He jumps up, says he’s sorry, and I see that Dick is back. He’s standing next to his chair, and from his face I can tell that something happened.
“Well,” I ask, “are your containers leaking again?”
“Yeah,” he says, “them again.”
He sits down, pours himself a drink, and tops mine off, and I see that this isn’t about the claims department. To be honest, he doesn’t give a damn about them—a real hard worker.
“Let’s have a drink, Red,” he says. And without waiting for me, he gulps down his drink and pours another one. “You know,” he says, “Kirill Panov died.”
I don’t even understand through the stupor. So someone’s dead, that’s too bad. “All right,” I say, “let’s drink to the departed…”
He stares at me wide eyed, and only then do I feel my insides turn to mush. I get up, lean on my hands, and look down at him.
“Kirill!” And the silver cobweb is in front of me, and again I hear it crackle as it tears. And through this terrible sound, I hear Dick’s voice as if coming from another room.
“A heart attack, they found him in the shower, naked. No one understands a thing. They asked about you, and I said you were perfectly fine.”
“What’s there to understand?” I say. “It’s the Zone…”
“Sit down,” says Dick. “Sit down and have a drink.”
“The Zone…” I repeat, and I can’t stop. “The Zone… The Zone…”
I see nothing but the silver cobweb. The whole bar is tangled in the cobweb, people are moving around, and the web crackles softly as they touch it. And at the center of it is the Maltese boy, his face childlike and surprised—he doesn’t understand a thing.
“Kid,” I tell him tenderly, “how much money do you need? Is a thousand enough? Take it, take it!” I shove the money at him and shout, “Go to Ernest and tell him that he’s an asshole and a bastard, don’t be afraid, tell him! He’s nothing but a coward… Tell him and then go straight to the station, buy yourself a ticket back to Malta. Don’t stop anywhere!”
I don’t know what else I’m shouting. The next thing I know I’m in front of the bar. Ernest puts a drink in front of me and asks, “You got money today?”
“Yeah, I got money,” I say.
“Can you pay your tab? I have to pay taxes tomorrow.”
And now I see that I’m holding a wad of cash. I’m looking at this dough and mumbling, “Oh, I guess he didn’t take it, Creon from Malta… Too proud, probably. Well, the rest is fate.”
“What’s wrong with you?” asks my buddy Ernie. “Drank a bit much?”
“No,” I say. “I’m totally fine. Up for anything.”
“You should go home,” says Ernie. “You drank too much.”
“Kirill died,” I tell him.
“Which Kirill? The mangy one?”
“You’re mangy yourself, bastard,” I tell him. “You couldn’t make one Kirill out of a thousand of you. You’re an asshole,” I say. “A stinking hustler. You’re dealing in death, you jerk. You bought us all with your money. You want me to take this place apart for you?”
And just as I take a swing, someone suddenly grabs me and drags me away. And I’m no longer thinking and don’t even want to try. I’m screaming, punching, kicking someone, then finally I come to. I’m sitting in the bathroom, completely wet, and my face is bloody. I look in the mirror and don’t recognize myself, and there’s a tic in my cheek—that’s never happened before. And there are noises coming from the barroom, crashes and the sound of dishes breaking, girls are squealing, and I hear Gutalin roaring, like a polar bear in heat, “Get away, bastards! Where’s Red? What did you do with Red, Satan’s spawn?” Then the wail of a police siren.
And as soon as I hear it, everything becomes clear. I remember, know, and understand everything. And there’s nothing left in my soul except icy fury. All right, I think, now I’ll get even with you. You stinking hustler, I’ll show you what a stalker can do. I take a shrieker out of my pocket, a nice new unused one, squeeze it a few times to get it going, open the door to the barroom, and quietly throw it in. Then I open the window and climb out to the street. Of course, I really want to stay and watch the show, but I have to take off. I can’t stand shriekers; they give me nosebleeds.
As I run away, I hear my shrieker going at full blast. First, every dog in the neighborhood starts barking and howling—they always sense it first. Then an awful scream comes from the bar, loud enough to make my ears ring even at that distance. I can just imagine the people running to and fro—some becoming melancholy, some violent, some scared out of their wits… A shrieker is a terrible thing. It’ll be a while before Ernest gets a full bar again. Of course, the bastard will figure out who did it to him, but I don’t give a shit. I’m done. No more stalker Red—I’ve had enough. I’m finished going to my death and teaching other idiots to do the same. You were wrong, Kirill, my friend. I’m sorry, but it turns out that Gutalin was right, not you. We don’t belong here. There’s no good in the Zone.
I climb over the fence and slowly shuffle home. I’m biting my lip—I want to cry, but I can’t. And there’s nothing but emptiness ahead. Only boredom, melancholy, routine. Kirill, my only friend, how did we get here? What will I do without you? You painted the future for me, showed me a new world, a changed world. And now what? Someone in far-off Russia will cry for you, but I can’t cry. And this is all my fault, no one else’s! How could I, the damn fool, dare take him into the garage before his eyes got used to the dark? I’ve always been a lone wolf, never thought of anyone but myself. For once in my life I decided to help someone, to give someone a gift… Why the hell did I even tell him about this empty? And when I realize this, something grabs me by the throat, enough to make me actually want to howl like a wolf. I probably really start howling—people begin to shy away from me, and then I suddenly feel a little better: I see Guta coming.
She’s coming toward me, my beauty, my girl, showing her lovely legs, her skirt swaying above her knees as she walks; all the men ogle her as she passes by, while she keeps walking straight, without looking around, and for some reason I immediately figure out she’s looking for me.
“Hey, Guta,” I say. “Where are you heading?”
She looks me over and quickly takes everything in—my bloody face and my wet jacket and my bruised knuckles. She doesn’t mention any of this but says instead, “Hey, Red. Actually, I was looking for you.”
“I know,” I say. “Let’s go to my place.”
She stays silent, turns away, and looks to the side. Ah, what a head she has, what a neck—like a spirited young filly, proud but already loyal to her master. Then she says, “I don’t know, Red. Maybe you won’t want to see me anymore.”
My heart skips a beat—what does this mean? But I say calmly, “I don’t understand you, Guta. I’m sorry, I’ve had a bit much today, maybe I’m not thinking straight. Why wouldn’t I want to see you anymore?”
I take her arm, and we slowly walk to my house, and all the guys who were ogling her quickly hide their faces. I’ve lived on this street my entire life, and they all know Red Schuhart real well. And the ones who don’t know him would soon get a lesson, and they can feel it.
“My mom told me to get an abortion,” Guta says suddenly. “But I don’t want to.”
I have to walk another couple of steps before I get it.
Meanwhile, Guta keeps going. “I don’t want any abortions, I want to have your child. And you can do as you like. Take off if you want, I won’t keep you.”
I’m listening to her as she’s slowly getting mad, working herself up, listening then gradually tuning out. I can’t think straight at all. Only one stupid thought is spinning in my head: one person less in the world—one person more.