The Final Circle of Paradise

Sure enough, the sight was frightening. My customs friend was lying on the porch with his head stuck at an unnatural angle through the railing. The mercury vapor light from the street fell on his face, which looked blue and swollen, and covered with dark welts. Through half-open lids, the eyes could be seen, crossed toward the bridge of the nose.

'They walk among the living, like living people in the daytime," murmured Len, holding on to me with both hands. "They bow and smile, but at night their faces are white, and blood seeps through their skin." I approached the veranda. The customs man was dressed in pajamas. He breathed noisily and exuded a smell of cognac. There was blood on his face, as though he'd fallen on his face into some broken glass.

"He's just drunk," I said loudly. "Simply drunk and snoring. Very disgusting."

Len shook his head.

"You are a newcomer," he whispered. "You see nothing. But I saw." He shook again. "Many of them came. She brought them…

and they carried her in… there was a moon… they sawed off the top of her head… and she screamed and screamed… and then they started to eat with spoons. She ate, too, and they all laughed when she screamed and flopped around…"

"Who? Who was it?"

"And then they piled on wood and burned it and danced around the fire… and then they buried everything in the garden… she went out to get the shovel in the car… I saw it all… do you want to see where they buried her?"

"You know what, friend?" I said. "Let's go to my place."

"What for?"

"To get some sleep, that's what for. Everyone is sleeping – only you and I are palavering here."

"Nobody is sleeping. You really are new. Right now no one is sleeping. You must not sleep now."

"Let's go, let's go," said I, "over to my place."

"I won't go," he said. "Don't touch me. I didn't say your name."

"I am going to take a belt," I said menacingly, "and I will strap your behind."

Apparently this calmed him. He clutched my hand again and became silent.

"Let's go, old pal, let's go," I said. "You're going to sleep and I will sit alongside you. And if anything at all happens, I will awaken you at once."

We climbed into my room through the window (he absolutely refused to enter the house by the front door), and I put him to bed. I intended to tell him a tale, but he fell asleep immediately. His face looked tortured, and every few minutes he quivered in his sleep. I pushed the chair by the window, wrapped myself in a bathrobe, and smoked a cigarette to calm my nerves. I attempted to think about Rimeyer and about the Fishers, with whom I had not met up after all; about what must happen on the twenty-eighth; and about the Art Patrons, but nothing came of it and this irritated me. It was annoying that I was unable to think about my business as something of importance. The thoughts scattered and jumbled emotions intruded, and I did not think so much as I felt. I felt that I hadn't come for nothing, but at the same time, I sensed that I had come for altogether the wrong reason.

But Len slept. He did not even awake when an engine snorted at the gate, car doors were slammed, there were shouts, chokes, and howls in different voices, so that I almost decided that a crime was being committed in front of the house, when it became clear that it was just Vousi coming back. Happily humming, she began to undress while still in the garden, negligently draping her blouse, skirt, and other garments over the apple branches. She didn't notice me, came into the house, shuffled around upstairs for a while, dropped something heavy, and finally settled down. It was close to five o'clock. The glow of dawn was kindling over the sea.

Chapter EIGHT

When I woke up, Len was already gone. My shoulder ached so badly that the pain pounded in my head, and I promised myself to take it easy the whole day. Grunting and feeling sick and forlorn, I executed a feeble attempt at set-ting-up exercises, approximated a wash-up, took the envelope with the money, and set out far Aunt Vaina, moving edge-wise through the doorway.

In the hall, I stopped in indecision: it was quiet in the house, and I wasn't sure that my landlady was up. But at this point the door to her side of the house opened, and Pete, the customs man, came out into the hall. Well, well, thought I. At night he had looked like a drowned drunk. Now in the light of day, he resembled a victim of a hooligan attack. The lower part of his face was dark with blood. Fresh blood glistened on his chin, and he held a handkerchief under his jaw to keep his snow-white braided uniform clean. His face was strained and his eyes tended to cross, but in general, he held himself remarkably calm, as though falling face-down into broken glass was a most ordinary event for him. A slight misadventure, you know, can happen to anybody; please don't pay it any attention; everything will be all right.

"Good morning," I mumbled.

"Good morning," he responded, politely dabbing his chin cautiously and sounding a bit nasal.