behind his back. Her face looked cold and decisive, as though she were preparing
for a fight, but she was completely calm.
    . . . And the children walked in an endless gray column along the gray washed-out roads. They walked,
 stumbling and slipping, falling under the pouring rain. They walked bent over, soaked through and through,
 clutching their pitiful bundles in their small blue fists. The littlest ones, helpless, uncompre-
        154 The Ugly Swans

hending, walked in tears, walked in silence, walked looking be-hind them, holding on to their elders' hands or
grasping at the belts of their coats. And all along the sides of the roads marched the somber black figures
without faces. Where there should have been faces there were only black bandages, and above the
bandages inhuman eyes stared out coldly and with-out pity. The black-gloved hands held submachine guns,
and the rain poured down on the burnished steel, and the droplets trembled and rolled along the metal. . . .
"Nonsense," thought Victor. "Nonsense, that's not it, that's not the way it's hap-pening, that's something else
I saw a long time ago, now it's quite different."
   ... They left joyfully, and the rain was a friend to them. They
splashed happily through the puddles with their warm bare feet,
they chattered and sang and didn't look back because every-
thing was already forgotten, because they had only the future
before them, their native town, snoring and sniffling in the
predawn hours, was already lost to the past. Their native town,
a treasury of bedbug nests, a cradle of petty passions and petty
desires, pregnant with monstrous crimes, constantly exuding
crimes and criminal intentions the way a queen ant exudes
eggs. They left, twittering and chattering, and vanished into the
fog. And we kept drinking, choking on the stagnant air and
poisoned by nightmares which they never saw and never would
see
   He was getting into his pants, hopping around on one leg, when there was a sudden rattling of glass. A
deep, mechanical roar penetrated the room. Teddy shot to the window, and Victor also rushed over, but
there was nothing to see but the rain and the empty, wet street. Someone rode past on a bicycle —a wet,
canvas sack, arduously pumping its legs. The glass continued to rattle and shake, and the low, anguished
roar went on, followed in a minute's time by a plaintive inter-mittent whistle.
   "Let's go," said Diana. She was already in her raincoat.
                                        The Ugly Swans 155

   "No, wait," said Teddy. "Victor, do you have some weapon? A pistol, a submachine gun? Do you have
anything?"
   Victor didn't answer him. He grabbed his raincoat, and the three of them ran downstairs into the lobby.
The lobby was already empty; the doorman and desk clerk were gone. It seemed that there was no one left
in the hotel. Only R. Quad-riga sat in the restaurant in his usual place, shaking his head in astonishment;
apparently he was still waiting for his breakfast. They rushed out to the street and climbed into Diana's
truck, all three in the cab. Diana sat down behind the wheel, and they started driving around the city. Diana
was silent; Victor was smoking, trying to collect his thoughts, and Teddy, mut-tering under his breath,
regaled them with a stream of the most incredible curses, half of which even Victor didn't understand. To
understand them you would have had to have been Teddy: an orphanage rat raised in the shipyard slums,
then a drug dealer, then a bouncer in a whorehouse, then a corpse hauler in the army, then a gangster, then
a barman, then again a bar-man, and again a barman.
   There were almost no signs of life in the city. Only on the corner of Sunrise did Diana stop to pick up a
distracted-looking couple. The low roar of the antiaircraft sirens and the shriek of the factory whistle went
on, and there was something apocalyptic in this moan of mechanical voices over the de-serted town. All
nerves were tensed; you felt like running somewhere and either hiding or shooting. Even the Brothers in
Reason were chasing their ball around the stadium with less than their usual enthusiasm, and some of them
were stand-ing with their mouths opened, vaguely trying to reason it all out.
   Farther down along the main road they came across more and more people. Some of them were walking,
gulping in the rain—pitiful, scared, unable to understand what they were do-ing and why. Others were
riding bicycles and they were also exhausted, because they'd had to ride against the wind. Several times the
truck passed abandoned cars, broken down or out of
      156 The Ugly Swans

gas, because there'd been no time to get any; one car had gone into a ditch. Diana stopped and picked up
everyone, and soon there was no more room in the back of the truck. Victor and Teddy also climbed to the
back, leaving their seats to a woman with an infant and a half-crazed old lady. Then there was no room left
at all, and Diana didn't stop any more. The truck sped forward, spraying dirty water on hundreds of people
dragging themselves to the leprosarium. A few times it was passed by motorcyclists and cars filled to
bursting with people; another truck drove up and followed them from be-hind. Diana was used to making
the cognac run for Rosheper or driving the empty truck around the countryside for her own enjoyment, and
the ride, as a result, was terrifying. Not every-one could sit, there was no room, and those who were
standing were hanging onto each other and onto the heads of the sitters; everyone was trying to keep clear
of the sides, and no one was saying a word. People were panting and cursing, a woman was crying
incessantly, and the rain came pouring down. Victor had never seen a rain like that in his life, he had never
even imagined that such rains existed. It was a real tropical shower, but an icy one, half mixed with hail,
and a heavy wind lashed it across the faces of the crowd. The visibility was terrible, fifty feet in front and
fifty in back, and Victor was very much afraid that Diana, in addition to everything else, would run
somebody over or crash into the car ahead of her. But everything worked out, and Victor suffered nothing
more than a stamped-on foot, when everyone fell in a heap for the last time and the truck skidded to a stop
before the huge collection of cars at the gate of the leprosarium.
    Probably the whole town had gathered there. Around the leprosarium there was no rain, and it seemed
that the whole town had come to seek a refuge from the flood. To the right and left of the road, along the
barbed wire fence, a crowd of thousands stretched as far as the eye could see. Here and there, lost in the
crowd, abandoned cars stood every which
                                     The Ugly Swans 157

way: elegant limousines, battered jeeps with canvas tops, trucks, buses, and even a crane with several
people perched on the arm. A muffled din hung over the crowd, occasionally punc-tuated by piercing
shrieks.
   Everyone jumped out of the truck, and Victor immediately lost sight of Diana and Teddy. Around him
were nothing but unknown faces—grim, hardened, and uncomprehending, weep-ing, screaming, with teeth
bared and eyes rolling as if they were about to faint. Victor tried to push his way to the gates, but after a
few steps was hopelessly entangled. People were pressed into a thick wall, and none of them wanted to
give up their places. You could have pushed them, kicked them, beat them, and they wouldn't have even
turned around, they would have sunk their heads into their shoulders and tried to push ahead. Ahead, ahead,
closer to the gates, closer to their children. They stood on tiptoe, they craned their necks, and nothing could
be seen beyond the swaying mass of hoods and rain hats.
   "Why, oh Lord? Wherefore have we sinned, oh Lord?"
   "Sons of bitches! We should have wiped them out a long
time ago. People who knew were saying "
   "And where's the burgomaster? What the hell is he up to? Where's the police? Where are all of those fat
slobs?"
   "Sim, they're crushing me! Sim, I can't breathe! Oh, Sim."
   "What did we deny them? What didn't we do for them? We tore the bread from our own mouths, we
went barefoot so they could have clothes and shoes."
   "Let's give it one good shove, and that'll be the end of the gate."
   "But I never lifted a finger to him. You liked to strap yours, I saw it, but in our house there was never
 nothing like that."
   "Did you see those machine guns? What are they going to do, shoot at their own people? Because we
 want our own children?"
  "Munny! Munny! Munny! Munny, my little sweetheart! Munny!"
    158 The Ugly Swans

   "What is this, Lord? It's madness. When has anything like this ever happened?"
   "Don't worry, the legionnaires'll show 'em. They're com-ing from the rear, get it? The gates'll open, and
then we'll push...."
   "Have you seen the machine guns? It's no joke."
   "Let me in! Let me in, I tell you! I've got a daughter in there!"
   "They were getting ready for a long time, I saw it, only I was afraid to ask."
   "Maybe there's nothing so bad about it. What are they, beasts or something? They're not the occupation,
they haven't taken them there to shoot them or throw them in the ovens."
   "I want to see their blood, I'll tear them to pieces."
   "So, that's that, we're nothing but shit if our own children have left us for this filth." "Drop it, they left of
their own will, nobody forced them."
   "Hey, who's got a weapon? Step out? Whoever's got a weapon, I'm saying. Come over here, let's see
you over here!"
   "Those are my kids in there, mister. I gave birth to them and I'll do as I goddamn please with them."
   "Where are the police, oh Lord?"
   "We've got to send a telegram to Mr. President! Five thou-sand signatures, that's no joke!"
   "A woman's been crushed! Move away, I'm telling you, you bastard! Can't you see?"
   "Munny, sweetheart! Munny, Munny!"
   "Those petitions won't get you anywhere. They don't give a shit about petitions here. They'll take those
petitions of yours and shove them."
   "Open the gate, you mother. You filthy slimies, you. Bas-tards."
   "The gates!"
   "Open the gates!"
   Victor started back. It wasn't easy, a few times he even got
                                         The Ugly Swans 159

hit, but still he made it, fighting his way out of the crowd. He scrambled over to the truck and once again
climbed in the back.
   A fog hung over the leprosarium; ten yards in from the fence you couldn't see a thing. The gates were
shut tight. In front of them was an empty space, and in this empty space stood ten soldiers of the Security
Corps: legs planted far apart, helmets pulled down over the eyes, submachine guns pointed into the crowd.
On the guard-booth porch, an officer had pulled himself up to his full height. Visibly straining, he shouted
something at the crowd, but you couldn't hear him. Above the guard booth, a wooden tower loomed in the
fog like an enormous book-case; gray-clad figures swarmed around a machine gun on its upper level. From
down below, beyond the barbed wire, came a barely audible metallic hum: a half-track armored car was
patrolling the border. It bounced a few times over the uneven ground and disappeared into the fog. When
the crowd caught sight of the armored car it grew quiet, and for a moment you could even hear the strained
cries of the officer (". . . Calm ... I have orders ... to your homes . . ."). Then the clamor started up again.
   There was a movement in front of the gates. Copper helmets and golden shirts, familiar to the point of
nausea, began to flash in the blue-gray mob of raincoats and ponchos. They arose in the crowd like points
of light, migrated over to the empty space, and merged into a single golden mass: a mass of musclemen in
knee-length golden shirts, buckled in army officers' belts and wielding sturdy nightsticks. Each one boasted
a polished copper helmet, the source of their nickname, "firemen." And each one was plastered over with
Legion emblems: an emblem on the buckle, an emblem on the left sleeve, on the breast, on the nightstick, on
the helmet, on the fifth-rate beefy faces with their wolfish eyes. And then their badges, constellations of
badges: Sharpshooter's, Parachutist's, Diver's; badges with the portrait of Mr. President, badges with the
portrait of his Legion Founder son-in-law, badges with the portrait of his Legion
       160 The Ugly Swans

Oberchef son. And in each one's pocket was a tear-gas bomb, and if one of those monsters in a burst of
hoodlum enthu-siasm should throw such a bomb, then it would all go off: the gun on the tower, the guns on
the armored car, and the guns in the hands of the soldiers. And all of them firing right at the crowd—at the
crowd, and not at the golden shirts. The Le-gionnaires fell into ranks before the soldiers, and along the
ranks, waving his nightstick, marched Flamen Juventa, the nephew. Victor was looking around in
desperation, not know-ing what to do, but then someone emerged from the guard booth with a megaphone
for the officer. The officer was ter-ribly pleased; he even cracked a smile, and his voice began to bellow
over the crowd. But he managed only "I ask for your attention! I ask those gathered here—" when the
megaphone apparently gave out. The officer, turning pale, was about to lis-ten to Juventa. Then he started
running around the platform and waving his megaphone with redoubled strength. And sud-denly the crowd
let out a roar. It seemed as though everyone was shouting at once, those who had been shouting before as
well as those who had been silent, or talking among themselves, or crying, or praying. Victor also started to
shout, forgetting himself in horrified awareness of what was about to happen. "Get those idiots away!" he
shouted. "Get those firemen away! It's death! Diana, don't!" It was unclear who was shouting and what
was being shouted, but the crowd, till then immobile, began swaying evenly like an enormous dish of
pudding. The officer dropped the megaphone. Pale, his face splotched with red, he backed his way to the
doors of the guard booth. The soldiers beneath their helmets grew frenzied and wild-eyed. Above them, on
the tower, no one was stirring; silently, they took aim. And then the Voice rang out.
   It was like thunder, it came from all sides at once and in-stantly drowned out all other sounds. It was
calm, even mel-ancholy, and it exuded boundless boredom and boundless tolerance. It was the voice of
someone huge, arrogant, and
                                      The Ugly Swans 161

scornful, standing with his back to the crowd and addressing it over his shoulder; the voice of someone
engaged in important work and irritated, finally, by some trifle.
   "Stop your shouting," said the Voice. "Stop waving your hands and making threats. Is it really so difficult
for you to drop this nonsense and think calmly for a few minutes? You are perfectly well aware that your
children left you of their own will, nobody forced them and nobody dragged them by the collar. They left
because you had become totally disagreeable to them. They no longer wish to live the way you live and the
way your forebears lived. You love to imitate your forebears and consider this a human virtue, and they
don't. They don't want to turn into drunkards and debauchers, into petty slaves and conformists. They don't
want you to turn them into crim-inals; they don't want your families and they don't want your government."
   For a minute the voice fell silent. And for a whole minute not a sound was to be heard, only a vague
rustling, like a fog sweeping over the earth. Then the Voice spoke again.
   "You may feel totally at peace about your children. They will live well—better than with you and much
better than you your-selves. Today they cannot receive you, but beginning tomor-row you may see them
here. A meeting house will be set up in Horse's Hollow, and you may come every day if you like, after one
o'clock. Every day three big buses will leave from the town square. Tomorrow this may prove insufficient;
let your burgo-master worry about additional transport."
   The Voice fell silent again. The crowd stood like a stone wall. People seemed afraid to make a move.
   "Keep one thing in mind," continued the Voice. "Whether or not the children will want to see you depends
on you. For the first few days, we will still be able to make them go to meetings. What happens after that is
up to you. And now go home. You are disturbing us, and the children, and yourselves. And I urge you:
think, try to think of what you could do for
       162 The Ugly Swans

the children. Look at yourselves. You gave them life, and you are deforming them in your own image.
Think about that, and now go home."
   The crowd didn't move; maybe it was trying to think. Victor
tried. His thoughts were all confused. Not even thoughts,
really, just fragments of memories, bits of conversations, Lola's
stupid made-up face. . . . "Maybe I should have an abortion,
why should we burden ourselves now . . . father with his lips
quivering in anger . .. I'll make an honest man out of you, you
lousy puppy, I'll tear the skin off of you ... I've got this twelve-
year-old daughter on my hands, do you think you could set her
up somewhere decent? . . . Irma looking curiously at the sali-
vating Rosheper . . . not at Rosheper, at me . . . maybe I'm
ashamed, but what does she understand, the little squirt? Scat!
Here's a doll for you, a nice doll . . . you're still too young,
when you grow up, you'll find out "
   "Well, what are you standing here for?" said the thunderous Voice. "Go home!"
   A gust of cold wind whipped them in the faces and died down.
   "Go!" said the Voice.
   A second gust, this time a really solid one, pressed their face like a cold, wet palm, then shoved them and
blew off. Victor rubbed his cheeks and saw the crowd starting to step back-wards. Someone's shriek was
followed by uncertain cries; small whirlpools formed around the cars and buses. From all sides people were
climbing into the truck, hurrying, shoving. They crawled into their cars, they disengaged their bicycles from
the tangle of handlebars, they started up their motors. Many of them left on foot, constantly glancing behind
them. But they weren't looking at the submachine guns, nor at the machine gun on the tower or the armored
car which drove up with a metallic clang for all to see, its apertures opened. Victor knew why they were
looking back and why they were hurrying; his cheeks were burning, and if there was one thing he feared it
                                      The Ugly Swans 163

was that the Voice would once again say "Go!" and the heavy, wet palm would give him a squeamish
shove in the face. A bunch of golden-shirted fools continued to mill around uncer-tainly before the gates,
but there were already fewer of them. The officer, self-assured and imposing, fulfilling a pleasant duty,
barked at those who remained. These also took a few steps backwards, then turned and got the hell out of
there, grabbing on the run their blue and gray raincoats that lay strewn along the ground. Already not a
single point of light remained. Buses and cars were driving past, and the people in the truck, looking around
impatiently, were asking one another, "Where's the driver?"
   Then Diana, Diana the Fierce, emerged from somewhere, climbed up the steps to the cab and took a look
in the back of the truck. "Only up to the crossroads!" she snapped. "The truck is going to the health resort."
Nobody dared to object; they were singularly quiet and submissive. Teddy never showed up; he must have
gotten into a different car. Diana made a U-turn and they started down the familiar concrete road, pass-ing
groups of pedestrians and bicyclists and getting passed by crowded cars which bore down heavily on
overburdened shocks. There was no rain, only fog and a light drizzle. The rain didn't start until Diana had
brought the truck to the crossroads, the people had gotten out, and Victor had moved up to the cab.
    They were silent all the way to the resort.
    Diana went immediately to Rosheper, or so she said. Victor, throwing off his raincoat, flopped into his
 bed, lit up a cigarette, and started staring at the ceiling. For an hour or maybe two he smoked incessantly,
 tossing and turning, getting up and walking around the room, staring midlessly out the window. Then he
 would open and close the curtains, take a drink right from the faucet because he was tormented by thirst,
 and flop back onto the bed.
    "Humiliation," he thought. "Of course. They slapped me on the cheek, called me names, chased me away
  as though I
       164 The Ugly Swans

were some beggar making a nuisance out of myself. But there were real mothers and fathers there, and
they loved their chil-dren. They may have beaten them, but they were ready to give their lives up for them;
they may have corrupted them by their own example, but it wasn't on purpose, it was out of ignorance.
Their mothers brought them forth in pain, and their fathers fed them and clothed them, and they were proud
of their children and boasted to one another. Sometimes they cursed them, but they couldn't imagine life
without them. And now their lives have become empty, there's nothing at all left. So can you really be so
cruel to them, so arrogant and cold and rational, and then slap them on the face by way of good-bye. "And
goddamnit, is it really true that all the animal in man is bad? Even motherhood, the smile of madonnas, their
tender, soft hands giving the breast to the child? Of course it's in-stinct, a whole religion built on instinct.
The problem comes later, in trying to use instinct to bring them up, where no in-stincts work anymore, and if
they do work, then they only cause harm. Because a mother wolf can say to her cubs, 'Bite, the way I do,'
and that's enough, and the mother rabbit teaches her bunnies, 'Run for your lives the way I do,' and that's
also enough, but if a man teaches children, 'Think as I do,' it's criminal. And how do they go about it, those
slimies, those bastards, those whatever you want, only not men but at the very least supermen. How do
they go about it? First: Look at what people thought before you came along, and look what happened as a
result of it, that's bad because it resulted in a and b and what we need is c and d. Do you understand? And
now start thinking for yourself, think about what to do so that there's no a and b but rather c and d. Only I
don't know what the letters stand for, and anyway we've been through it before, it's all been tried before.
And a few good people came out of it, but the vast majority kept right on going, treading down the old paths,
it's our way, the simple way. And how could he bring up his own child when his father didn't bring him up
right but merely trained him: 'Bite the way I do and hide the way I do.'
                                      The Ugly Swans 165

That's how his father had been trained and his father's father, and so on to the depths of the caves, to the
hairy mammoth-eaters, carriers of spears. I feel sorry for them, for the hairless descendents, because I feel
sorry for myself. But those other ones could give a shit, they have no use for us. They have no plans to
reeducate us and they don't even want to blow up the old world, they don't want to have anything to do with
it. They have their own business to take care of, and all they want from the old world is for it to leave them
in peace. And now that's become possible, now it's possible to deal in ideas. There are powerful purchasers
of ideas, and they will guard you, they'll herd the rest of the world behind barbed wire for you, so the old
world doesn't cause you any problems. They'll feed you, they'll cherish you. In the most thoughtful possible
way they'll sharpen your ax for you, and you'll take that ax and chop off the very branch they're planning to
sit on, flashing their em-broidery and their medals.
    "But goddamnit, in its own way it's grandiose. Everything's already been tried, sure, except for this: to
bring up children coldly, without rosy kisses and without tears. Although what kind of crap is this, how
should I know how they're doing it. Still, some of it is obvious—the cruelty, the scorn. And they won't get
anywhere either, because reason is only one thing. Think, study, do your analyses, but what about the hands
of a mother, the tender hands which take away the hurt and make the world warm? And the bristly face of
a father, who knows how to play war and how to play tiger, who teaches boxing, and is the strongest
person in the world and knows more than anybody else? Because that was part of the truth, too. It wasn't
only parental fights, with or without shrieking. It wasn't only the belt and the drunken muttering, not only the
unjustified box on the ears followed suddenly and incomprehensibly by a session of compulsive
gift-giving—chocolates and a buck for the movies. Anyway, how should I know—maybe they have the
equivalent of all that's good in motherhood and fatherhood. The way Irma was looking at that slimy! What
kind of person
       166 The Ugly Swans

would you have to be for her to look at you like that? And at any rate, neither Bol-Kunats, nor Irma, nor the
pimply-faced nihilist will ever put on a golden shirt, and that's saying something. Goddamnit, what more can
you ask of somebody?
   "Wait," he said to himself. "Get down to what's most im-portant. Are you for them or against them?
There's another out, of course: not to give a shit. Except you do. How good it would be to be a cynic, how
simple, how luxurious. Just think. All my life they've been conspiring to make a cynic out of me. They've
spent a fortune on it, wasted bullets, flowery speeches, and paper. And they haven't spared their fists,
either, and they haven't spared people, they haven't spared anything, just as long as I'll turn into a cynic.
Except I haven't. Well, all right, that's enough. The question remains: am I for or against? Of course I'm
against, because I can't stand contemptuousness, I hate every elite, I hate every sort of impatience, and I
don't like, oh, how I don't like to get slapped on the face and chased away. And then I'm for them, too,
because I like people who are intelligent and talented and I hate fools, I hate dimwits, I hate golden shirts,
and I hate fascists. It's obvious that this way I won't decide anything. I don't know enough about them, and
of the little that I do know, that I saw with my own eyes, what stands out is the bad part: cruelty, arrogance,
inhumanity, physical deformity. And it adds up as follows. For them we have Diana, whom I love; Golem,
whom I love; Irma, whom I love; and Bol-Kunats; and the pimply-faced nihilist. And who is against them?
The burgomaster, the old son of a bitch, a fascist and a demagogue. The whore of a police chief, and
Rosheper Nant, and that fool Lola, and the gang of golden shirts, and Pavor. Of course, on the other hand,
the lanky pro-fessional is for them, along with a certain General Pferd; I can't stand generals. And Teddy is
against them, and there must be a lot more like him. But you can't decide anything by looking at who's in the
majority. It's like an election in a free society—the majority is always for a pig."
   At about two o'clock, Diana came, Diana the Usual and
                                        The Ugly Swans 167

Cheerful, with her hair brushed and her lipstick in place, in a white lab coat belted tightly at the waist.
   "How's your work?" she asked.
   "I'm burning," he answered. "I'm burning out, lighting a path for others."
   "No doubt—there's a lot of smoke in here. You could have at least opened a window. Want to grab a
bite?"
  "Hell, yes," said Victor. He remembered that he hadn't had breakfast.
  "Then let's get the hell going!"
  They went to the dining room. The Brothers in Reason, silent and submissive, faces dark from physical
exhaustion, sat be-hind a long table and slurped their dietetic soup. Their fat coach, bulging out of his blue
sweatshirt, made the rounds behind their backs, clapping them on the shoulders, ruffling their hair, and
peering attentively into their plates.
   "I'm going to introduce you to someone," said Diana. "He's going to eat with us."
   "Who?" asked Victor, dissatisfied. He didn't feel like making conversation.
   "My husband," said Diana. "My former husband."
   "Oh," said Victor. "Oh. Well, I'd be delighted."
  "Where'd she get that idea?" he thought wearily. "Who needs it?" He gave her a complaining look, but
she was already leading him over to a service table in a far corner. The husband rose to meet them,
sallow-faced with a hooked nose, in a dark suit and black gloves. He didn't hold out his hand to Victor, but
simply bowed.
   "Good afternoon. I'm glad to see you," he said quietly.
   "Banev." Victor introduced himself with the false warmth that generally came over him in the presence
of husbands.
   "In fact, we're already acquainted," said the husband. "I am Zurzmansor."
   "Of course!" exclaimed Victor. "Certainly! I have to admit, my memory. . . ." He fell silent. "Wait a
minute," he said. "Which Zurzmansor?"
       168 The Ugly Swans

   "Pavel Zurzmansor. Probably you've read me, and recently you defended me most energetically in the
restaurant. There was another meeting as well, also in unhappy circumstances. Let's be seated."
   Victor sat down. "Well, all right," he thought. "Let it be. So without the bandages they're the same. I
never would have guessed. But excuse me, where are the rings around his eyes?" Zurzmansor—alias
Diana's husband, alias the hook-nosed dancer playing the role of a dancer playing a dancer who is in fact a
slimy, or maybe four slimies, or maybe five, counting the one in the restaurant—this Zurzmansor did not
have any rings around his eyes. It was as if they had melted into his face, imparting to the skin a yellowish,
Latin-American hue. Diana, her face lit up with a strange, almost maternal smile, was look-ing first at him,
then at her husband. Her former husband. This was unpleasant. Victor felt something akin to jealousy,
which he had never experienced before in his dealings with husbands. The waitress brought soup.
   "Irma sends her greetings," said Zurzmansor, breaking a piece of bread. "She asks you not to worry."
   "Thank you," said Victor mechanically. He took his spoon and started to eat, not tasting anything.
Zurzmansor also ate, looking at Victor from under his brow. He wasn't smiling, but there was something
amused in his expression. He didn't remove his gloves, but the way he used his spoon and napkin, the
elegant way he broke his bread, betrayed a good up-bringing.
   "So you really are that Zurzmansor," said Victor. "The phi-losopher. ..."
   "I'm afraid not," said Zurzmansor, patting his lips with a napkin. "I am afraid that my relations with the
famous phi-losopher are at the present time most distant."
   Victor couldn't think of what to say, and decided to hold off on the discussion. "In the final analysis, I
didn't initiate the meeting, I had nothing to do with it. He wanted to see me, let him start."
                                       The Ugly Swans 169

    They brought the main course. Watching himself carefully,
Victor started cutting his meat. At the long table, the Brothers
in Reason chomped in a simple, friendly way, clanging their
knives and forks. "I'm the real fool here," thought Victor. "A
little brother in reason. She probably still loves him. He got
sick, they had to part, and she didn't want to—otherwise why
would she have gotten stuck in this hole, carrying bedpans for
Rosheper? And they see each other often, he sneaks into the
sanatorium, takes off his bandage, and dances with her." Victor
remembered how they danced
    "All the same. She loves him. And what difference does it make to me? It makes a difference. Despite
everything. Only what kind of difference? He took my daughter away, but I'm not jealous of him as a
father. He took my woman away, but I'm not jealous of him as a man. Christ, look at the words I'm using.
Took away my woman, took away my daughter. My daughter who saw me for the first time in her
twelve-year-old life—or maybe she's already thirteen? And I could count on my fingers the number of days
I've known the woman. However, take note: I'm jealous, although not as a father and not as a man. It
would be a lot simpler if he just said, 'Sir, I know everything, you have stained my honor. How about a
duel?' "
   "How is your work on the article going?" asked Zurzmansor.
   Victor gave him a mournful look. No, he wasn't making fun of him. And he wasn't simply trying to get
the conversation going. This slimy, it seemed, was really interested in finding out how his work on the
article was going.
   "Not at all," he said.
   "It would be interesting to have a look at it," Zurzmansor informed him.
   "Do you know what kind of article this is supposed to be?"
   "We have some idea. But that's not the sort of article you'll write."
   "And if I'm forced? General Pferd is not going to rush to my defense."
   "The point," said Zurzmansor, "is that the article ordered
       170 The Ugly Swans

by his honor the burgomaster just won't come off. Even if you make every effort. There are people who
automatically, independent of their own desires, transform in their own way any task that's set before them.
You are one of those people."
    "Is that good or bad?" asked Victor.
    "From our point of view it's good. Very little is known about the human personality, if you don't count that
part of it that's made up of reflexes. It's true that the mass personality contains little else. For that reason,
the so-called creative personalities, those who recast information about reality in a personal light, are so
valuable. By comparing a familiar and well-studied phenomenon with its reflection in the work of the
creative personality, we can learn a great deal about the psychic mech-anism which transforms
information."
    "And you don't see anything insulting in what you're say-ing?" said Victor.
    Zurzmansor, screwing up his face in an odd way, looked at him.
    "Oh, I see," he said. "A creator, not a laboratory rabbit. In fact, I was pointing out just a single
circumstance which makes you valuable for us. The others are well known—true information about
objective reality, a generator of emotions, a means of awakening fantasy and satisfying demands for
em-pathy. The truth is, I wanted to flatter you."
    "In that case I'm flattered," said Victor. "Except that all this has no relationship at all to writing
 defamations. You simply take the latest speech of Mr. President and recopy it from beginning to end,
 replacing the words 'enemies of freedom' with 'the so-called slimies' or 'the patients of the bloodstained
 doctor' or 'the vampires from the leprosarium.' So that my psychic mechanism won't play any part in it at
 all."
    "It just seems that way to you," objected Zurzmansor. "But you'll look through the speech, and first of all
 you'll discover that it's repulsive. I mean stylistically repulsive. So you'll start correcting the style, searching
 for more precise expressions. Your
                                        The Ugly Swans 171

imagination will start working, and the stagnant words will make you sick. And you'll want to make them
into living words, you'll want to replace the official lies with disturbing facts, and you yourself won't notice
when you start writing the truth."
   "Maybe," said Victor. "In any event, I don't feel like writing it now."
   "Do you feel like writing anything else?"
   "Yes," said Victor, looking Zurzmansor in the eyes. "It would be a pleasure to write about how the
children left town. A new Pied Piper."
   Zurzmansor gave a satisfied nod.
   "A wonderful idea. Write it."
   "Write it," Victor thought bitterly. "And who the fuck is going to publish it? Not you."
   "Diana," he said. "Can't we get something to drink here?"
   Diana silently got up and went off.
   "And it would be a pleasure to write about the doomed city," said Victor. "And about the strange
commotion at the leprosarium. And about the wicked sorcerers."
  "Are you out of money?" asked Zurzmansor.
  "Not yet."
  "Keep in mind that you will probably become the laureate of the leprosarium literary prize for the past
year. You got into the last round together with Tusov, but Tusov's chances aren't as good, that's obvious.
So you'll have money."
  "Well," said Victor. "This is a first for me. Is there a lot of money?"
  "Around three thousand. I don't remember exactly."
  Diana returned and, still silent, placed a bottle and a single glass on the table.
  "Another glass," said Victor.
  "I'm not having any," said Zurzmansor.
  "In fact, I... uh... ."
  "I'm not having any either," said Diana.
      172 The Ugly Swans

   "Is it for Misfortune?" asked Victor, filling his glass.
   "Yes. And for Cat So for three months or so you're taken care of. Or less?"
   "Two months," said Victor. "But that's not the problem. Look—I'd like to visit you in the leprosarium."
   "Absolutely," said Zurzmansor. "That's where you'll be given the prize. Only you'll be disappointed. No
magic. An ordinary day off. A dozen cottages and the treatment complex."
   "The treatment complex," repeated Victor. "Who gets treated there?"
   "People," said Zurzmansor with a strange intonation.
   He gave a short laugh and suddenly something terrible hap-pened to his face. His right eye left its socket
and rolled down toward the chin, his mouth became triangular, and his left cheek together with the ear
separated from the skull and hung there. It lasted for an instant. Diana dropped her plate, Victor turned
away automatically, and when he once again looked at Zurzmansor, the latter was already back to
normal—sallow-faced and polite. "Jesus Christ!" said Victor in his thoughts. "Avaunt, impure spirit! Or was
I imagining things?"
   He hurriedly got out a pack of cigarettes, lit up, and started staring into his glass. The Brothers in Reason
noisily stood up and made their way to the exit, calling loudly to one another.
   "We want you to feel tranquil," said Zurzmansor. "You don't have to be afraid of anything. No doubt
you've guessed that our organization occupies a special position which gives it certain privileges. There is a
lot that we do, and because of it a lot of things are permitted to us. Climatic experiments, the training of
replacements, and so on. There's no sense in spreading it around. Certain parties imagine that we are
working on their behalf, and we aren't dissuading them." For a moment he was silent. "Write about
whatever you want in whatever way you want to, Banev. Don't pay attention to barking dogs. If you run
into difficulties with publishers, or if you have financial difficulties, we will support you. If worst comes to
worst, we
                                        The Ugly Swans 173

will publish you ourselves. For our own consumption, of course. So your marinated eel is provided for."
  Victor took a drink and shook his head.
  "So," he said. "I'm being bought off again."
  "If you wish," said Zurzmansor. "But the most important thing is this. There exists a contingent of
readers, maybe not a very numerous one yet, but nonetheless one that is extremely interested in your work.
We need you, Banev. And we need you exactly as you are. We don't need a Banev who is our sup-porter
and our bard, so don't break your head trying to figure out whose side you're on. Be on your own side, the
same as any creative personality. That's all that we want from you."
  "Very, very advantageous conditions," said Victor. "Carte blanche and piles of marinated eel in prospect.
In prospect and in mustard sauce. And what widow would whisper to him, 'No'? Listen, Zurzmansor, did
you ever have to sell your soul and pen?"
  "Yes, of course," said Zurzmansor. "And you know, the pay was outrageously low. But that was a
thousand years ago on a different planet." He fell silent again. "You're wrong, Banev," he said. "We're not
buying you. We simply want you to remain yourself, and we're afraid that you'll be crushed. A lot of people
have gotten crushed. Moral values can't be sold, Banev. You can destroy them, but you can't buy them. A
given moral value can be used only in one side of an argument, so stealing it or buying it doesn't make any
sense. Mr. President thinks that he bought the artist R. Quadriga. He is mistaken. He bought the hack R.
Quadriga, and the artist slipped through his fingers and died. And we don't want the writer Banev to slip
through anyone's fingers, even our own, and die. We need artists, not propagandists."
   He stood up. Victor also stood up, feeling awkward and proud and mistrustful and humiliated and
disappointed and responsible and something else as well that he couldn't yet make out.
     174 The Ugly Swans

  "It was very nice to talk with you," said Zurzmansor. "I wish you success in your work."
  "Good-bye," said Victor.
  Zurzmansor made a quick bow and walked off with a wide, firm step, throwing his head back. Victor
watched him go.
  "That's what I love you for," said Diana.
  Victor collapsed onto his chair and reached for the bottle.
  "For what?" he asked absentmindedly.
  "Because they need you. Because somebody like you, a slovenly drunken cur, a bastard and a
scandalmonger, is needed by people like them."
  She bent over the table and kissed his cheek. This was yet another Diana, Diana in Love, a Mary
Magdalene with great dry eyes, Diana Looking Up at Him.
  "Big deal," muttered Victor. "Intellectuals. Another caliph for an hour."
  But these were only words. In reality nothing was that simple.
       Chapter X



Victor returned to the hotel the next day, after breakfast. On his way out, Diana handed him a birchbark
basket. The capital hothouses had presented Rosheper with eighteen pounds of strawberries and she wisely
decided that, his monstrous glut-tony notwithstanding, there was no way he could cope with them alone.
  The sullen doorman opened the door for Victor. Victor offered him some strawberries, and the doorman
took a few, putting them into his mouth and chewing them like bread.
   "That little puppy of mine was one of their troublemakers," he said.
   "Come on," said Victor. "He's a fine kid. Smart, and well brought up."
   "I beat the living daylights out of him," said the doorman, getting animated. "I did my damnedest." He
turned sullen again. "The neighbors are after me," he offered. "So what could I do? I didn't know nothing."
   "Screw your neighbors," Victor advised him. "They're jeal-ous. You've got a terrific kid. I, for one, am
very pleased that my daughter is friends with him."
   "Ha!" said the doorman, returning to normal. "Maybe we'll be relatives."
   "Why not?" said Victor. "It well may be." He thought about Bol-Kunats. "Why not?"
   Seizing the occasion, they joked around for a while.
                                                     *75
     176 The Ugly Swans

  "You didn't hear the shooting last night?" asked the door-man, finally.
   "No," said Victor, on guard. "What happened?"
   "Well," said the doorman, "when we all got out of there, well, there were a couple of hotheads who didn't
get out, and they got together and cut the wire and went through. And they started machine-gunning them."
   "Jesus," said Victor.
  "I didn't see it myself," said the doorman. "But people talk." He looked carefully around him, then
beckoned Victor closer and whispered in his ear. "Teddy was there, he got hurt. Not too bad, though, he
was lucky. He's home sleeping it off."
   "Unfair," muttered Victor, upset.
  He gave some strawberries to the desk clerk, took his key, and went upstairs. Without undressing, he
dialed Teddy's number. Teddy's sister-in-law said that everything was all right, that they'd only hit the soft
parts and that Teddy was lying on his stomach, cursing them out and guzzling vodka. She her-self was
planning to go to the meeting house today to see her son. Victor asked her to give Teddy his greetings,
promised to stop by, and hung up. He should have called Lola too, but he could imagine the conversation,
the reproaches and the yelling, and decided not to. He took off his raincoat, looked at the strawberries, then
went down to the kitchen and got some cream. When he returned, Pavor was sitting in his room.
   "Good afternoon," said Pavor with a blinding smile.
   Victor went over to the table and emptied the strawberries into a bowl. He added cream and sugar and
sat down.
   "Greetings," he snapped. "What's doing?"
   He didn't feel like looking at Pavor. In the first place, Pavor was a son of a bitch, and in the second place,
looking at the person you'd informed on proved to be unpleasant. Even if he really was a son of a bitch and
you'd informed on him for the most irreproachable reasons.
   "Listen, Victor," said Pavor. "I'm willing to apologize. We
                                       The Ugly Swans 177

both acted stupidly, especially me. I'm having my troubles at work. I sincerely ask your forgiveness. It
would bother the hell out of me if some nonsense like this broke up our friendship."
   Victor stirred his strawberries and cream and started eating.
   "God knows, I've been terribly unlucky lately," Pavor went on. "I've had it with everything. And nobody
gives you any sym-pathy and nobody supports you. And that burgomaster, the pig, got me involved in a
dirty business."
   "Mr. Summan," said Victor, "stop playing the fool. You know how I put it on, but fortunately I've seen
through you, and I get no enjoyment from watching your performance. Kindly do not spoil my appetite. You
may go now."
   "Victor," said Pavor reproachfully. "We are adults. You shouldn't attach such significance to table
chatter. Do you really think that I believed in the crap I was dishing out? A migraine, troubles, a cold.
What's a person to do?"
   "A person could avoid hitting me from behind with brass knuckles," explained Victor. "And if he does hit
me—there are circumstances—then I would rather he didn't buddy up to me afterwards."
   "So that's it," said Pavor thoughtfully. His face seemed to sink. "Listen, Victor, I'll explain the whole thing
to you. It was pure chance. I had no idea it was you. And then . . . you yourself just said that there are
circumstances."
   "Mr. Summan," said Victor, licking the spoon. "I have never been overly fond of people in your
profession. One of them I even shot—he was very brave at headquarters when he accused officers of
disloyalty, but when they sent him to the front lines. ... In short, get out."
    But Pavor didn't get out. He lit up a cigarette, crossed his legs, and leaned back in his chair.
   He thought "Well, it figures—a big bruiser like that, probably knows judo too, and he has his brass
 knuckles on him. It would help if I could get really mad now. What's he doing ruining my dessert?"
      i j8 The Ugly Swans

   "I see that you know a lot," said Pavor. "That's unfortunate. I mean, for you. Well, all right. In any case,
you don't know that I respect and love you in the sincerest possible way. Don't shudder and pretend you're
sick. I'm serious. I will be happy to express my regret for the brass knuckles. I'll even admit that I knew
who I was hitting, but there was nothing I could do about it. We'd already knocked out one witness, and
then you turned up. My only way out was to give it to you as delicately as possible, which I did. My
sincerest apologies."
   Pavor made an aristocratic gesture. Victor looked at him with some curiosity. Something in this situation
was novel and hard to understand.
   "However," continued Pavor, "I cannot offer any apologies for being a member of a certain department.
And anyway, I don't really want to. Don't think that we're a bunch of lousy careerists who do nothing but
smother free thought. I admit, I'm a counteragent. I do dirty work. Only work is always dirty, there's no
such thing as clean work. In your novels you give vent to your subconscious and that notorious libido of
yours. Well, I do it another way. I can't tell you all the details, but you've probably figured out most of it.
You're right, I keep an eye on the leprosarium. I hate those slimy animals, I'm afraid of them. And not only
for myself, I'm afraid for everyone who's worth anything at all. For example, you. You don't understand a
thing. You're a free spirit, an artist. You're impressionable— you shed a few tears and that's the end of it.
But we're talking about the future of the system, if you want, about the fate of all mankind. You pick at Mr.
President—a dictator, a tyrant, an idiot. But what's coming is a dictatorship of the sort you free-spirited
artists never dreamed of. Last night in the restaurant I laid it on thick, but the main idea is valid. Man is an
anarchistic animal, and anarchy will tear him to pieces if the system isn't rigid enough. Well, your slimy
friends are promising something so cruel that there won't be any place left for simple human beings. You
don't understand this. You think that if a person
                                     The Ugly Swans 179

cites Zurzmansor or Hegel, then, oh, boy. But a person like that looks at you and sees a pile of shit, and he
doesn't feel sorry for you, because Hegel says that you're shit, and so does Zurz-mansor. Shit by definition.
And what lies beyond that defini-tion doesn't interest him. Mr. President, by the very nature of his
limitations, may bark at you; if worst comes to worst, he'll even stick you in prison. And then when some
holiday comes around he'll get emotional and grant you amnesty; he'll even in-vite you for dinner. But
Zurzmansor will look at you through a magnifying glass and classify you: dogshit, good for nothing. And
thoughtfully, on the grounds of his great intelligence and general philosophical principles, he'll wipe you
away with a dirty rag, throw you into the garbage can, and forget that you ever existed."
   Victor had stopped eating. It was a strange spectacle, an un-expected one. Pavor was nervous, his lips
were twitching, blood had drained from his face and he was even breathing hard. It was clear that he
believed in what he was saying: the vision of that frightening world had petrified in his eyes. "Hold on,"
Victor warned himself. "This is the enemy. He's a son of a bitch, an actor, he's buying you off for a wooden
nickel." He suddenly realized that he was forcibly pushing himself away from Pavor. "Don't forget he's part
of a machine. By definition he can't have any ideas—his superiors gave him orders and there he is working
for his stewed prunes. If they order him to de-fend the slimies, he'll defend them. I know the type, I've seen
enough of them."
   Pavor pulled himself together and smiled. "I know what you're thinking," he said. "It's clear from your
expression what you're trying to figure out: just what is this guy pestering me for, what does he want from
me? Get this: I don't want any-thing from you. I sincerely want to warn you, I sincerely want you to
understand what's going on so that you'll choose the right side." He gave a sickly grin. "I don't want you to
become a traitor to humanity. Later you'll see why, but it'll be too late.
       180 The Ugly Swans

I'm not only saying you ought to leave this place, I've come to you to insist on it. Hard times are coming, the
authorities are having an attack of official zeal. The hint's been given, 'You're working badly, gentlemen,
there's no law and order.' But that's all right, that's nonsense, we'll talk about that some other time. I want
you to understand the most important thing. And the most important thing is not what's going to be
tomorrow. To-morrow they'll still be sitting behind their barbed wire, under the guard of those cretins." He
grinned again. "But ten years from now ..."
   Victor never did find out what would happen ten years from now. The door of his room opened without a
knock and the pair in identical gray raincoats walked in. Victor realized in-stantly who they were. As
always, his heart skipped a beat. He rose obediently, feeling nauseous and impotent. But they told him to sit
down, and to Pavor they said, "Stand up."
   "Pavor Summan, you're under arrest."
   Pavor, all white, even a sort of bluish-white, like skimmed milk, stood up and said hoarsely, "Your
warrant."
   They gave him a paper to look at, and while he stared at it with unseeing eyes, they grabbed him by the
elbows, led him out, and closed the door behind them. Victor, completely limp, remained in his seat, staring
at his bowl and muttering, "Let them devour each other, let them devour each other. . . ." He waited for car
doors to slam and an engine to start. But it never happened. He lit a cigarette and went out into the
corri-dor. He felt that he couldn't sit there any longer, that he had to talk to someone, get his mind off it. If
nothing else, he had to find someone to drink with. "I wonder how they knew he was with me. No, I don't
wonder at all. Nothing to wonder at there." The lanky professional loomed up at him from the staircase
landing. It was so unusual to see him alone that Victor took a quick look around. And sure enough, the
young man with the briefcase was sitting on a couch in the corner, unfold-ing a newspaper.
                                       The Ugly Swans 181

   "Oh, just the man we're looking for," said the tall one. The young man looked at Victor, rose, and started
to fold his paper. "We were just on our way to see you," said the tall one. "But since it's worked out this
way, why don't you come to our room, it's even quieter there."
   Victor didn't care where he went, and obediently dragged himself up to the third floor. The professional
spent a long time opening up the door to three twelve. He had a whole key chain on him, and it seemed that
he tried every one. In the meantime, Victor and the young man in glasses stood waiting. The young man
had a bored expression on his face, and Victor thought about what would happen if he were to smash in his
face, grab the attache" case, and run down the corridor. Then they went into the room. The young man
went immediately to the bedroom on the left, and the professional told Victor "One moment, please," and
retired to the bedroom on the right. Victor sat down gingerly at a mahogany table and drew his fingers over
the rough circles left on the polished surface by innumerable wine and vodka glasses. They hadn't stood on
ceremony with the table, they hadn't noticed what it was made of, and it bore the marks of burning
cigarettes and at least one leaky ballpoint. Then the young man emerged from his bedroom, this time in
slippers, minus his attache" case and without his jacket. He had a newspaper in one hand and a full glass in
the other. He sat down in his armchair by the lamp. Instantly the professional appeared at the door of his
room with a tray, which he lost no time in putting on the table. The tray held an opened bottle of Scotch, a
glass, and a large square box covered in Morocco leather.
   "First the formalities," said the professional. "Although no, wait a minute, first let's have the second
 glass." He looked around and grabbed a glass pencil container off a small desk. He peered into it, blew, and
 put it on the table. "So, the formalities," he said.
    He stood at attention, his face assuming a rigid stare. The
        182 The Ugly Swans

young man put aside his paper and also stood up, staring dully at the wall. Victor stood as well.
  "Victor Banev," pronounced the professional in an officially elevated voice. "In the name of Mr.
President and by his spe-cial directive, I hereby grant you the Silver Trefoil of the Second Rank as an
award for services rendered by you to the depart-ment which I have the honor to represent here!"
  He opened the blue box, solemnly removed the medal with its white silk ribbon, and started pinning it on
Victor's chest. The young man burst out in polite applause. Then the profes-sional handed Victor the
certificate and the box, shook his hand, stepped back, admired him for a minute, and also started clapping.
Victor, feeling like an idiot, joined in.
  "And now let's drink to it," said the professional.
  They sat down. The professional poured the whisky, taking the pencil container for himself.
  "To the Knight of the Trefoil!" he pronounced.
  They stood up, exchanged smiles, drank, and sat down again. The young man in glasses grabbed his
paper and disappeared behind it.
  "It seems that you already had the Third Rank," said the professional. "Now all you need is the First, and
you'll be a full Knight. Free transportation and all that. How'd you get your Third?"
  "I don't remember," said Victor. "Something or other, prob-ably I killed somebody. Oh, yeah. For the
Kitchigan bridge-head."
  "Oh," said the professional, pouring some more whisky. "I didn't get to fight. It ended too soon."
  "You were lucky," said Victor. They drank. "Between you and me, I don't understand what I got this
for."
  "I told you, for special services."
  "You mean for Summan?" said Victor with a bitter laugh.
  "Drop it," said the professional. "You are an important per-son. We know who you associate with." He
made a vague ges-ture somewhere in the vicinity of his ear.
                                         The Ugly Swans 183

   "What do you mean, who I associate with," said Victor.
   "We know, we know," said the professional slyly. "We know everything. General Pferd, General Pukki,
Colonel Bam-brach. Good for you."
   "It's news to me," said Victor nervously.
  "The colonel started it all. Of course, you yourself under-stand, no one objected, how could they? Well,
then General Pferd was at the president's for a meeting, and he stuck a report about you under the
president's nose." The professional chor-tled. "They say it was really something. The old man blew up.
'Which Banev? The scribbler? I won't have it.' But the gen-eral stuck to his guns. 'You have to, your
excellency.' Anyway, it all worked out. The old man was touched. 'All right,' he says, 'I forgive him.' What
was it he had against you?"
   "Nothing much." Victor didn't feel like talking. "We argued about literature."
   "So you really write books?" asked the professional.
   "I do. Like Colonel Lawrence."
   "And you get paid pretty well for it?"
   "Pretty well."
   "I should really try my hand at it," said the professional. "Only I never have any free time. First it's one
thing, then another."
   "You're right, there's no time," agreed Victor. Every time he moved the medal swayed and knocked him
in the ribs. It felt like a mustard plaster. If he could only take it off, he'd immediately feel better.
   "You know, I think I'd better be going," he said, getting to his feet. "Don't have much time."
   The professional sprang to his feet.
   "Of course," he said.
   "Good-bye."
    "My pleasure," said the professional. The young man in glasses lowered the paper and bowed.
   Victor went out into the corridor and tore off the medal. He had a strong desire to toss it into a spittoon,
 but he held back
       184 The Ugly Swans

and stuck it in his pocket. He went down to the bar and got a bottle of gin. As he was walking back, the
desk clerk called over to him.
   "Mr. Banev, his honor the burgomaster has been calling you. Twice already. You weren't in your room,
and I—"
   "What does he want?" muttered Victor.
   "He asked you to return his call immediately. Are you going to your room? If he calls again—"
   "Kick him in the ass," said Victor. "I'm pulling out my phone, and if he calls you, then tell him, quote, that
Mr. Banev, Knight of the Trefoil Second Rank, kicks his honor the bur-gomaster in the ass."
   He locked himself in his room, and disconnected his phone, for some reason covering it with a pillow.
Then he sat down at the table, poured himself some gin, and drank down an entire glass, straight. The gin
burned his throat and his insides. Then he took a spoon and started wolfing down the strawberries and
cream, not noticing the taste, not realizing what he was doing. "I've had it, I've had it," he thought. "I don't
need any-thing, I don't need your medals or your royalties or any crumbs from you. I don't need your
attention, or your anger, or your love. Leave me alone, I'm fed up to the teeth with myself, and don't get me
involved in your dirty business." He covered his head with his arms to block out Pavor's blue-white face and
those colorless, pitiless mugs in their identical raincoats. You've got General Pferd and General Battocks,
you've got General Arschmann by your decorated breast and Zurzmansor with his discombobulating face.
He kept trying to understand how he felt. He gulped down another half glass and understood that he was
crouching at the bottom of a trench, and above him the earth was heaving. Whole geological strata, gigantic
masses of granite, basalt, and lava were bending and breaking, groaning from strain, distending, protruding,
and, in passing, pressing him up to the surface, pressing higher and higher, squeezing him out of the trench
and suspending him over the defenses. And the times were hard, the authorities were having
                                      The Ugly Swans 185

an attack of official zeal, the hint's been given, you aren't doing your work, gentlemen, and there he was,
above the defenses, naked, covering his eyes with his fists and utterly exposed.
   "To lie on the bottom of the sea," he thought. 'To lie on the very bottom so they can't hear me or see me.
To lie like a sub-marine on the sea floor," he thought, and something supplied the rest, "so the enemy can't
get my bearing. That's right, to lie on the bottom of the sea like a submarine, so they can't get my bearing.
And not to let anyone find out about me. I don't exist. I'm not saying a word. You figure it out. Oh God,
why can't I be a cynic? To lie like a submarine on the sea floor, so the enemy can't get my bearing. To lie
like a sub-marine down in the deep and refuse to transmit my location." He could already feel the beat, and
the rest came quickly: "I'm fed up to my teeth, down to my core. I don't want to drink or write." He poured
himself some gin and drank it. "I don't want to sing or write, I've had it with singing and writing. Where's
the banjo? Where'd I put the banjo?" He crawled under the bed and dragged out the banjo. "I don't give a
shit about you," he thought. "If only you knew how much I don't give a shit about you! To lie like a
submarine down in the deep and refuse to transmit my location."
   He started hitting the strings rhythmically, and in this rhythm at first the table, and then the whole room,
and then the whole world started stomping its feet and swinging its shoulders. All the generals and colonels,
all the slimy people with their disconnected faces, all the government security de-partments, all the
presidents and Pavor Summan, whose arms were being twisted, who was getting beaten in the face.
    "I'm fed up to my teeth and down to my core, I've even got tired of singing. I'm more than tired of it, I'm
 sick of it, but tired of it, that's good, so that's how it'll be. To lie like a sub-marine on the sea floor so the
 enemy can't get my bearing. Submarine, can't be seen, booze, a broad, the camp's no fraud. That's it, that's
it."
    The knocking at his door had been going on for a long time,
      186 The Ugly Swans

getting louder and louder. Victor finally heard it but didn't panic. It wasn't that sort of knock, only the ordinary,
comforting knock of a peaceful man, furious because he wasn't being let in. Victor opened the door. It was Golem.
"Having fun, eh?" he said. "Pavor's been arrested." "I know, I know," said Victor cheerfully. "Sit down, listen." Golem
didn't sit down, but Victor, unperturbed, banged on the strings and started singing.
          I'm fed up to my teeth and down to my core, I've even got tired of singing. Oh, to lie like a
          submarine on the sea floor So the enemy can't get my bearing.
  "I haven't written any more yet," he shouted. "Later there'll be booze, a broad, the camp's no fraud. And
then—listen:
          Vodka's no help now and girls you can keep,
          For women I've no admiration.
          Oh, to lie like a submarine down in the deep
          And refuse to transmit my location.
          I'm fed up to my teeth and down to my core,
          I've had it with playing and drinking.
          Oh, to lie like a submarine on the sea floor
          So the enemy can't get my bearing.
   "That's it!" he shouted and threw the banjo on the bed. He
felt tremendously relieved. As if something had changed, as if
he had suddenly become very necessary out there, beyond the
trenches, exposed to everyone. He tore his hand away from his
scrunched-up eyes and looked over the dirty gray field, the
rusty barbed wire, the gray sacks that had once been people,
the boring, dishonest game that had once been life. From all
sides people were emerging from the trenches and looking
around ... somebody's finger dropped off the trigger --------
   "I'm envious," said Golem. "But isn't it time to sit down with that article?"
   "I wouldn't think of it," said Victor. "You don't know me,
                                         The Ugly Swans 187

Golem. I don't give a shit about anyone. Sit down, will you, goddamnit. I'm drunk, and you've got to drink
too! Take off your raincoat. Take it off, I tell you," he shouted. "And sit down. Here's a glass, drink! You
don't understand a thing, Golem, for all you're a prophet. And I won't let you. Not to understand is my
prerogative. In this world everyone is much too clear on the way things ought to be, the way they are and
how they'll turn out. There's a great shortage of people who don't understand. You know why I'm valuable?
Only because I don't understand. They unfold new vistas before me and I say, 'No, I don't get it.' They try
to dupe me with their the-ories, incredibly simplistic ones, and I say, 'No, I don't under-stand anything.'
That's why I'm necessary. Want some straw-berries? Except I ate them all. Then let's have a smoke."
   He got up and paced around the room. Golem, holding a glass, watched him without turning his head.
  "It's an astonishing paradox, Golem. There was a time when I understood everything. I was sixteen, I
was a senior knight in the Legion. I understood absolutely everything, and nobody needed me. Then my
head got cracked up in a fight, I spent a month in the hospital, and things went on in their own way. The
Legion moved victoriously forward, without me; Mr. Pres-ident continued his inexorable transformation into
Mr. Presi-dent, again without me. The same thing happened during the war. I was an officer, I snapped up
medals, and naturally I understood everything. Then I got shot in the chest and spent a year in the hospital,
and do you think anybody got worried, do you think anybody wondered where Banev was, what had
hap-pened to their brave, omniscient Banev? Nothing of the sort! And then when I stopped understanding
whatever it was—oh, then everything changed. All the newspapers noticed me. A whole bunch of
government departments noticed me. Mr. Presi-dent himself was so kind as to take a personal .. . You see?
Do you realize what a rarity it is—a person who doesn't understand. People know him, corpse . . . uh,
corporals and generals fuss
       188 The Ugly Swans

over him, he's terribly necessary to the slimies, he's considered a personality. Awful. And what's the
reason? The reason is, gentlemen, that he doesn't understand anything." Victor sat down. "I'm really
plowed, huh?" he asked.
   "Can't deny it," said Golem. "But never mind, go on."
   Victor threw up his hands.
   "That's all," he said guiltily. "I've played myself out. Maybe I should sing something for you?"
   "Go ahead," said Golem.
   Victor took the banjo and started to sing. He sang "We Are Brave Guys," then "Uranium Men," then
"About a Shepherd, Who Had One Eye Butted Out by a Bull and Because of That Violated the
International Border," then "I'm Fed Up to My Teeth," then "Indifferent City," then something about truth
and falsehood, then another round of "I'm Fed Up to My Teeth." After that he led into the national anthem
to the tune of "Oh, What Little Tootsies She Has," but he forgot the words, mixed up the verses, and put the
banjo aside.
   "I'm played out again," he said despondently. "So, you say Pavor's been arrested? I know it. He was
sitting here, right where you are. And you know what he wanted to say but didn't get a chance to? That in
ten years the slimies will be in control of the whole globe and they'll crush all of us. What do you think?"
   "Unlikely," said Golem. "Why should they crush us? We'll do it by ourselves."
   "What about the slimies?"
   "Maybe they won't let us crush one another. It's hard to say."
   "And maybe they'll help?" said Victor with a drunken laugh. "Because we don't even know how to do it
properly. We've been trying for ten thousand years and can't finish each other off. Listen, Golem, why did
you lie to me? You're not curing them there. What kind of patients are they anyway? They're all healthy,
just like us, only a little yellow for some reason."
                                          The Ugly Swans 189

   "Hm," said Golem. "Where did you get your information? I wasn't aware of it."
   "Oh, come on, you're not going to take me in any more. I had a talk with Zurz ... with Zu .. . with
Zurzmansor. He told me everything: a high-security think tank . . . they wear the bandages for the purpose
of maintaining ... You know, Golem, your friends over there imagine that they can manipulate Gen-eral
Pferd forever. And in fact it's a case of king for a day. He'll devour them together with their bandages and
their gloves as soon as he gets hungry. Oh, damn, how drunk I am, everything's swimming."
   But he was cheating a little. Before him, he could clearly see the heavy, gray face with its beady,
unusually attentive eyes.
   "And Zurzmansor told you he was well?"
   "Yes," said Victor. "Although I don't remember. Most likely he didn't. But you could see."
   Golem scratched his chin with the tip of his glass.
   "A pity you're drunk," he said. "Although maybe that's good. Today I'm in the mood. Do you want me to
tell you everything I know and can guess about the slimies?"
   "Shoot," said Victor. "Only don't lie anymore."
   "This four-eye disease," said Golem, "is a very curious thing. You know who comes down with it?" He
stopped. "No, I'm not going to tell you anything."
    "Drop it," said Victor. "You already started."
    "My fault for starting," said Golem. He looked at Victor and smirked. "Ask me questions," he said. "If the
questions are stupid, I'll answer them with pleasure. Go on, go on, or I'll change my mind again."
    There was a knock at the door.
    "Go to hell," barked Victor. "I'm busy."
    "Excuse me, Mr. Banev," came the timid voice of the desk clerk. "Your spouse is calling."
    "Lies! I don't have any spouse. Wait a minute, I forgot. All right, I'll call her back, thank you." He
 grabbed a glass,
       190 The Ugly Swans

filled it to the brim, and pushed it toward Golem. "Drink and don't think about anything. I'll be right back."
    He connected the phone and dialed Lola. Lola spoke very drily.
    "Excuse me for bothering you, but I'm getting ready to visit Irma and I was wondering if you would deign
to join me."
    "No," said Victor. "I won't deign. I'm busy."
    "She's still your daughter! Have you really let yourself go to such an extent—"
    "I'm busy!" barked Victor.
  "You don't care about what happens to your daughter?"
  "Stop being a fool," said Victor. "You wanted Irma off your hands. You've got it. What else do you
want?"
  Lola started crying.
  "Cut it out," said Victor, frowning. "Irma's fine there. Bet-ter than in the best boarding school. Go and see
for yourself."
  "Dirty, selfish, egotistical pig," declared Lola and hung up.
  Victor cursed under his breath, disconnected the telephone, and went back to the table.
  "Listen, Golem," he said. "What are you doing there with my children? If you're preparing replacements
for yourselves, then I don't agree."
  "What kind of replacements?"
  "What kind. That's what I'm asking you, what kind?"
  "To the best of my knowledge," said Golem, "the children are very satisfied."
  "That's not the point. I know that without you. What do they do there?"
  "Didn't they tell you?"
  "Who?"
  "The children."
   "How could they tell me if I'm here and they're there?"
  "They're building a new world," said Golem.
   "Oh, yes. That they told me. But that's just talk, philosophy. Why are you lying to me again, Golem?
What kind of new world can there be behind barbed wire? A new world under
                                        The Ugly Swans 191

the command of General Pferd? And what if they come down with it?"
   "With what?"
   "With ocularis ringus, naturally!"
   "For the sixth time I repeat that genetic illnesses are not infectious."
   "The sixth, the sixth," muttered Victor, losing the thread. "And what is it, anyway, this ocularis ringus?
What does it affect? Or maybe that's classified information?"
   "No, it's available everywhere."
   "Well, tell me," said Victor. "Only no jargon."
    "First there are changes in the skin. Blisters and eruptions, particularly on the hands and feet. Sometimes,
festering ul-cers."
    "Listen, Golem, is this what's important?"
    "For what?"
   "For the essence."
   "For the essence—no. I thought you were interested."
   "I want to understand the essence," declared Victor.
    "The essence is just what you won't understand," said Golem, slightly raising his voice.
    "Why not?"
    "First of all, because you're drunk."
    "That's not a reason," said Victor.
    "And secondly, because it's impossible to explain."
   "That can't be," announced Victor. "You simply don't want to talk. But I'm not offended. An oath of
secrecy, unauthorized disclosure, a military tribunal, Pavor's just been arrested. So do what you want. But I
still can't understand why a child has to build a new world in a leprosarium. Wasn't there anyplace else?"
    "No," said Golem. "There are architects living in the lepro-sarium. And builders."
    "With automatics," said Victor. "I saw. I don't understand anything. One of you is lying. Either you or
 Zurzmansor."
    "Zurzmansor, of course," said Golem coolly.
       192 The Ugly Swans

 "And maybe both of you are lying. And I believe both of you, because there's something to you. Just tell
me one thing, Golem, what is it they want? Only tell me honestly."
 "Happiness," said Golem.
 "For whom? For themselves?"
 "Not only."
   "And at whose expense?"
   "For them that question has no meaning. At the expense of the grass, at the expense of the clouds, at the
expense of the flowing water. At the expense of the stars."
   "Just like us," said Victor.
   "No," objected Golem. "Not that way at all."
   "Why not? We also-"
   "No, because we trample the grass, disperse the clouds, dam the water. You took me too literally, I
meant it as an analogy."
   "I don't understand," said Victor.
   "I warned you. I don't understand a lot myself, but I can make conjectures."
   "And is there anyone who does understand?"
   "I don't know. I doubt it. Maybe the children. But even if they understand it, it's in their own way. Very
much in their own way."
   Victor took the banjo and touched the strings. His fingers refused to obey him. He put it back on the
table.
   "Golem," he said. "You're a Communist. What the hell are you doing in the leprosarium? Why aren't you
at the barri-cades? Why weren't you at a meeting? Moscow won't thank you for it."
   "I am an architect," said Golem quietly.
   "What kind of architect can you be if you don't understand anything? And anyway why are you leading
me around by the nose? We've been at this for an hour, and what have you told me? You've been swilling
gin and pulling the wool over my eyes. It's shameful, Golem. And you're lying nonstop."
    "Nonstop is on the strong side," said Golem. "Although there's been some. They don't have festering
 ulcers."
                                      The Ugly Swans 193

   "Give me your glass," said Victor. "Oh, are you drunk." He splashed some gin out of the bottle and drank.
"God knows what you're up to, Golem. What do you need all this for? What kind of game is it? If you can
tell me, then tell me; if it's a secret, then you shouldn't have started."
   "That's very easy to explain," said Golem good-humoredly, stretching out his legs. "I'm a prophet, you
called me that yourself. And prophets are all caught in the same trap: they know a lot, and they want to talk
about it, share it with a good listener, praise themselves to give some weight to their posi-tion. And when
they start to talk, they feel incredibly uncom-fortable and awkward. Then they get evasive, like the Lord
God when he was asked about the stone."
   "However you like," said Victor. "Til go to the leprosarium and find it all out without you. Well, go ahead,
prophesy some-thing."
   He followed with interest the growing paralysis in his arms and legs, and thought it would be good to
drink one more glass to round it off and then fall into bed, and then wake up and go to Diana. It wasn't
working out that badly. And anyway noth-ing was that bad. He imagined singing to Diana about the
sub-marine, and it made him feel just fine. He took the wet oar which was lying in the stern and pushed
away from the shore, and the boat responded at once, rocking. There wasn't any rain, there weren't even
any clouds, only a blazing sunset. And he sailed right into the sunset and the oar splashed out of the waves.
To lie in the deep. .. . And he would have done it, but it was awkward for him because Golem's voice was
buzzing lazily in his ear.
   ". . . They're very young, they have everything before them, and we have only them. Of course, man will
possess the uni-verse, but there won't be a red-cheeked hero with big muscles, and, of course, man will
cope with himself, but first he'll have to transform himself. Nature doesn't deceive, it fulfills its promises,
only not the way we thought and often not the way we would have liked."
        194 The Ugly Swans

   Zurzmansor, sitting in the bow of the boat, turned his head,
and it became clear that he didn't have a face, that he was
holding his face in his hands and the face was looking at Vic-
tor—a good face, an honest one, but it made him sick, and
Golem didn't lay off, he kept buzzing
   "Go to sleep," muttered Victor, stretching out on the bot-tom of the boat. The ribs of the boat dug into his
sides and it was very uncomfortable, but he felt so sleepy. "Go to sleep, Golem."
       Chapter XI



When he woke up, he found himself lying in bed. It was dark; rain drummed and lashed at the window. He
raised his arm with difficulty and stretched it toward the night table, but his fingers banged into a cold,
smooth wall. "Funny," he thought. "Where's Diana? Or maybe this isn't the resort?"
   He tried licking his lips, but his thick, rough tongue refused to obey him. And he really wanted a smoke,
but he knew he shouldn't, not for anything.
   "What I really want is some water." "Diana!" he called. "No, this isn't the sanatorium. In the sanatorium
the night table is on the right, and here there's a wall. ... So it's my room in the hotel!" he thought,
triumphant. "How'd I get here?" He was covered with a blanket, with nothing on but underwear. "I can't
remember getting undressed," he thought. "Somebody undressed me. Although maybe I got undressed
myself. If I have my shoes on, then I did it myself." He rubbed one bare foot against the other. "So, no
shoes. Goddamnit, my arms are itching, some sort of blisters, they must have bedbugs here. I'll move out.
Where was it I was going in the boat? Oh, it was Pavor who put the bedbugs here." He suddenly
remem-bered about Pavor and sat up, but he felt nauseous and he once again stretched out. "I haven't
gotten stewed like this in a while. Pavor . . . the Silver Trefoil . . . when was that? Yes-terday?" He made
a face and started dragging his fingernails along his left arm. "What time is it now—morning or night?
                                                      195
     196 The Ugly Swans

Probably morning. But maybe it's night. Golem!" he remem-bered. "Golem and I did in a whole bottle. And
we didn't mix it. And before that I had half a bottle with the professional. And before that I had something
else, somewhere or other. Or maybe that was yesterday. Wait a minute, what is it now—today or
yesterday? Gotta get up, get a drink, this, that. No," he thought, obstinate. "First I'll figure things out.
   "Golem was saying something interesting, he thought I was drunk and couldn't understand anything, and
maybe that's why he was speaking frankly with me. Of course I really was drunk, but I remember
understanding it. What did I under-stand?" He furiously rubbed the back of his left hand against the wool
blanket. "Hard times are coming. No, that's Pavor. What was Golem saying? They have everything in front
of them, and we have only them. And genetic illness. Well, why not, completely possible. It's got to happen
some time. Maybe it's been going on for a long time now. A new species arising out of an old one, and we
call it a genetic illness. The old species is adapted to one set of conditions, and the new one is adapted to
another. Before we needed strong muscles, fertility, re-sistance to cold, aggressiveness, and, so to speak,
managerial talents. Maybe we still need all that, but it's probably just in-ertia. You can use your managerial
talents to knock off a whole population, and nothing really changes. That's for sure-it's been tried many
times. Who was it said that if we removed a few dozen people from the history of the human race—well,
maybe a few hundred—we'd be right back in the stone age. Well, maybe a few thousand. What kind of
people? A com-pletely different kind, old pal.
   "And it's not impossible. Maybe Newton, Einstein, and Aristotle were all mutants. The environment was
not too fa-vorable, of course, and it's not impossible that whole bunches of them died without revealing
themselves, like the boy in Capek's story. Of course they were all special: they didn't have any managerial
talents and they didn't have normal human
                                      The Ugly Swans 197

needs. Or maybe that's just the way it seems. Maybe their spiritual side is so hypertrophic that you can't
see anything else." "Here you're wrong," he said aloud. "Einstein used to say that the best possible job was
a lighthouse keeper's, which sounds human enough to me. But it would be interesting to imagine homo
super in our times. A good theme. Damn it, this itch is unbearable. I should really make it into a Utopia, in
the spirit of Orwell or Bernard Wolfe. Although it would be hard to picture a superman like that: a huge,
bald skull, emaciated arms and legs, impotent. Banalities. But anyway it's got to be something on that order.
In any event, a displacement of human needs. No need for vodka, no need for fancy food, no luxury, not
even women—or just occasionally, to insure tran-quility and concentration. A perfect object for exploitation:
give him an office, a desk, paper, and a pile of books, a shaded path for peripatetic musing, and in return
he'll give you ideas. No utopia will come of it; the military will grab him, and that's your utopia. They'll set
up a think tank, bring all the supermen there, put up a guard, and that's the end of it."
   Victor, grunting, picked himself up and, slapping his bare feet against the cold floor, made his way to the
bathroom. He turned on the faucet and took a long, satisfied drink. He didn't even bother to turn on the
light. The very thought horrified him —turn on the light. Then he got back into bed and spent some time
scratching and cursing the bedbugs. "In fact, for a plot it's even better that way: a think tank, guards, spies
... the patriotism of the patriotic cleaning woman Clara ... all sorts of cheap tricks. The difficulty is that it's
hard to imagine their work, their ideas, their potential. And how could I? It's im-possible. A chimpanzee
can't write a book about humans. How could I write a book about someone who doesn't have any needs
except for spiritual ones? Of course you can picture some of it. The atmosphere. A state of continuous
creative ecstasy. A sense of one's own omnipotence and independence, the ab-sence of complexes,
complete fearlessness. To write something
       198 The Ugly Swans

like that you'd have to stuff yourself with LSD. In general, from the point of view of a normal person, the
emotional makeup of a superman has to seem pathological. A disease. Life is a disease of matter, thought
is a disease of life. Ocularis ringus," he thought.
   And suddenly everything fell into place. "So that's what he had in mind!" Victor thought, remembering
Golem. "Intelli-gent and talented, every single one of them. And what does it lead to? That they're not
human anymore. Zurzmansor was just pulling the wool over my eyes. So it's begun. It's impos-sible to hide
anything," he thought with satisfaction. "Espe-cially something like this. I'll go see Golem, no use in him
playing the prophet any more. No doubt they've told him a lot. Hell, this is it, the future, that very future that
was extend-ing its feelers into the heart of the present. We have only them before us!"
   A feverish excitement seized him. Every second was historic. What a pity he didn't know that yesterday,
because yesterday and the day before yesterday and a week ago every second was also historic.
   He jumped up, turned on the light, and, squinting from the sharp pain in his eyes, started groping for his
clothes. They weren't there. Then his eyes got accustomed to the light, he grabbed the pants that were
hanging over the footboard of the bed, and suddenly he saw his arm. His arm was covered up to the elbow
with a red rash and deathly white goose bumps. Some of them were bleeding from the scratching. His
other hand was the same. "What the hell is this," he thought, grow-ing cold, because in fact he already
knew. He remembered it all: changes in the skin, a rash, blisters, sometimes festering ulcers. So far there
weren't any of those, but all the same he broke out in a cold sweat, and, letting his pants drop, sat down on
the bed. "It can't be," he thought. "So it's got me, too. Could it really have gotten me too?"
   He carefully stroked the gooseflesh on one arm, then closed
                                       The Ugly Swans 199

his eyes, and, holding his breath, focused his attention inward. His heart was beating slowly, resonantly,
blood whined faintly in his ears. His head seemed huge and empty but nothing hurt, and the cottony
thickness in his brain was gone. "Idiot," he thought grinning. "What did you expect? It has to be like death: a
second before you were a man, then a quantum of time flashes past and you're already a god, only you
don't know it. And you'll never know it, either, like a fool doesn't know that he's a fool, like someone who's
intelligent—providing he really is—doesn't know that he's intelligent. It must have hap-pened while I was
sleeping. In any event, before I fell alseep, I had only the foggiest understanding of the slimies, and now I
see everything with absolute clarity, and I got there through naked logic, I didn't even notice it."
   He laughed happily, stepped onto the floor, and, flexing his muscles, walked over to the window.
   "My world," he thought, looking through the water-splat-tered glass, and the glass disappeared. Way
below, the city, paralyzed in horror, drowned in the rain, and the huge, wet country drowned with it. Then
everything shifted, floated away, and there remained only the small blue sphere with its long blue tail, and he
saw the giant lens of the galaxy, hanging sideways and deathlike in the glimmering abyss. A tuft of shin-ing
matter, twisted by fields of force, and bottomless funnels where there wasn't any light. He stretched out his
hand and dipped it into the puffy white nucleus. He felt a light warmth, and when he made a fist, matter
slipped between his fingers like soapsuds. He laughed again, giving his reflection in the glass a tap on the
nose, and tenderly stroked the bumps on his swollen skin.
   "This is something to drink to!" he said out loud.
   There was still a little gin in the bottle, poor old Golem couldn't finish it, the poor old false prophet. Not
false because his prophecies were untrue, but because he was no more than a talking puppet. "I will always
love you, Golem," thought
      200 The Ugly Swans

Victor, "you're a good man, you're a wise man, but that's all you are—a man."
  He poured what was left of the gin into a glass, and with a swift, practiced movement tipped the glass
and took a mouth-ful. Then, not even managing to swallow, he made for the bathroom. He threw up.
  "Christ," he thought. "Disgusting." He saw his face in the mirror: worn and slightly flaccid, with
unnaturally big and unnaturally black eyes. "Well, that's it," he thought. "That's it, Victor Banev, drunkard
and loudmouth. No more drinking and no more raucous singing, and no more laughing at stupid jokes and no
more lighthearted bullshitting. No fights, no brawls, and no disorderly conduct. No more terrorizing
pedestrians, no more trading insults with policemen, no more falling out with Mr. President, and no more
nighttime pub crawls with a noisy company of young admirers."
  He got back into bed. He didn't feel like smoking. He didn't feel like doing anything, everything was
making him nauseous and he felt sad. The sense of loss, at first barely noticeable, light as the touch of a
spider's web, began to grow. Gloomy rows of barbed wire cut him off from the world he loved so much.
"Everything has its price," he thought, "you don't get anything for free, and the more you get, the more you
have to pay for it. If you get a new life, you have to pay for it with your old one." He scratched furiously,
breaking the skin, but he didn't notice it.
  Diana came in without knocking. She threw off her raincoat and stood in front of him, smiling and
seductive. She raised her arms, fixing her hair.
   "I'm frozen," she said. "Will the gentleman allow me to warm up?"
   "Yes," he said, only dimly understanding what she was saying.
   She turned off the light. Now he could no longer see her, he only heard the key turning in the lock, the
snap of clothing unfastened, and the rustle of its fall. Then he heard her shoes
                                      The Ugly Swans 201

hitting the floor, and she was next to him, warm, smooth, fragrant. And he kept thinking that the end was at
hand. The end of everything: the eternal rain, the gloomy houses with their roofs like sieves, the impassive
strangers with their wet, black clothing, with the black bandages on their faces. Now they would take off
their bandages, take off their gloves, take off their faces and put them into special little cubbyholes, and
their hands would be covered with festering ulcers. Anguish, terror, loneliness. Diana pressed against him,
and he embraced her with his habitual motion. She was the same as ever, but he was not, and he couldn't
do anything anymore, because he didn't need any of it.
   "What's the matter, sweetheart?" she asked gently. "Drink too much?"
   He carefully removed her arms from around his neck. Now he was really scared.
   "Wait a minute," he said. "Just wait."
   He got up, felt for the switch, turned on the light, and stood for a few seconds with his back to her. He
couldn't bring him-self to turn around. Finally he did. No, she was still beautiful. She was probably even
more beautiful than usual, she was al-ways more beautiful than usual, but this time she was like a picture. It
stirred his pride in humankind, it stirred his delight in human perfection, but that was all it stirred. She looked
at him, raising her brows in surprise. Then she must have gotten scared, because she suddenly sat down,
and he saw her lips moving. She said something, but he didn't hear.
   "Wait," he repeated. "It can't be. Wait."
   He dressed himself with feverish haste, continually repeat-ing, "Wait, wait," but he was no longer thinking
about her, she was only a small part of it. He dashed out into the corridor and tried Golem's door. The door
was locked. He didn't im-mediately understand where he should go next, but then he tore off and ran
downstairs, to the restaurant. "I don't need it," he insisted, "I don't need it, I didn't ask for it."
       202 The Ugly Swans

  Thank God, Golem was in his usual place. He was sitting with his arm stretched over the back of his
chair, looking at the light reflected through his glass of cognac. Dr. R. Quadriga was red-faced and
aggressive. Seeing Victor, he shouted at the top of his voice:
  "Those slimies. Carrion. Away."
  Victor fell into his chair. Golem, without saying a word, poured him some cognac.
  "Golem," said Victor. "Golem, I came down with it."
  "Next time be more careful," pronounced R. Quadriga. "Me too."
   "Have some cognac, Victor," said Golem. "Don't get so upset."
   "Go to hell," said Victor, looking at him in horror. "I've got ocularis ringus. What can I do?"
   "All right, all right," said Golem. "But have a drink any-way." He raised a finger and shouted to the
waiter. "Club soda! And some more cognac."
   "Golem," said Victor, desperate. "You don't understand. I can't. I've come down with it, I'm telling you. I
caught it! It's not fair. I didn't want. You told me it wasn't infectious."
   He was terrified at the thought that he was speaking too dis-connectedly, that Golem didn't understand
him and thought that he was simply drunk. He thrust his hands in front of Golem's nose. The glass tipped
over, rolled along the table, and fell off.
   At first Golem recoiled. Then he looked more closely. He leaned forward, taking Victor's hand by the
tips of his fingers, and started examining the scratched-up bumps on his skin. Golem's fingers were cold
and hard. "Well, that's it," thought Victor, "the first medical examination. Then there will be more
examinations, and more false promises that there's still hope, and tranquilizers. And then he'd get used to it,
and there wouldn't be any more examinations. They'd take him off to the leprosarium, cover his mouth with
a black bandage, and it would all be over."
                                        The Ugly Swans 203

   "Did you have any strawberries?" asked Golem.
   "Yes," said Victor submissively. "Hothouse ones."
   "I suppose you put away five pounds or so," said Golem.
   "What do strawberries have to do with it?" shouted Victor, freeing his hand. "Do something! It can't be
too late! It only just started...."
   "Stop yelling. You have a rash. An allergy. It is contraindi-cated for you to wolf down strawberries in
such quantity."
   Victor still didn't understand. Staring at his hands, he mut-tered, "You were the one who told me . . .
blisters ... a rash."
   "You can get blisters from bedbugs," said Golem in a di-dactic tone. "It so happens that you have an
allergy to certain compounds. And more imagination than intelligence. Like most writers. Some slimy!"
   Victor felt himself coming back to life. "I made it!" sounded in his head. "It looks like I made it. If I really
did make it, I don't know what I'll do. I'll stop smoking."
   "You're not lying?" he said in a pitiful voice.
   Golem snorted.
   "Have some cognac," he proposed. "You shouldn't drink cognac during an allergic reaction, but you go
ahead and drink. You look pitiful."
   Victor took his glass, made a face, and drank. "It's all right! A little nausea, but that's probably from the
 hangover. It'll go away." And it did.
    "My dear writer," said Golem. "To become an architect, you have to have more than blisters."
   The waiter came and put some cognac and club soda on the table. Victor sighed deeply and freely. He
 drank in the fa-miliar restaurant air and smelled the beautiful odor of tobacco smoke, marinated onions,
 burnt oil, and fried meat. Life re-turned.
   "Friend," he said to the waiter. "A bottle of gin, lemon juice, ice, and four portions of eel to two sixteen.
 And make it snappy! Alcoholics," he said to Golem and R. Quadriga. "Lousy
       204 The Ugly Swans

restaurant rats. You can rot here by yourselves, I'm going to Diana!" He was ready to kiss them.
  "Poor lovely duckling," said Golem, not addressing anyone.
  For a second Victor felt a twinge of regret. The remem-brance of lost possibilities floated off and
disappeared. But he only laughed, kicked the chair out of his way, and strode toward the exit.
       Chapter XII


A year after the war Lieutenant B. is discharged because of wounds. They give him a Victoria medal and fork over a
month's severance pay and a cardboard box full of presents from Mr. President: a bottle of liberated
schnapps, two tins of Strasbourg pat£, two loops of horse sausage, and a pair of lib-erated silk shorts to
facilitate his transition to family life. Back in the capital, the lieutenant doesn't mope around. He's a good
mechanic, and he knows that the university garage where he worked before he enlisted will take him back
at a moment's notice. But he isn't in any hurry. He renews old friendships, makes new ones, and spends the
remainder of his time getting drunk on the proceeds of the junk seized from the enemy as war reparations.
At a party he meets a woman named Nora, a lot like Diana. A description of the party: scratched-up
records from before the war, kitchen-distilled wood alcohol, American Spam, silk blouses on naked bodies,
and carrots in every pos-sible guise. The lieutenant, medals jingling, disperses with ease the small crowd of
civilians busily engaged in filling Nora's plate with boiled carrots, and begins his siege. Nora acts strangely.
On the one hand, she's clearly willing, but on the other, she lets him understand that associating with her is
dangerous. But the ex-lieutenant, fired up with kitchen-distilled alcohol, doesn't want to hear. They leave the
party and go to Nora's. The post-war capital at night: occasional street lamps, the road pitted with holes,
ruins everywhere. The new circus, not even finished,
                                                        205
      2o6 The Ugly Swans

where six thousand prisoners of war are rotting under the guard of two invalids. In the narrow street, by
now completely dark, someone's getting mugged. Nora lives in an old-style three-story house. The staircase
is covered with filth, one of the doors boasts a chalk inscription: "The German shepherd lives here." In the
long corridor, filled with all sorts of trash, moldy figures recoil into the shadows. Nora, jangling innumerable
keys, un-locks her door, a door covered with shining leather, preserved there by some miracle. In the foyer
she gives him another warn-ing, but B., figuring that it's nothing more than some criminal affair, answers
only that he used to attack tanks on horseback. The apartment is spotless and comfortable, a relic from
an-other era. There's a huge sofa. Nora looks at the lieutenant with something like pity. She leaves for a
short time and re-turns, dressed to kill, with an opened bottle of cognac. It turns out that they have only a
half hour at their disposal. In a half hour's time, the satisfied lieutenant leaves with the hope of a second
meeting. At the end of the corridor, the two moldy figures from the shadows are lying in wait for him.
Snickering unpleasantly, they bar his path and propose a little chat. With-out wasting his breath, the
lieutenant starts beating them up. His victory is unexpectedly easy. Knocked off their feet, weep-ing and
giggling, the moldy figures explain B.'s position to him. The ex-lieutenant had beaten up his own brothers.
Now they are all brothers. Nora is more than a seductive woman, Nora is the queen of the capital bedbugs.
"You're finished now, officer. We'll be meeting you in the 'Atakerama,' that's where we all meet, every
night. Go home, and when you can't stand it any more, come to see us, we stay open till morning."
   On the western outskirts of the city, in a rented house next to a chemical plant, lives the titular councillor
B. with his large family. An intentionally detailed, intentionally dull description of the hero's surroundings:
three rooms, a kitchen, a foyer, a worn-out wife, five greenish kids, and a hardy old mother-in-law, brought
in from the country. The chemical plant stinks; day
                                         The Ugly Swans 207

and night columns of colored smoke hang over it. The trees are dying from the poisonous fog, the grass is
turning yellow, and the flies are mutating wildly. For the past few years, the titular councillor has waged a
campaign to tame the plant: angry demands addressed to the administration, tearful peti-tions up the ranks,
thunderous editorials in all the papers, fruit-less attempts to organize a picket at the gates. But the plant still
stands like a bastion. Poisoned sentries keel over on the opposite embankment; pets die; whole families
leave their apartments and become vagrants; the newspapers print an obituary mourning the premature
death of the plant director. The titular councillor's wife is dying; one by one his children fall victim to
bronchial asthma. Then one evening, searching for firewood in the cellar, he comes across a mortar and a
huge quantity of shells left over from the time of the Resistance. That very night, he drags it all up to the
attic and opens a dormer window. The plant is stretched out before him, as in the palm of his hand. In the
glare of searchlights, workers are scurrying, trolleys are moving, yellow and green clouds of poisonous
va-pors float in the air. "I'll kill you," whispers the titular coun-cillor and opens fire. That day he stays home
from work; the next day as well. He doesn't sleep and he doesn't eat, he squats under the dormer window
and shoots. From time to time he takes breaks, to let the mortar cool down. He goes deaf from the firing
and blind from the smoke. Sometimes he thinks that the chemical haze is breaking, and then he smiles, licks
his lips, and whispers, 'Til kill you." Then, his strength gone, he falls asleep. When he wakes up, he sees that
he's running out of shells; there are only three left. He fires the last round and leans out the window. The
wide yard of the plant is riddled with craters. There are gaping holes in place of windows, and the sides of
the huge gas tanks are covered with dents. The yard is crisscrossed by a complicated network of trenches,
and workers are running along them in short bursts. Trolleys are moving faster than before, the drivers of
autocars are protected
       208 The Ugly Swans

by metal plates, and when the wind blows the poisonous vapor off to the side, a new white sign appears on
the brick wall of the administration building: "Attention! During Shooting This Side Is Particularly
Dangerous!"
   Victor reread the last page, lit a cigarette, and looked at the sheet of paper in the typewriter. It contained
all of a line and a half: "Leaving the editorial board, journalist B. wanted to take a taxi, but he thought the
better of it and headed for the subway." Victor knew precisely what was going to happen to journalist B.
But he couldn't write any more. His watch showed a quarter to three. He got up and threw open the
window. It was pitch black outside, and the rain glistened darkly. Standing at the window, he finished his
cigarette, cast the butt into the wet night, and called the desk clerk. An unfamiliar voice an-swered. Victor
asked what day of the week it was. After a pause, the unfamiliar voice informed him that it was the early
hours of Saturday. Victor blinked, put down the receiver, and with a decisive gesture removed the paper
from his typewriter. Enough is enough. Two days and two nights without stretching, with-out talking to
anyone, without plugging in the phone or re-sponding to knocks at the door. Without Diana, without booze,
and, it seemed, without food either, only tumbling into bed from time to time to see the Queen of the
Bedbugs in his dreams, to watch her sitting on the door frame and twitching her black mustache. Enough.
Journalist B. will remain on the platform until the train comes with the sign "No Passengers." Nothing's
going to happen to him. "And in the meantime we'll have a bite to eat, we certainly earned it."
   Victor put the typewriter away. He hid the manuscript in his desk and rummaged in the empty bar. Then
he chewed a stale roll with jam, bitterly mourning the fact that yesterday he'd poured a half bottle of brandy
down the sink to avoid tempta-tion. But he was glad that the series "Backstage in the Big City" was at least
started, and not badly, either. In fact, it was a fine start, satisfactory in all respects. Although he would
probably have to rewrite the whole thing.
                                        The Ugly Swans 209

    "Still," he thought, "it's odd that I got going with these stories now. Why not a year ago, why not two
years ago, when they first came to me. Now I should be writing about some schlepp who thinks he's a
superman, that's what. That's what I started with. But it isn't the first time this has happened to me. And if I
think hard and really press my memory, it turns out that it always works that way. And that's just the reason
it's impossible to write on demand. You set out to write a novel about the early years of Mr. President, and
you end up with an island inhabited by a strange race of monkeys who feed on thoughts of shipwrecks
instead of bananas. Well, in this case, at least, there's an obvious link. Although, what the hell, there always
is. All you have to do is dig for it, only who feels like it, after two days of abstinence I feel like a drink. How
about a trip downstairs, the desk clerk always has something on him. Let me finish this roll and I'll go
down."
    Victor shuddered and stopped chewing. From the black abyss beyond the window, through the splash of
the rain there came a loud sound, as if a hammer were pounding a board. "They're shooting," thought Victor
with astonishment. For some time he listened intently.
    Well, all right. But what did the author mean to say in these works? Why did he have to resurrect the
difficult postwar period, when here and there you could still come across a bed-bug or a frivolous woman?
Perhaps the author wished to show the heroism and steadfastness of the capital, which under the leadership
of His High Excellency.... It won't do, Mr. Banev! We won't allow it! The whole world knows that by the
specific directive of Mr. President, chemical industries responsible for air pollution in the capital alone have
been fined to the tune of . . . that thanks to the indefatigable personal attention of Mr. President, each year
more than 100,000 children living in the capital are sent to suburban camps ... that according to the Table of
Ranks, persons in positions below that of Court Coun-selor do not have the right to collect signatures for a
petition.
  The lights went out.
       210 The Ugly Swans

   "Hey," said Victor out loud, and the lamp went on again, but at half power. "What's this—what the hell,"
he muttered, but it didn't get any lighter. Victor waited a while, then called the desk clerk. Nobody
answered. He could always call the power plant, but for that he needed a phone book, and where was he to
look for one, and anyway it was time to go to bed. Only first he had to have a drink. Victor got up and
suddenly heard some sort of rustling. Someone was groping along the door. Then whoever it was began to
knock.
   "Who's there?" asked Victor. Nobody answered; all he could hear was somebody knocking and sniffling.
   Victor got the creeps. The walls, cast in a reddish half-light, seemed alien and strange. There were too
many shadows in the corners, and whatever was beyond the door was big, dumb, and irrational. "What'll I
stop him with," thought Victor, looking around, but at that moment a hoarse whisper came from behind the
door. "Banev, hey, Banev, are you there?"
   Muttering "Idiot," Victor went to the door and turned the key. In staggered R. Quadriga. He was wearing
a robe, his hair was rumpled, his eyes were rolling wildly.
   "Thank God, at least you're here," he began immediately. "Or I'd go completely crazy from fright. Listen,
Banev, we've got to get out of here. Let's go, huh? Let's get out of here, Banev." He grabbed Victor by the
shirt and dragged him into the corridor. "Let's go, I can't take it anymore."
   "You've gone off the deep end," said Victor, tearing himself free. "Go to bed, you rum addict. It's three
o'clock in the morning."
   But Quadriga once again deftly seized him by the shirt and Victor discovered to his astonishment that the
doctor honoris causae was completely sober. There wasn't even the smell of liquor.
   "This is no time for sleep," said Quadriga. "We've got to get out of this damned building. You see what's
going on with the light? We'll die here. And anyway we've got to get out of this
                                       The Ugly Swans 211

 town. I have a car at the villa. Let's go. I'd go by myself, but I'm afraid to walk out—"
    "Wait, don't grab at me," said Victor. "Calm down first."
   He pulled Quadriga into the room, sat him down in the armchair, and himself went into the bathroom for
a glass of water. Quadriga jumped up and ran after him.
    "You and I are alone here, nobody else is left," he said. "Golem's gone, the doorman's gone, the director's
gone."
   Victor turned on the faucet. There was a gurgling in the pipes, and a few drops dribbled out.
    "You want water?" said Quadriga. "Let's go, I've got a whole bottle. Only fast. And together."
    "What's going on?" asked Victor, turning cold. "War?"
   Quadriga waved his hand.
   "What do you mean, war? We've got to get out of here before it's too late, and he's talking about war."
   "In what way, get out?"
   "The roadway," said Quadriga, giggling stupidly.
   Victor shoved him away, left the room, and went downstairs. Quadriga scurried after him.
   "Listen," he muttered. "Let's go out the back stairway. Let's just get out of here and then we'll have my
car. I already put gas in it, it's packed up. I had a feeling, God knows. We'll have a drop of vodka and take
off, because there isn't any vodka left here."
   In the corridor, the overhead lamps shone dimly, like red dwarf stars. There was no light at all in the
stairwell and none in the vestibule either. The only weak light came from a bulb above the main desk.
Someone was sitting there, but it wasn't the desk clerk.
   "Let's go, let's go," said Quadriga and pulled Victor toward the exit. "You don't have to go there, it's no
good over there."
   Victor freed himself and walked over to the desk.
   "Just what kind of nonsense is going on?" he said and stopped.
       212 The Ugly Swans

  Behind the desk sat Zurzmansor, writing hurriedly in a thick notebook.
  "Banev," he said without looking up. "This is it, Banev. Good-bye. And don't forget our conversation."
  "I'm not going anywhere," objected Victor. His voice cracked. "I intend to find out what's happened to
the elec-tricity and the water. Is that your work?"
  Zurzmansor raised his yellow face.
  "No," he said. "We aren't working anymore. Good-bye, Banev." He held out his gloved hand over the
desk. Victor took it mechanically, felt the pressure, and responded to it. "Such is life," said Zurzmansor.
"The future is created by you, but not for you. No doubt you already realized this. Or you will shortly. This
concerns you more than it does us. Good-bye."
   He nodded and went back to his writing.
   "Let's go," Quadriga hissed in Victor's ear.
   "I don't understand anything," said Victor loudly, his voice carrying over the entire vestibule. "What's
happening here?"
   He didn't want it to be quiet in the vestibule. He didn't want to feel like an outsider here. He wasn't the
outsider here, and Zurzmansor had no business sitting at the main desk at three in the morning.
   "And don't try to scare me off, I'm no Quadriga."
   But Zurzmansor either didn't hear or chose not to. Victor shrugged his shoulders conspicuously, turned,
and set off for the restaurant. He stopped short at the door.
   Everything in the hall shone dimly: the lamps, the chande-liers, the clarions on the wall. The hall was full.
Slimies were sitting around the little tables. They were all identical, only they sat in different poses. Some
were reading, others slept, and many, as if frozen to the spot, stared motionless into space. Their bare skulls
glowed; it smelled of dampness and medica-tions. The windows were wide open, and there was water on
the floor. Not a sound was to be heard beyond the splash of rain that carried in from the street.
                                       The Ugly Swans 213

    Golem appeared in front of Victor. He looked strained and burdened, an old man.
    "Why are you still here?" he said in a low voice. "Go, you're not allowed here."
   "What do you mean, not allowed," said Victor, flaring up again. "I want a drink."
   "Shh," said Golem. "I thought you had already gone. I knocked at your door. Where are you off to now?"
   "Back to my room. I'm getting a bottle and going back to my room."
   "There's no liquor here," said Golem.
   Victor silently pointed to the bar, where the rows of bottles gleamed dully. Golem took a look.
   "No," he said. "Alas."
   "I want a drink!" repeated Victor in a stubborn voice.
   But he felt no stubbornness within himself. It was a false front. The slimies were looking at him. The
ones who were reading had dropped their books, the ones who were frozen to the spot had turned their
skulls, only the sleepers continued to sleep. Dozens of shining eyes, as if suspended in a reddish twilight,
stared at him.
   "Don't go back to your room," said Golem. "Leave the hotel. Go to Lola's. Or to Quadriga's villa. Only so
I know where you are. I'll come for you. Listen, Victor, don't bristle, do as I'm telling you. There's no time
for explanations, and it wouldn't be right. Too bad Diana isn't here, she'd support me."
   "And where's Diana?"
   Golem looked around again and glanced at the clock.
   "At four o'clock, or at five, she'll be at the Sunrise Gates Bus Terminal."
   "Where is she now?"
   "Now she's busy."
   "So," said Victor, also glancing at the clock. "At four or five at the Sunrise Gates." He wanted very badly
to get out of there. It was unbearable to stand there, the center of attention of that whole silent
congregation.
       214 T/ie Vgly Swans

  "Maybe at six," said Golem. "Go to the villa and wait there."
  "In my opinion, you're just trying to get rid of me," said Victor.
  "Yes," said Golem. Suddenly, with interest, he looked Vic-tor straight in the eye. "Veektor, you are
absolutely sure you don't want to make yourself scarce?"
  "I want to go to sleep," said Victor carelessly. "I haven't slept for two nights." He took Golem by a shirt
button and led him out into the lobby. "All right, I'll go," he said. "Only what's the reason for the
pandemonium. What are you having here, a convention?"
  "Yes," said Golem.
  "Or is it a rebellion?"
  "Yes," said Golem.
  "Or maybe it's war."
  "Yes," said Golem. "Yes, yes, yes. Get out of here."
  "All right," said Victor. He turned to go, but then stopped. "What about Diana?" he asked.
  "There's nothing threatening her. At least until six. Maybe until seven."
  "You'll answer to me for Diana," said Victor softly.
  Golem took out a handkerchief and wiped his neck.
  "I answer for everything," he said.
   "Really? I would prefer it if you only answered for Diana."
  "I'm sick of you," said Golem. "Oh, how I'm sick of you, you beautiful duckling. Diana is with the
children. Diana is abso-lutely safe. Now go. I have work to do."
  Victor turned and walked toward the staircase. Zurzmansor was no longer sitting at the main desk, there
was only the small lamp smoldering above the thick oilcloth-bound notebook.
   "Banev," called R. Quadriga from a dark corner. "Where are you going? Let's get out of here!"
   "I'm not going to march around in the rain in my slippers," snapped Victor without turning around. "They
kicked us out," he thought. 'They kicked us out of the hotel. And maybe
                                      The Ugly Swans 215

they've kicked us out of the town hall, too. And maybe they've kicked us out of town. And then what?"
Back in his room, he quickly changed his clothes and threw on a raincoat. Quadriga was constantly
underfoot.
   "Is that how you're going, in your robe?" asked Victor.
   "It's warm," said Quadriga. "And I have another one at home."
   "Idiot. Go get dressed."
   "I'm not going," said Quadriga firmly.
   "We'll go together," Victor proposed.
   "No. Not together either. Don't worry, I'll go this way. I'm used to it."
   Quadriga was like a poodle eager for a walk. He jumped up and down, looking Victor in the eye; he
panted, grabbed at Victor's clothing, ran to the door and ran back. It was useless to try to stop him. Victor
tossed him his old raincoat and con-centrated for a moment. He took his documents and money out of his
desk drawer, stuffed them into his pockets, shut the window, and turned off the light. Then he gave himself
up to Quadriga.
   The doctor honoris causae, head thrust forward, pulled Vic-tor through the corridor, down the back
staircase, and past the dark, cold kitchen. Then he kicked him out the door, into the pouring rain and the
pitch blackness. An instant later they were together.
   "Thank God we made it," he said. "Let's run!"
   But he couldn't. He got out of breath, and then it was so dark that they almost had to feel their way
forward, grasping at the sides of buildings. The streetlights, burning at half power, and the reddish glow
emerging here and there through half-closed curtains, could show only the general direction. The rain
lashed down relentlessly, but the streets were not completely deserted. Somewhere there was a muffled
conversation; a baby squealed; a few times they were passed by heavy trucks, and a wagon clanged its
iron wheels on the asphalt.
   "Everybody's running," Quadriga muttered. "Everybody's
       2i6 The Ugly Swans

getting out of here. We're the only ones dragging ourselves along."
  Victor was silent. Their shoes, soaked through and through, squelched underfoot; warm rain dripped
down their faces. Quadriga was adhering to him like a tick, and it was all stupid and hackneyed. They still
had the whole city to cross, and there was no end in sight. He walked into a downspout, something
crunched, and Quadriga, tearing himself loose, shouted tearfully for the whole city to hear: "Banev! Where
are you?"
  While they fumbled around in the wet darkness, searching for each other, a window banged open above
their heads.
  "Well, what's up?"
  "It's fucking dark out here," said Victor.
   "Right you are!" the voice shot back with spirit. "No water either. It's good we got the tub in quick
enough."
   "What's next?" asked Victor, trying to keep a rein on Quad-riga. After a short silence, the voice spoke
up.
   "There'll be an evacuation, I'll bet you anything. Some life!"
  And the window slammed shut.
  They pressed on ahead. Quadriga, hanging on to Victor with both arms, began a meandering narration
about how he'd awak-ened in a state of terror, gone downstairs, and walked right into their black mass. In
the pitch darkness they collided with a parked truck, felt their way around it, and collided with a per-son.
The person was carrying something. Quadriga shrieked.
   "What's the matter?" snarled Victor.
   "He hurt me," complained Quadriga. "Right in the liver. With a carton."
   The sidewalks were blocked with cars, refrigerators, and cup-boards, with groves of potted plants.
Quadriga landed in an opened mirrored wardrobe and then got tangled in a bicycle. Victor was seething
with rage. At a street corner, a flashlight was thrust into their faces; they were stopped. Wet helmets
glittered in the rain, and a rough voice with a southern drawl barked out orders.
                                        The Ugly Swans 217

   "This is a military patrol. Show us your documents."
   Quadriga, needless to say, didn't have any documents. He immediately began shouting that he was a
doctor, that he was a laureate, and a personal friend of. . . . The voice, rough and disdainful, cut him off.
   "Locals. Let 'em go."
   They crossed the town square. In front of police headquar-ters there was a pileup of cars with their
lights on. Golden shirts were swarming around helplessly, their fire helmets flash-ing copper. Someone was
booming out orders, but you couldn't make them out. It was obvious that the epicenter of panic was here.
For a time the road was lit up by reflected light, then it once again grew dark.
   Quadriga wasn't muttering anymore, he merely puffed and moaned. Every so often he would fall,
dragging Victor with him. They'd gotten themselves filthy as pigs. Victor had grown completely numb, he'd
even stopped cursing. Apathy and resignation shrouded his brain. He would have to keep on walking,
walking today and walking tomorrow, bumping into unseen figures and pushing them aside, lifting up
Quadriga again and again by the collar of his sodden robe. He couldn't stop, and he couldn't under any
circumstances turn back. He remembered something long forgotten, something shameful, bitter, and unreal.
Only then the sky was flaming and the streets were crammed with people. In the distance there was
thundering and shooting; behind them was horror, and all around were empty houses with boarded-up
windows. Ashes flew into their faces, there was a smell of burning paper. A tall colonel in an elegant
hussar's uniform emerged onto the porch of a beautiful mansion, removed his cap, and shot himself. And
we, ragged and bloody, sold and betrayed, also in hus-sars' uniforms but no longer hussars, all but deserters,
started kissing, laughing, and booing, and somebody hurled his broken saber at the colonel's corpse.
   "Stop, don't move," whispered a voice in the darkness, pok-
       218 The Ugly Swans

ing something familiar into his chest. Mechanically, Victor put up his hands.
   "How dare you!" squealed R. Quadriga from behind his back.
   "Quiet," said the voice.
   "Help!" yelled Quadriga.
   "Shut up, you fool," Victor told him. "I surrender uncon-ditionally," he said into the darkness, addressing
the heavy breathing at the other end of the submachine gun.
   "I'll shoot," quavered the voice.
   "Please don't," said Victor. "We've surrendered, can't you see." His throat was dry.
   "Get undressed," the voice commanded.
   "What?"
   "Take off your shoes, take off your raincoat, take off your pants."
   "Why!"
   "And make it snappy!" hissed the voice.
  Victor peered into the darkness, let down his hands, stepped to the side, and, grabbing the submachine
gun, shoved it up-wards. The robber let out a squawk and pulled back, but for some reason didn't shoot.
The two of them, straining and grunting, fought for the gun.
   "Banev! Where are you?" shrieked Quadriga, desperate.
   Judging by the smell and feel of him, the man with the sub-machine gun was a soldier. He continued
struggling for some time, but Victor was stronger.
   "That's it," said Victor through his teeth. "That's the end. Don't move, or you'll get it in the face."
   "Let me go!" hissed the soldier, resisting weakly.
   "What do you need my pants for? Who are you?"
   The soldier only panted.
   "Victor!" shrieked Quadriga, already somewhere far off. "He-e-ere!"
   A car turned the corner, for an instant casting light on a
                                       The Ugly Swans 219

familiar freckled face, the eyes beneath the helmet round with fear. Then it tore off.
   "Wait a minute, I know you," said Victor. "What are you doing robbing people? Give me the gun."
   The soldier, clutching his helmet, slid out from under the strap.
   "What do you want my pants for?" asked Victor. "Desert-ing?"
   The soldier sniffled. Such a nice young soldier with freckles.
   "Well, why aren't you saying anything?" said Victor.
   "It doesn't matter now," he mumbled. "They'll shoot me no matter what. I left my post. I ran off my post,
I quit my post, what can I do now? If only you'd let me go, sir, huh? I didn't mean any harm, I'm not some
monster, don't turn me in, huh?"
   He sniffled and blew his nose and in the darkness he prob-ably even wiped it on the sleeve of his
overcoat. He was pitiful, like all deserters, frightened, like all deserters, and ready for anything.
   "All right," said Victor. "You'll come with us. We won't give you away. Clothes will turn up. Let's go,
only don't fall behind."
   He started off, and the soldier followed, still sniffling.
   Quadriga, howling like a puppy, was not difficult to locate. Now Victor had a submachine gun around his
neck. The sniffling soldier clutched at his left hand, the softly moaning Quadriga at his right. A nightmare.
Of course, he could always give back the submachine gun and send the little snotnose packing. No, he
couldn't. He felt sorry for him, and the sub-machine gun might yet come in handy. We had a consultation
with the people just now, and there is the opinion that dis-armament at this stage would be premature. The
submachine gun could prove useful in the coming battles.
   "Stop whining, both of you," said Victor. "The patrols will converge on us."
   They quieted down. Five minutes later, when the dim lights
       220 The Ugly Swans

of the bus terminal flickered before them, Quadriga pulled Victor to the right, muttering joyfully.
   "We've arrived, thank Thee, Lord."
   Quadriga, of course, had left the key to the gate in the hotel, in his pants pocket. They climbed over the
fence, swear-ing all the while, and still swearing, floundered for some time on the wet lilac bushes. They
nearly fell into the fountain. Finally they reached the entrance, kicked in the door, and stumbled into the hall.
With a flick of the switch, the hall lit up in a reddish half-light. Victor tumbled into the nearest armchair.
While Quadriga ran around the house in search of towels and dry clothing, the soldier quickly stripped to his
underwear, rolled his uniform into a small bundle, and shoved it under the couch. After that he calmed
down and stopped sniffling. Then Quadriga returned. They spent a long time briskly rubbing themselves
with the towels and then got dressed.
   Chaos reigned in the hall. Everything had been overturned, thrown on the floor, trampled. Books were
mixed up with filthy rags and rolled up with canvases. Glass crunched under-foot, squeezed-out tubes of
paint were scattered everywhere. The television stared at them with its empty square screen, and the table
was piled up with dirty dishes full of rotten food. The only thing missing was excrement in the corners, and
maybe there was excrement in the corners—it was too dark to tell. The smell in the house was such that
Victor couldn't stand it and threw open a window.
   Quadriga took up domestic duties. First he took hold of one end of the table and tipped it over, sending
everything crashing to the floor. Then he wiped it with his wet robe, ran off some-where, and returned with
three crystal goblets of antique beauty and two rectangular bottles. Jumping up and down from im-patience,
he removed the corks and filled the goblets.
   "To our health," he muttered incoherently, seizing his goblet and pressing it to his greedy lips. His eyes
rolled in anticipa-tion of the ecstatic moment.
                                        The Ugly Swans 221
   Victor, straightening out a soggy cigarette, looked down at him with an indulgent laugh. On Quadriga's
face there sud-denly appeared an indescribable expression of wounded as-tonishment.
   "Here too," he muttered with disgust.
   "What's wrong?" asked Victor.
   "Water," offered the timid voice of the soldier. "Plain water. Cold."
   Victor took a gulp from his own goblet. It was water all right —pure, cold, and possibly even distilled.
   "What are you giving us, Quadriga?" he asked.
   Quadriga, without saying a word, picked up the second bottle and took a swig. His face contorted into a
grimace. "My God," he said, spitting, and then, hunching over, tiptoed out of the room. The soldier sniffled
again. Victor looked at the bottle labels: rum, whiskey. He took another gulp: water. It looked like an
ordinary bit of deviltry—floorboards were creaking of their own volition, and your flesh crawled under the
constant stare of someone's eyes. The soldier's chin disappeared into the neck of Quadriga's huge sweater;
his hands ascended into the sleeves. His round eyes were fixed on Victor.
   "What are you staring at me for?" asked Victor. His voice was hoarse.
   "What's wrong with you?" whispered the soldier.
   'There's nothing wrong with me, I want to know why you're gawking like that."
   "What do you mean. It's scary. You shouldn't..."
   "Calm down," said Victor to himself. "Nothing terrible. They're supermen. Supermen are capable of this
sort of thing too. They're capable of anything, brother. Water into wine, wine into water. They sit around in
restaurants and decompose. They're destroying the foundation, removing the cornerstone. The fucking
teetotalers."
   "Can't take it?" he said to the soldier. "Chickenshit."
   "It's scary, you have no idea," said the soldier, getting ani-
       222 The Ugly Swans

mated. "You don't know what I went through there. You're on duty, it's nighttime, and he flies out of the
zone, stares at you from up there, and flies off. One of the corporals even shat in his pants. And the captain
kept on saying, you'll get used to it, it's your duty, you took the oath. But how can anybody get used to it?
The other night one of them flew over, perched on the roof of the guard booth and stared at us. And his
eyes weren't human, they were red and they glinted. And the sulfur fumes that were coming from him."
The soldier took his hands out of his sleeves and crossed himself.
  Quadriga emerged from the depths of the villa, still hunched over and on tiptoe.
  "Nothing but water," he said. "Victor, let's get out of here. The car's in the garage, it's got a full tank of
gas, all we do is get in, and off we go. How about it?"
  "Don't go off the deep end," said Victor. "There's always time to escape. But all right, have it your way.
You go ahead —I'm staying here. And you'll take the kid with you."
  "No," said Quadriga. "I'm not going without you."
  "Then stop shaking and go get us something to eat. I as-sume the bread hasn't turned to stone yet?"
  The bread had not turned into stone. The canned foods remained canned foods, and they weren't bad
canned foods either. They ate, and the soldier told them about the fearful events of the past two days, about
the flying slimies, about an invasion of earthworms, about the children who had grown into adults in two
days, about his friend, Private Krupman, a guy of about twenty, who was so scared he'd shot himself in
order to get a discharge. And then about how they'd brought their din-ner into the guard booth and tried to
heat it up, and it sat on the stove for two hours but nothing happened, so they had to eat it cold.
  "So this evening I went out on guard duty, it was eight o'clock and raining cats and dogs, and hailing too.
There were these prohibited lights over the zone, and this weird music coming
                                       The Ugly Swans 223

from God knows where, and this weird voice keeps on talking and talking but you can't understand a word
of it. And then these tornadoes start rolling out of the steppe and right into the zone. And no sooner do they
get there than who should come flying out in his car but the captain himself. I didn't even have time to come
to attention, all I could see was the captain in the back seat, without his cap, without his raincoat, and he's
flogging the driver in the neck and hollering, 'Speed up, you son of a bitch!' And it was like something
snapped inside me, like some voice was telling me, 'Beat it, buddy, split, or you'll never know what hit you.'
So I split. And not along the road either, but right across the steppe, through the ravines. I al-most got stuck
in a swamp, and then I left my poncho some-where, it was a new one too, we got them yesterday. So I got
to the city, and I see these patrols there. The first patrol nearly gets me, the second patrol nearly gets me,
and finally there I am at the bus terminal. So I take a good look, and there are all these people running, and
they're letting civilians through, but when they see one of us it's 'Show us your pass or else.' So I made up
my mind."
   Having finished his story, the soldier curled up in his arm-chair and went to sleep. The painfully sober
Quadriga once again started insisting that they had to get out of there, and at once.
   "Now there's a man for you," he declared, pointing his fork in the direction of the sleeping warrior. "He
understands. And you're thick, Banev, you're absolutely impenetrable. How can you not feel it, I can sense
it physically, there's something in the north that's pushing me south. Believe me. I know you don't believe
me, but believe me now, I've been telling you for a long time, we can't stay here. Golem pulled the wool
over your eyes, the long-nosed drunk. Can't you understand, the roads are clear now, everyone's waiting
for daylight, and then they'll clog the bridges, nineteen forty all over again. You're incredibly thick, Banev,
and you always were, even in school."
      224 The Ugly Swans

   Victor ordered him to go to sleep or get lost. Quadriga sulkily finished his meal and then climbed onto the
couch, covering himself with a mohair blanket. For some time he tossed around, grunting and muttering
apocalyptic warnings. Then he fell silent. It was four o'clock in the morning.
   At ten after, the lights flickered and then went out. Victor
stretched out on the armchair, covered himself with something
dry and lay there quietly, staring out the darkened window
and listening. The soldier was sleeping fitfully, his moans punc-
tuated by the snores of the fagged-out doctor honoris causae.
From somewhere, probably the bus terminal, came the sound
of motors starting and people's muffled shouts. Victor tried to
figure out what was happening. He came to the conclusion that
the slimies had broken with General Pferd, cleaned his forces
out of the leprosarium, and moved their headquarters rather
recklessly into town. They probably imagined that changing
wine into water and terrorizing the populace qualified them for
taking on a modern army. "A modern army indeed—as if they
could even cope with the police. Idiots. They'll ruin the city,
they'll perish themselves, and people will be left without shel-
ter. And the children. They'll destroy the children, the bas-
tards. And what for? What are they up to? Could it really be
just another power struggle? Some supermen you are. How
intelligent and talented can you be, you're the same shit that
we are. Just another new order, and the newer the order, the
worse it gets, that much we know. Irma Diana...."
    He shook himself, groped for the telephone, and took the receiver. The telephone was dead. "So once
 again they've failed to divvy things up between them. And the rest of us, who want nothing to do with
 either side, who want only to be left in peace, have to leave our homes and run for our lives, trampling each
 other in the process. And it could get worse, we could have to choose between them without understanding
 anything and without knowing anything, taking them at their word or at whatever they happen to dish out to
 us. And we'll have to shoot each other and claw at each other.
                                        The Ugly Swans 225

   "Familiar thoughts in a familiar vein. It must be the thou-sandth time. That's the way we've been trained.
Since child-hood. It's either hip, hip, hooray or go to hell, I don't believe anyone. You're incapable of
thinking, Mr. Banev, that's the problem. And that's why you oversimplify. Whatever complex social change
you've managed to meet up with, your first in-stinct is to oversimplify. Either you believe in it or you don't.
And if it's belief, then you'll push it to the point of stupefaction, to the devoted yelping of a faithful pup. And
if it's disbelief, then you'll passionately spew your poisoned bile on all ideals, the true along with the false.
Perry Mason used to say that there's no such thing as a damaging piece of evidence, what's damaging is a
false interpretation. It's the same way with poli-tics. The crooked ideologists interpret things to their own
ad-vantage, and the rest of us innocents lap it up whole hog. Be-cause we can't think for ourselves, we're
incapable of it, and we don't want to. And when the innocent Banev, who in his whole life has seen nothing
but crooks, begins to interpret things on his own, he immediately falls flat on his face. Why? Because he's
uneducated, because nobody's ever taught him how to think and so, not surprisingly, he can only interpret
things in crooked terms. The new world, the old world—and right away the associations click into place:
neue Ordnung, alte Ordnung. Well, all right. But the innocent Banev has still been around for a while,
he's picked up a thing or two. He's not a total imbe-cile. What about Diana, Zurzmansor, Golem? Why
should I believe that fascist Pavor, or some snot-nosed provincial drop-out, or a sober Quadriga? Why am I
so sure that it'll end in blood, pus, and mud? So the slimies have revolted against Pferd. Wonderful! Give
him hell. It's high time. And they won't let anyone hurt the children, it's not their style. And they won't bare
their chests to us to show us how sincere they are. They won't appeal to our national self-awareness and
they won't rouse our primitive instincts. It's precisely what is most natural that is least fitting for man—right
you are, Bol-Kunats. And it's really possible that this new world won't have any
      226 The Ugly Swans

new order. Frightening? Cold? But that's the way it has to be. 'The future is created by you, but not for
you.' Just look how I flared up when I broke out in those spots of the future. How badly I wanted to go
back to my old world, to my eel and my vodka. Now I hate myself for it, but in fact that's the way it had to
be. I detest the old world. I detest its stupidity, its indifference, its ignorance, its fascism. But what am I
without all that? It's my bread and my water. Purify the world around me, make it the way I want it to be,
and there'll be no place for me any more. I'm no good at glorification, I detest it, and there won't be
anything to criticize, there won't be anything to hate. It's impossibly boring, it's death. This new world is
severe and just and wise and sterile—and it doesn't need me, I'm just a zero in it. It needed me when I was
fighting for it. But if it doesn't need me now, then I don't need it, and if I don't need it then why am I
struggling for it? Oh, for the good old days, when it was possible to give your life for the creation of a new
world and die in the old one. Acceleration, another instance of acceleration. But it's impossible to fight
against something and not fight for something else! Well, what can you do, when you start a fire that big,
you're bound to burn your own skin."
    . . . Somewhwere in the huge, empty world a little girl was weeping, sobbing over and over: "I don't want
it, I don't want it, it's not fair, it's cruel, how do you know what'll be better, then let it not be better, let them
stay, can't you do it so that they'll stay with us, it's stupid, it's absurd. . . ." "That's Irma," thought Victor.
"Irma!" he cried, and woke up.
    Quadriga was snoring. The rain outside the window had stopped, and it seemed to be getting lighter.
Victor brought his watch up to his eyes. The brightly lit hands showed a quar-ter to five. A dank cold was
blowing in, and he knew that he should get up and close the window, but he was warm now, he didn't feel
like moving, and his eyelids were closing of their own volition. Perhaps he saw it, perhaps he only dreamed
it,
                                            The Ugly Swans 227

but somewhere nearby trucks were driving past, one after an-other they were driving past, creeping along
the battered dirty road and over the endless dirty field, and under the gray and dirty sky. Past the leaning
telephone poles with cut-off wires, past a twisted cannon with its barrel pointing in the air, past a sooty
chimney, now a perch for sated crows. And the dank air penetrated through the canvas, through his
greatcoat, and he wanted so badly to go to sleep. But he couldn't go to sleep be-cause Diana was going to
come. "The gate was locked and the windows were dark, and she thought that I wasn't here and drove on."
He jumped out the window and ran after the car with all his strength, and screamed until his veins burst, but
just then the tanks were passing, rumbling and booming, and he couldn't even hear himself. And Diana
drove off to the river crossing, where everything was burning, where she would be killed and he would be
left alone. And then there came the angry piercing shriek of a bomb, right into his skull, right into his brain.
Victor fell into a ditch and out of his armchair.
   Quadriga was shrieking. He was convulsed in front of the opened window, staring at the sky and
shrieking like an old woman. The room was lit, but not by daylight. Clear, even rectangles were traced on
the littered floor. Victor ran over to the window and took a look. It was the moon, icy, small, and blindingly
bright. There was something unbearably terrifying about it. At first he couldn't understand just what. The
sky was as always covered with clouds, but into these clouds someone had carved a precise and even
square. In the center of the square was the moon.
   Quadriga had stopped shrieking. Exhausted from the effort, he was producing only feeble squeaking
noises. Victor forced himself to breathe evenly and suddenly felt furious. "What do they think this is—a
circus? Who do they take me for?" Quad-riga continued to squeak.
   "Cut it out!" Victor yelled at him, his voice full of hatred. "Never seen a square before? Fucking
portraitist! Lackey!"
      228 The Ugly Swans

    He grabbed Quadriga by his mohair blanket and shook him as hard as he could. Quadriga fell onto the
floor and froze.
    "All right," he said suddenly in an unexpectedly clear and lucid voice. "I've had it."
    He raised himself onto all fours, and right from there, like a sprinter, tore off. Victor turned back to the
window. In the depths of his soul he hoped that he was hallucinating, but there it was, just as before. In the
lower right-hand corner of the square he could even make out a tiny star, almost drowning in the moonlight.
Everything stood out clearly: the wet lilac bushes, the silent fountain with its allegorical marble fish, the
latticework gates, and the dark ribbon of the road beyond them. Victor sat down on the windowsill, and,
careful to keep his fingers from trembling, lit a cigarette. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that the
soldier was gone; maybe he'd fled, the poor kid, or maybe he'd merely crawled under the couch and died of
fright. In any event, the submachine gun was in its former place. Victor gave a hysterical giggle,
com-paring the pitiful hunk of metal with the forces responsible for the square well in the clouds. "Some
clowns. No, friends, the new world may perish, but the old one won't come through without a few bruises.
It's a good thing I've got the subma-chine gun. It's stupid, but I feel calmer with it. And if you think about it,
it's not all that stupid. Because one thing is clear, we're going to have an exodus, it's hanging in the air. And
when there's an exodus going on, it's always better to keep to the sidelines and have a weapon."
    A motor sounded in the yard. Quadriga's huge, endlessly long limousine (a personal present from Mr.
President for the selfless service of a devoted brush) rounded the corner and, turning onto the lawn, headed
straight for the gates. A minute later it crashed through them, flew out onto the road, turned around, and
disappeared from view.
    "So he took off after all, the pig," muttered Victor, not without envy. He climbed down from the
 windowsill, slung
                                        The Ugly Swans 229

the gun over his shoulder, threw on his raincoat, and called for the soldier. The soldier didn't respond. Victor
took a look un-der the couch, but there was nothing there except a gray uni-form, tied up into a knot. Victor
lit up another cigarette and went outside. Among the lilac bushes near the broken gates he found a bench,
strangely shaped but very comfortable, and, most important, with a good view of the road. He sat down,
crossed his legs, and sank deeper into his raincoat. At first the road was empty, but then a car passed,
followed by a second and a third, and he understood that the exodus had begun.
    The city had burst like a boil. In the beginning came the exodus of the elect: the exodus of magistrates
and police, in-dustry and trade, court and assize, finance and education, post and telegraph, the exodus of
the golden shirts. They fled to the sound of backfire, enveloped in clouds of exhaust. They were disheveled
and aggressive, dense and mean, the loan sharks and the moneygrubbers, the servants of the people, the
fathers of the city. They fled to the howl of police sirens and the hys-terical moaning of horns. The roar
was deafening. The gigantic infection kept draining, and when the pus was gone the blood began to flow:
the people themselves in overloaded trucks and lurching buses, in overburdened compact cars. They left on
bi-cycles and in wagons, and they left on foot: pushing shopping carts, bent under the weight of packages,
empty-handed. They were gloomy and silent and lost. They were leaving their homes, their bedbugs, their
simple happiness and their ordered lives, they were abandoning their past and their future. After the people
came the army. The procession was opened by a jeep full of officers, followed by an armored personnel
carrier, followed by two truckloads of soldiers and our world-famous mobile field mess. In the rear came
the half-track armored car with its machine guns pointing backwards.
    It was getting light. The moon faded. The terrible square disintegrated and the clouds melted away;
morning came. Victor waited about fifteen minutes longer, but the exodus had
       230 The Ugly Swans

ended. He walked beyond the gates. The asphalt was strewo with dirty rags. Somebody's suitcase had
gotten crushed—a good suitcase, too, not just anybody's. Near the suitcase was a wagon wheel, and
farther off, on the shoulder, was the wagon itself, still holding its old, torn couch and rubber tree. There was
nothing else. Victor looked in the direction of the bus terminal. There was nothing there either, not a single
car, not a single person. Birds started chirping in the garden, and then the sun came up, the sun that Victor
hadn't seen for a couple of weeks and the town for a couple of years. But there was nobody left to look at
it. The silence was broken by the buzz of a motor; a bus came driving around the curve. Victor stepped out
onto the shoulder. It was the Brothers in Reason, and they sailed past him, synchronizing their indifferent,
imbecilic stares. "That's it," thought Victor. "I could use a drink. Where on earth is Diana?"
    He slowly started back toward town.
    The sun was off to the right. It moved along with him, now disappearing behind the roofs of the great
houses, now appearing in the spaces between them, spraying warm light through the branches of the
half-rotted trees. The clouds had disappeared, and the sky was astonishingly clear. A light mist was rising
from the earth. Everything was silent, and Victor was drawn to the strange, barely audible sounds which
seemed to be coming from within the earth—some sort of whisper or rustling. Then he got used to it and
forgot about it. An as-tonishing sense of calm and security came over him. He walked as though drunk, his
eyes fixed almost constantly on the sky. On the Prospect of the President a jeep stopped next to him.
    "Get in," said Golem.
    Golem was gray with exhaustion and somehow depressed. Diana was sitting next to him, also exhausted,
 but still beauti-ful, the most beautiful of all exhausted women.
    "The sun," said Victor, smiling at her. "Look at that sun."
    "He won't go," said Diana. "I warned you, Golem."
                                        The Ugly Swans 231

   "Why won't I go?" Victor was surprised. "I'll go. Only what's the hurry?" He couldn't hold himself back
and took another look at the sky. Then he looked back at the deserted street, and then he looked forward at
the deserted street. Sunlight was pouring over everything. Somewhere to the south, refugees were
staggering across the fields, the army was thundering its retreat, the authorities were withdrawing. They got
stuck in traffic jams; they swore at one another, they shouted meaning-less commands and threats. And all
the while, from the north, the victors were descending on the town. In between was an empty stretch of
calm and security, a few miles of emptiness, and in the emptiness were three people and a car.
   "Golem, is this the new world coming?"
   "Yes," said Golem. He looked at Victor from under his swollen eyelids.
   "And where are your slimies? Are they coming on foot?"
   "There aren't any slimies," said Golem.
   "What do you mean, there aren't any," said Victor. He looked at Diana. Diana silently turned away.
   "There aren't any slimies," Golem repeated. His voice was tense, and suddenly it seemed to Victor that
he was on the verge of tears. "You can assume that they never even existed. And never will."
   "Wonderful," said Victor. "Let's take a walk."
   "Are you coming with us or not?" asked Golem wearily.
   "I'd come," said Victor, "except I have to stop by at the hotel to pick up my manuscripts, and I'd like to
have a look around. You know, Golem, I like it here."
   "I'm staying too," said Diana suddenly. She got out of the car. "There's nothing for me to do there."
   "And what's there for you to do here?" asked Golem.
   "I don't know," said Diana. "But now I have nobody left except this man."
   "All right," said Golem. "He doesn't understand. But you understand."
      232 The Ugly Swans

  "But he has to have a look around," objected Diana. "How can he go without taking a look around?"
  "Exactly," Victor took her up. "What the hell use am I if I don't look. That's my profession, looking."
  "Listen, children," said Golem. "Do you understand what you're letting yourself in for? Victor, you were told: stay
on your own side, that's the only way you'll be useful. On your own!"
  "I've always been on my own side," said Victor.
  "Here that will be impossible."
  "We'll see," said Victor.
  "Christ," said Golem. "As if I didn't want to stay. But you have to use your head a little. There's a difference,
goddamnit, between what you feel like doing and what you have to do." It was as though he was trying to convince
himself. "Oh, you.... Well, stay if that's what you want. Have a good time." He started the motor. "Where's the
notebook, Diana? Oh, there it is. If you don't mind, I'll take it. You won't be needing it."
   "Of course," said Diana. "That's what he wanted."
  "Golem," said Victor. "Why are you running? You wanted this world."
  "I'm not running," said Golem severely. "I'm driving. I'm going from where I'm not needed to where I'm needed. Not
like you. Good-bye."
   And he left. Diana and Victor took each other by the hand and walked uptown along the Prospect of the President
into the deserted city, ready to meet the advancing conquerors. They didn't talk. They breathed in the pure, fresh air,
squinted at the sun, smiled at one another, and were afraid of nothing. The city stared at them with its empty windows.
The city was astonishing: moldy, slippery, and rotten, covered with malig-nant stains as though eaten up by eczema. It
was as if it had spent many years at the bottom of the sea, only to be dragged up for the amusement of the sun. And
the sun, having laughed its full, was moving in on its destruction. Roofs were melting
                                       The Ugly Swans 233

and evaporating; tin plates and tiles were disappearing in a rusty steam. Wet streaks appeared on the sides
of buildings, penetrating the walls and revealing everything inside: dilapi-dated wallpaper, chipped beds,
bandy-legged furniture, and faded photographs. Street lights twisted and melted, kiosks and billboards
dissolved into thin air, and everything around was cracking and hissing, turning porous and transparent,
changing into piles of dirt and disappearing. In the distance, the town hall tower lost its shape and merged
into the blue of the sky. For some time, the old-fashioned tower clock hung in the sky, separate from
everything, and then it too disappeared.
   "My manuscripts are gone," thought Victor, amused.
   The town was no more. Here and there were stunted bushes, sickly trees, and patches of green grass.
Only in the distance, beyond the fog, you could make out the outlines of buildings, the remains of buildings,
the ghosts of buildings, and not far from what used to be the road, on a stone stoop that led nowhere, sat
Teddy. He had placed his crutches beside him, and was resting his wounded leg.
   "Hi, Teddy," said Victor. "So you've stayed."
   "Uhuh," said Teddy.
   "How come?"
   "Screw them," said Teddy. "They were pressed together like sardines, there was nowhere to stretch my
leg, so I said to my sister-in-law, what do you need the cupboard for, stupid. And she lit into me. So I pissed
on them and stayed behind."
   "Want to come with us?"
   "No, you go," said Teddy. "I might as well sit for a while. I'm no good for walking now, and whatever's
going to happen can happen to me here."
   They walked on It was getting hot, and Victor took off his useless raincoat, letting it drop to the ground.
 He shook off the rusty remnants of the submachine gun and laughed with relief. Diana kissed him, and said
 "Great!" He didn't object. They walked and walked under the blue sky, under the hot sun, on
      2 34 The Ugly Swans

the ground already covered with new grass, and came to the place where the hotel had been. It wasn't
quite gone; there re-mained a huge gray cube of rough concrete, and Victor thought that it was a
monument, and maybe a boundary mark between the old world and the new one. No sooner had he thought
this than a jet fighter with the Legion emblem on its fuselage appeared soundlessly from behind the
concrete block. Sound-lessly it flashed overhead and, still soundless, banked some-where in the vicinity of
the sun and disappeared. Only then did the hellish, high-pitched roar inundate their ears, their faces, their
souls.
   But Bol-Kunats was already walking toward them, older now and broad-shouldered, with a streaked
mustache on his sunburned face. Farther off walked Irma, also almost an adult, barefoot, in a simple
summer dress, holding a twig. She fol-lowed the fighter with her eyes, and then, raising the twig as if taking
aim, said, "Khhh."
   Diana laughed. Victor looked at her and saw that this was yet another Diana, a completely new one, a
Diana that had never been. He had never even thought that such a Diana was possible: Diana the Radiant.
Then he shook a finger at himself and thought, "All this is fine, but I'd better not forget to go back."