The Final Circle of Paradise

There was nothing to her, after all.

"Let's go somewhere," she said.

"We could," I said. I really didn't want to go anywhere, I wanted to sit and relax in the cool room for a while.

"I can see you're not too eager," she said.

"To be honest, I would prefer to sit around here for a bit."

"Well then, amuse me."

I considered the problem, and recounted the story of the traveling salesman in the upper bunk. She liked it, but I think she missed the point. I made a correction in my aim, and told her the one about the president and the old maid. She laughed a long time, kicking her wonderfully long legs. Then, taking courage from another shot of brandy, I told about the widow with the mushrooms growing on the wall. She slid down to the floor and almost knocked over the tray. I picked her up under the armpits, hoisted her back up in the chair, and delivered the story of the drunk spaceman and the college girl, at which point Aunt Vaina came rushing in and inquired fearfully what was going on with Vousi, and whether I was tickling her unmercifully. I poured Aunt Vaina a glass, and addressing myself to her personally, recounted the one about the Irishman who wanted to be a gardener. Vousi was completely shattered, but Aunt Vaina smiled sorrowfully and confided that Major General Tuur liked to tell the same story, when he was in a good mood. But in it there was, she thought, a Negro instead of the Irishman, and he aspired to the duties of a piano tuner and not a gardener. "And you know, Ivan, the story ended somehow differently," she added after some thought. At this point I noticed Len standing in the doorway, looking at us. I waved and smiled at him. He seemed not to notice, so I winked at him and beckoned for him to come in.

"Whom are you winking at?" asked Vousi, through lingering laughter.

"It's Len," I said. It was really a pleasure to watch her, as I love to see people laugh, especially such a one as Vousi, beautiful and almost a child.

"Where's Len?" she wondered.

There was no Len in the doorway.

"Len isn't here," said Aunt Vaina, who was sniffing the brandy with approval, and did not notice a thing. "The boy went to the Ziroks' birthday party today. If you only knew, Ivan…"

"But why does he say it was Len?" asked Vousi, glancing at the door again.

"Len was here," I said. "I waved at him, and be ran away.

You know, he looked a bit wild to me."

"Ach, we have a highly nervous boy there," said Aunt Vaina. "He was born in a very difficult time, and they just don't know how to deal with a nervous child in these modern schools. Today I let him go visit."

"We'll go, too, now," said Vousi. "You'll walk with me.

I'll just fix myself up, because on account of you everything got smeared. In the meantime, you can put on something more decent."

Aunt Vaina wouldn't have minded staying behind to tell me a few more things and maybe show me a photo album of Len, but Vousi dragged her off and I heard her ask her mother behind the door, "What's his name? I just can't remember it. He is a jolly fellow, isn't he?"

"Vousi!" admonished Aunt Vaina.

I laid out my entire wardrobe on the bed and tried to imagine what Vousi would consider a decently dressed man. Until now, I had thought I was dressed quite satisfactorily. Vousi's heels were already beating an impatient rat-a-tat on the study floor. Not having come up with anything, I called her in.

"That's all you have?" she asked, wrinkling her nose.

"It really isn't good enough?"

"Well, it will pass. Take off the jacket and put on this Hawaiian shirt… or better yet, this one here. They sure have dressing problems in your Tungusia! Hurry up. No, no, take off the shirt you have on."

"You mean, without an undershirt?"

"You know, you really are a Tungus. Where do you think you are going – to the pole or to Mars? What's this under your shoulder blade?"

"A bee stung me," I said, hurriedly pulling on my shirt.

"Let's go!"

The street was already dark. The fluorescents shone palely through dark foliage.

"Which way are we bound?" I asked.

"Downtown, of course… Don't grab my arm, it's hot! At least you know how to fight, I hope?"

"I know how."

"That's good. I like to watch."

"To watch, I like, too," I said.

There were a lot more people out in the streets than in the daytime. Under the trees, in the bushes, and in the driveways there were groups of unsettled-looking individuals.

They furiously smoked crackling synthetic cigars, guffawed, spat negligently and often, and spoke in loud rough voices.

Over each group hung the racket of radio receivers. Under one streetlight a banjo twanged, and two youngsters, twisting in weird contortions and yelling out wildly, were performing fling, a currently fashionable dance, a dance of great beauty when properly executed. The youngsters knew how. Around them stood a small crowd, also yelling lustily and clapping their hands in rhythm.

"Shall we have a dance?" I offered.

"But no, no…" hissed Vousi, taking me by the hand and increasing her pace.

"And why not? You do fling?"