The Final Circle of Paradise

I sat as though spat upon, forgetting completely what it was I wanted Buba for. I needed Buba, not Peck – that is, I needed Peck too. But not this one. This was not Peck, this was some strange and repulsive Buba, and I watched in horror as he sucked up the second glass of alcohol and again set to shoveling spoonfuls of sugar into himself. His face effloresced with red spots, and he kept gagging and listening to the bartender as he animatedly recounted the latest football exploits. I wanted to cry out, "Peck, what has happened to you? Peck, you used to hate all this!" I put my hand on his shoulder and said imploringly, "Peck, dear friend, hear me out, please."

He shied away.

"What's the matter, friend?" His eyes were now completely unseeing. "I am not Peck, I am Buba, do you understand? You are confusing me with someone else, there isn't any Peck here… So what did the Rhinos do then, Con?"

I reminded myself where I was, and forced myself to understand that there was no more Peck, and that there was a Buba, here, an agent of a criminal organization, and this was the only reality, while Peck Xenai was a mirage – a memory which must be quickly extirpated if I intended to press on with my work.

"Hold on, Buba," I said. "I want to talk business to you."

He was quite drunk by now.

"I don't talk business at the bar," he announced. "And anyway I am through with work. Done. I have no more business of any kind. You can apply to the city hall, friend. They'll help you out."

"I am applying to you, not the city hall," I said. "Will you listen to me!"

"You I hear all the time, as it is. To the detriment of my health."

"My business is quite simple," I said. "I need a slug."

He shuddered violently.

"Are you out of your mind, pal?"

"You should be ashamed," said the bartender. "Right out in front of people… you have lost all sense of decency."

"Shut up," I told him.

"You be quiet," the barman said menacingly. "It must be some time since you've been busted? Watch your step or you'll get exported."

"I don't give a damn about the exportation," I said insolently. "Don't stick your snoot in other people's business."

"Lousy sluggard," said the bartender.

He was visibly incensed, but spoke in a low voice. "A slug he wants. I'll call an officer right now and he'll give you a slug."

Buba slid off the stool and hurriedly hobbled toward the door.

I left off with the bartender and hurried after him. He shot out into the rain, and forgetting to cover himself with his cape, started to look around in search of a taxi. I caught up with him and grasped him by the sleeve.

"What in God's name do you want from me?" he said miserably. "I'll call the police."

"Peck," I said. "Come out of it, Peck. I am Ivan Zhilin, and you must remember me."

He kept looking around and wiping the streaming water from his face with the palm of his hand. He looked pitiful and run down, and I, trying to suppress my irritation, kept insisting to myself that this was my Peck, priceless Peck, irreplaceable Peck, good, intelligent, joyful Peck, kept trying to remember him as he was in front of the Gladiator's control console, and I couldn't because I couldn't imagine him anywhere except at the bar over a glass of alcohol.

"Taxi," he screeched, but the car flew by, full of people.

"Peck," I said, "come with me. I'll tell you all about it."

"Leave me alone," he said, his teeth chattering. "I won't go anywhere with you. Leave off! I didn't bother you, I didn't do anything to you, leave me be, for God's sake."

"All right," I said, "I'll let you alone. But you must give me a slug and also your address."

"I don't know of any slugs," he moaned. "God, what kind of a day is this!"

Favoring his left leg, he wandered off and suddenly dove into a basement under an elegant and restrained sign. I followed. We sat down at a table and a waiter immediately brought us hot meat and beer, although we hadn't ordered anything. Buba was shivering and his wet face turned blue. He pushed the plate away with revulsion and began to swallow the beer, both hands around the mug. The basement was quiet and empty. Over the sparkling counter hung a white sign with gold letters reading, "Paid Service Only."

Buba raised his head from the beer and said pleadingly, "Can I go, Ivan? I can't… What's the point of all this talk?

Let me go, please."

I put my hand on his.

"What's happening to you, Peck? I searched for you. There is no address listed anywhere. I met you quite by accident, and I don't understand anything. How did you get involved in this mess? Can I help you possibly, with anything? Maybe we could -"

Suddenly he jerked his hand away in a rage.

"What an executioner," he hissed. "The devil lured me to that Oasis… Stupid chatter, drivel. I have no slug, do you understand? I have one, but I won't give it to you. What'll I do then – like Archimedes? Don't you have any conscience? Then don't torture me, let me go."

"I can't let you go," I said, "until I get the slug. And your address. We must talk."