Roadside Picnic

Redrick laughed harshly and punched Noonan in the shoulder.

"Now we'll see who catches up and who gets ahead! Come on, let's go, what are we doing out here in the kitchen? Guta, bring on the dinner."

He reached into the refrigerator and came out with a bottle with a bright label.

"We'll have ourselves a feast!” he announced. “We have to treat our best friend Richard Noonan royally, for he does not desert his pals in their moment of need! Even though he is of no help whatever. Too bad Gutalin's not here."

"Why don't you call him?” Noonan suggested.

Redrick shook his bright red head.

"They haven't laid the phone lines to where he is tonight. Let's go."

He went into the living toom and slammed the bottle on the table.

"We're going to celebrate, pops!” he said to the motionless old man. “This here is Richard Noonan, our friend! Dick, this is my pop, Schuhart Senior."

Richard Noonan, his mind rolled up into an impenetrable ball, grinned from ear to ear, waved, and said in the direction of the moulage:

"Glad to meet you, Mr. Schuhart. How are you? You know, we've met before, Red,” he said to Schuhart, Jr., who was puttering at the bar. “We saw each other once, but very briefly, of course."

"Sit down,” Redrick said to him, indicating the chair opposite the old man. “If you're going to talk to him, speak up. He can't hear a thing."

He set up the glasses, quickly opened the bottle, and turned to Noonan.

"You pour. Just a little for pops, just cover the bottom."

Noonan took his time pouring. The old man sat in the same position, staring at the wall. And he did not react when Noonan moved his glass closer to him. Noonan had already adjusted to the new situation. It was a game, terrible and pathetic. Red was playing the game, and he joined in, as he had always joined other peoples' games all his life—terrifying ones, pathetic ones, shameful ones, and ones much more dangerous than this. Redrick raised his glass and said: “Well, I guess we're off?” Noonan looked over at the old man in a completely natural manner. Redrick impatiently clinked his glass against Noonan's and said: “We're off, we're off.” Then Noonan nodded, completely naturally, and they drank.

Redrick, eyes shining, began to talk in his excited and slightly artificial tone.

"That's it, brother! Jail will never see me again. If you only knew how good it is to be home; I have the dough and I've picked out a new little cottage for myself, with a garden—as good as Buzzard's place. You know, I had wanted to emigrate, I had decided when I was still in jail. I mean, what was I sitting in this lousy two-bit town for? I thought, let the whole place drop dead. So I get back, and there's a surprise for me—emigration has been forbidden! Have we suddenly become plague-ridden during the last two years?"

He talked and talked, and Noonan nodded, sipped his whiskey, and interjected sympathetic noises and rhetorical questions. Then he started asking about the cottage—what kind was it, where was it, what did it cost?—and then they argued. Noonan insisted that the cottage was expensive and inconveniently located. He took out his address book, flipped through it, and named the locations of abandoned cottages that were being sold for a song. And the repairs would be almost free, because he could apply for emigration, be turned down, and sue for compensation, which would pay for the repairs.

"I see that you're involved in nonemigration, too."

"I'm involved in everything a little,” Noonan replied with a wink.

"I know, I know, I've heard all about your affairs."

Noonan put on a wide-eyed look of surprise, raised his finger to his pursed lips, and nodded in the direction of the kitchen.

"All right, don't worry, everybody knows about it,” Redrick said. “Money never stinks. I know that for sure now. But getting Mosul to be your manager. I almost fell on the floor laughing when I heard! Letting a bull into the china shop. He's a psycho, you know. I've known him since we were kids."

He fell silent and looked at the old man. A shudder crossed his face, and Noonan was amazed to see the look of real, sincere love and tenderness on that tough freckled mug of his.