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Arkady and Boris Strugatsky. The Final Circle of Paradise

Published by D.A.W. Books, Inc; November 1976.

"Hishnye veshi veka" (in Russian)

"Tidselderns rovgiriga ting" (in Sweeden)

("Hischnye Veschi Veka", "Century's Ravenous Pleasures")

There is but one problem --

the only one in the world --

to restore to men a spiritual

content, spiritual concerns....

-- A de St. Exupery

Chapter ONE

The customs inspector had a round smooth face which

registered the most benevolent of attitudes. He was

respectfully cordial and solicitous.

"Welcome," he murmured. "How do you like our sunshine?" He

glanced at the passport in my hand. "Beautiful morning, isn't

it?"

I proffered him my passport and stood the suitcase on the

white counter. The inspector rapidly leafed through it with his

long careful fingers. He was dressed in a white uniform with

silver buttons and silver braid on the shoulders. He laid the

passport aside and touched the suitcase with the tips of his

fingers.

"Curious," he said. "The case has not yet dried. It is

difficult to imagine that somewhere the weather can be bad."

"Yes," I said with a sigh, "we are already well into the

autumn," and opened the suitcase.

The inspector smiled sympathetically and glanced at it

absent-mindedly. "It's impossible amid our sunshine to

visualize an autumn. Thank you, that will be quite all

right.... Rain, wet roofs, wind...

"And what if I have something hidden under the linen?" I

asked -- I don't appreciate conversations about the weather. He

laughed heartily.

"Just an empty formality," he said. "Tradition. A

conditioned reflex of all customs inspectors, if you will." He

handed me a sheet of heavy paper. "And here is another

conditioned reflex. Please read it -- it's rather unusual. And

sign it if you don't mind."

I read. It was a law concerning immigration, printed in

elegant type on heavy paper and in four languages. Immigration

was absolutely forbidden. The customs man regarded me steadily.

"Curious, isn't it?" he asked.

"In any case it's intriguing," I replied, drawing my

fountain pen. "Where do I sign?"

"Where and how you please," said the customs man. "Just

across will do."

I signed under the Russian text over the line "I have been

informed on the immigration laws."

'Thank you," said the customs man, filing the paper away

in his desk, 'Now you know practically all our laws. And during

your entire stay -- How long will you be staying with us?"

I shrugged my shoulders.

"It's difficult to say in advance. Depends on how the work

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will go."

"Shall we say a month?"

'That would be about it. Let's say a month."

"And during this whole month," he bent over the passport

making some notation, "during this entire month you won't need

any other laws." He handed me my passport. "I shouldn't even

have to mention that you can prolong your stay with us to any

reasonable extent. But in the meantime, let it be thirty days.

If you find it desirable to stay longer, visit the police

station on the 16th of May and pay one dollar... You have

dollars?"

"Yes."

"That's fine. By the way, it is not at all necessary to

have exclusively a dollar. We accept any currency. Rubles,

pounds, cruzeiros."

"I don't have cruzeiros," I said. 'I have only dollars,

rubles, and some English pounds. Will that suit you?"

"Undoubtedly. By the way, so as not to forget, would you

please deposit ninety dollars and seventy-two cents."

"With pleasure," I said, "but why?"

"It's customary. To guarantee the minimum needs. We have

never had anyone with us who did not have some needs."

I counted out ninety-one dollars, and without sitting

down, he proceeded to write out a receipt. His neck grew red

from the awkward position. I looked around. The white counter

stretched along the entire pavilion. On the other side of the

barrier, customs inspectors in white smiled cordially, laughed,

explained things in a confidential manner. On this side,

brightly clad tourists shuffled impatiently, snapped suitcase

locks, and gaped excitedly. While they waited they feverishly

thumbed through advertising brochures, loudly devised all kinds

of plans, secretly and openly anticipated happy days ahead, and

now thirsted to surmount the white counter as quickly as

possible. Sedate London clerks and their athletic-looking

brides, pushy Oklahoma farmers in bright shirts hanging outside

Bermuda shorts and sandals over bare feet, Turin workers with

their well-rouged wives and numerous children, small-time

Catholic bosses from Spain, Finnish lumbermen with their pipes

considerately banked, Hungarian basketball players, Iranian

students, union organizers from Zambia...

The customs man gave me my receipt and counted out

twenty-eight cents change.

"Well -- there is all the formality. I hope I haven't

detained you too long. May I wish you a pleasant stay!"

"Thank you," I said and took my suitcase.

He regarded me with his head slightly bent sideways,

smiling out of his bland, smooth face.

"Through this turnstile, please. Au revoir. May I

once more wish you the best."

I went out on the plaza following an Italian pair with

four kids and two robot redcaps.

The sun stood high over mauve mountains. Everything in the

plaza was bright and shiny and colorful. A bit too bright and

colorful, as it usually is in resort towns. Gleaming

orange-and-red buses surrounded by tourist crowds, shiny and

polished green of the vegetation in the squares with white,

blue, yellow, and gold pavilions, kiosks, and tents. Mirrorlike

surfaces, vertical, horizontal, and inclined, which flared with

sunbursts. Smooth matte hexagons underfoot and under the wheels

-- red, black, and gray, just slightly springy and smothering

the sound of footsteps. I put down the suitcase and donned

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sunglasses.

Out of all the sunny towns it has been my luck to visit,

this was without a doubt the sunniest. And that was all wrong.

It would have been much easier if the day had been gray, if

there had been dirt and mud, if the pavilion had also been gray

with concrete walls, and if on that wet concrete was scratched

something obscene, tired, and pointless, born of boredom. Then

I would probably feel like working at once. I am positive of

this because such things are irritating and demand action. It's

still hard to get used to the idea that poverty can be wealthy.

And so the urge is lacking and there is no desire to begin

immediately, but rather to take one of these buses, like the

red-and-blue one, and take off to the beach, do a little scuba

diving, get a tan, play some ball, or find Peck, stretch out on

the floor in some cool room and reminisce on all the good stuff

so that he could ask about Bykov, about the Trans-Pluto

expedition, about the new ships on which I too am behind the

times, but still know better than he, and so that he could

recollect the uprising and boast of his scars and his high

social position.... It would be most convenient if Peck did

have a high social position. It would be well if he were, for

example, a mayor....

A small darkish rotund individual in a white suit and a

round white hat set at a rakish angle approached deliberately,

wiping his lips with a dainty handkerchief. The hat was

equipped with a transparent green shade and a green ribbon on

which was stamped "Welcome." On his right earlobe glistened a

pendant radio.

"Welcome aboard," said the man.

"Hello," said I.

"A pleasure to have you with us. My name is Ahmad."

"And my name is Ivan," said I. "Pleased to make your

acquaintance."

We nodded to each other and regarded the tourists entering

the buses. They were happily noisy and the warm wind rolled

their discarded butts and crumpled candy wrappers along the

square. Ahmad's face bore a green tint from the light filtering

through his cap visor.

"Vacationers," he said. "Carefree and loud. Now they will

be taken to their hotels and will immediately rush off to the

beaches."

"I wouldn't mind a run on water skis," I observed.

"Really? I never would have guessed. There's nothing you

look less like than a vacationer."

"So be it," I said. "In fact I did come to work"

"To work? Well, that happens too, some do come to work

here. Two years back Jonathan Kreis came here to paint a

picture." He laughed. "Later there was an assault-and-battery

case in Rome, some papal nuncio was involved, can't remember

his name."

"Because of the picture?"

"No, hardly. He didn't paint a thing here. The casino was

where you could find him day or night. Shall we go have a

drink?"

"Let's. You can give me a few pointers."

"It's my pleasurable duty -- to give advice," said Ahmad.

We bent down simultaneously and both of us took hold of

the suitcase handle.

"It's okay -- I'll manage."

"No," countered Ahmad, "you are the guest and I the host.

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Let's go to yonder bar. It's quiet there at this time."

We went in under a blue awning. Ahmad seated me at a

table, put my suitcase on a vacant chair, and went to the

counter. It was cool and an air conditioner sighed in the

background. Ahmad returned with a tray. There were tall glasses

and flat plates with butter-gold tidbits.

"Not very strong," said Ahmad, "but really cold to make up

for that."

"I don't like it strong in the morning either," I said.

I quaffed the glass. The stuff was good.

"A swallow -- a bite," counseled Ahmad, "Like this: a

swallow, a bite."

The tidbits crunched and melted in the mouth. In my view,

they were unnecessary. We were silent for some time, watching

the square from under the marquee. gently purring, the buses

pulled out one after another into their respective tree-lined

avenues. They looked ponderous yet strangely elegant in their

clumsiness.

"It would be too noisy there," said Ahmad. "Fine cottages,

lots of women -- to suit any taste -- and right on the water,

but no privacy. I don't think it's for you."

"Yes," I agreed. "The noise would bother me. Anyway, I

don't like vacationers, Ahmad. Can't stand it when people work

at having fun."

Ahmad nodded and carefully placed the next tidbit in his

mouth. I watched him chew. There was something professional and

concentrated in the movement of his lower jaw. Having

swallowed, he said, "No, the synthetic will never compare with

the natural product. Not the same bouquet." He flexed his lips,

smacked them gently, and continued, "There are two excellent

hotels in the center of town, but, in my view..."

"Yes, that won't do either," I said. "A hotel places

certain obligations on you. I never heard that anything

worthwhile has ever been written in a hotel."

"Well, that's not quite true," retorted Ahmad, critically

studying the last tidbit. "I read one book and in it they said

that it was in fact written in a hotel -- the Hotel Florida."

"Aah," I said, "you are correct. But then your city is not

being shelled by cannons."

"Cannons? Of course not. Not as a rule, anyway."

"Just as I thought. But, as a matter of fact, it has been

noted that something worthwhile can be written only in a hotel

which is under bombardment."

Ahmad took the last tidbit after all.

'That would be difficult to arrange," he said. "In our

times it's hard to obtain a cannon. Besides, it's very

expensive; the hotel could lose its clientele."

"Hotel Florida also lost its clients in its time.

Hemingway lived in it alone."

"Who?"

"Hemingway."

"Ah... but that was so long ago, in the fascist times. But

times have changed, Ivan."

"Yes," said I, "and therefore in our times there is no

point in writing in hotels."

"To blazes with hotels then," said Ahmad. "I know what you

need. You need a boarding house." He took out a notebook.

"State your requirements and we'll try to match them up."

"Boarding house," I said. "I don't know. I don't think so,

Ahmad. Do understand that I don't want to meet people whom I

don't want to know. That's to begin with. And in the second

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place, who lives in private boarding houses? These same

vacationers who don't have enough money for a cottage. They too

work hard at having fun. They concoct picnics, meets, and song

fests. At night they play the banjo. On top of which they grab

anyone they can get hold of and make them participate in

contests for the longest uninterrupted kiss. Most important of

all, they are all transients. But I am interested in your

country, Ahmad. In your townspeople. I'll tell you what I need:

I need a quiet house with a garden. Not too far from downtown.

A relaxed family, with a respectable housewife. An attractive

young daughter. You get the picture, Ahmad?"

Ahmad took the empty glasses, went over to the counter,

and returned with full ones. Now they contained a colorless

transparent liquid and the small plates were stacked with tiny

multistoried sandwiches.

"I know of such a cozy house," declared Ahmad. "The widow

is forty-five and the daughter twenty. The son is eleven. Let's

finish the drinks and we'll be on our way. I think you'll like

it. The rent is standard, but of course it's more than in a

hoarding house. You have come to stay for a long time?"

"For a month."

"Good Lord! Just a month?"

"I don't know how my affairs will go. Perhaps I may tarry

awhile."

"By all means, you will," said Ahmad. "I can see that you

have totally failed to grasp just where you have arrived. You

simply don't understand what a good time you can have here and

how you don't have to think about a thing."

We finished our drinks, got up, and went across the square

under the hot sun to the parking area. Ahmad walked with a

rapid, slightly rolling gait, with the green visor of his cap

set low over his eyes, swinging the suitcase in a debonair

manner. The next batch of tourists was being discharged

broadcast from the customs house.

"Would you like me to... Frankly?" said Ahmad suddenly.

"Yes, I would like you to," said I. What else could I say?

Forty years I have lived in this world and have yet to learn to

deflect this unpleasant question.

"You won't write a thing here," said Ahmad. "It's mighty

hard to write in our town."

"It's always hard to write anything. However, fortunately

I am not a writer."

"I accept this gladly. But in that case, it is slightly

impossible here. At least for a transient."

"You frighten me."

"It's not a case of being frightened. You simply won't

want to work. You won't be able to stay at the typewriter.

You'll feel annoyed by the typewriter. Do you know what the joy

of living is?"

"How shall I say?"

"You don't know anything, Ivan. So far you still don't

know anything about it. You are bound to traverse the twelve

circles of paradise. It's funny, of course, but I envy you."

We stopped by a long open car. Ahmad threw the suitcase

into the back seat and flung the door open for me.

"Please," he said.

"Presumably you have already passed through them?" I

asked, sliding into the seat.

He got in behind the wheel and started the engine.

"What exactly do you mean?"

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