“Gutalin dropped by,” said Guta after a slight pause. She was standing next to the stove and looking at him. “He was totally drunk, I threw him out.”
“How did the Monkey take it?”
“Didn’t want him to go, of course. Almost started bawling. But I told her that Uncle Gutalin wasn’t feeling well. And she replied understandingly, ‘Uncle Gutalin is sloshed again.’”
Redrick chuckled and took another sip. Then he asked, “How about the neighbors?”
And again Guta hesitated a bit before answering. “Same as usual,” she said eventually.
“Fine, don’t tell me.”
“Oh!” she said, waving her hand in disgust. “That hag from downstairs knocked during the night. Eyes bulging, foaming at the mouth. Why the hell are we sawing in the bathroom at night?”
“Bitch,” said Redrick through his teeth. “Listen, maybe we really should move? Buy a house in the outskirts, where no one lives, get some abandoned cottage…”
“What about the Monkey?”
“My God,” said Redrick. “Don’t you think the two of us could figure out how to make her happy?”
Guta shook her head. “She loves children. And they love her. It’s not their fault, that—”
“Yes,” said Redrick. “It’s definitely not their fault.”
“No use talking about it,” said Guta. “Oh, someone called for you. Didn’t leave a name. I said you were out fishing.”
Redrick put the cup down and stood up. “All right,” he said. “I really should go shower. I still have a lot to do.”
He locked the bathroom, threw his clothes into a tub, and put the brass knuckles, remaining screws, and other odds and ends on a shelf. He spent a long time under the hot, almost-boiling water, groaning and scrubbing his body with a coarse sponge until his skin turned red; then he turned off the shower, sat on the side of the tub, and lit a cigarette. Water was gurgling through the pipes, Guta was clinking dishes in the kitchen; he smelled fried fish, then Guta knocked on the door and handed him clean underwear. “Hurry up,” she commanded. “The fish is getting cold.”
She had completely recovered and was issuing orders again. Chuckling, Redrick got dressed; that is, he pulled on boxers and a T-shirt and, wearing this outfit, came back to the kitchen. “Now I can have some food,” he said, sitting down.
“Did you put the clothes in the tub?” asked Guta.
“Uh-huh,” he said with his mouth full. “Great fish!”
“Did you pour water over them?”
“No… My fault, sir, won’t happen again, sir. Come on, do that later, have a seat!”
He caught her hand and tried to put her on his knees, but she slipped away and sat across from him.
“Neglecting your husband, huh?” said Redrick, filling his mouth again. “Giving him the cold shoulder.”
“Some husband you are right now,” said Guta. “An empty sack instead of a husband. First, you have to be stuffed.”
“Hey, anything’s possible!” said Redrick. “Don’t you believe in miracles?”
“That would be quite the miracle. Want a drink?”
Redrick played indecisively with his fork. “N-no, probably not,” he said. He looked at his watch and got up. “I should go now. Could you prepare a suit for me? Make it first rate, with a dress shirt and tie.”
Enjoying the sensation of the cool floor on his bare feet, he walked to the den and barred the door. He put on a rubber apron, pulled on elbow-high rubber gloves, and started unloading the items in the bag onto the table. Two empties. A box of pins. Nine batteries. Three bracelets. And another hoop—resembling a bracelet but made from a white metal, lighter and about an inch larger in diameter. Sixteen black sparks in a plastic bag. Two perfectly preserved sponges close to a fist in size. Three shriekers. A jar of carbonated clay. There was still a heavy porcelain container, packed carefully in fiberglass, remaining in the bag, but Redrick left it alone. He took out his cigarettes and lit up, looking over the swag laid out on the table.
Then he pulled out a drawer and took out a piece of paper, a pencil stub, and his balance sheet. Holding the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and squinting from the smoke, he wrote down number after number, lining them up in three columns, and adding the first two. The sums turned out to be impressive. He crushed the cigarette in the ashtray, carefully opened the box, and poured the pins out onto the paper. In the electric light the pins looked shot with blue and would on rare occasion burst into pure spectral colors—red, yellow, green. He picked up one pin and, being careful not to prick himself, squeezed it between his finger and thumb. He turned off the light and waited a little, getting used to the dark. But the pin was silent. He put it aside, groped for another one, and also squeezed it between his fingers. Nothing. He squeezed harder, risking a prick, and the pin starting talking: weak reddish sparks ran along it and changed all at once to rarer green ones. For a couple of seconds Redrick admired this strange light show, which, as he learned from the Reports, had to mean something, possibly something very significant, then he put the pin down separately from the first one and picked up a new one.
Overall, there were seventy-three pins, out of which twelve talked and the rest were silent. Actually, these would also talk, but fingers weren’t enough; you needed a special machine the size of a table. Redrick turned on the light and added two numbers to those already on the page. And only after this did he make up his mind.
He shoved both hands into the bag and, holding his breath, took out the package and put it on the table. He stared at it for some time, pensively scratching his chin with the back of his hand. Then he finally picked up a pencil, spun it in his clumsy rubber fingers, and threw it down again. He took out another cigarette and, without lifting his eyes from the package, smoked it whole.
“To hell with this!” he said loudly, resolutely picked up the package, and stuffed it back into the bag. “That’s it. That’s enough.”
He quickly poured the pins back into the box and rose from the table. It was time to go. He could probably nap for half an hour to clear his head, but on the other hand, it might be smarter to arrive early and get a sense of things. He took off his gloves, hung up the apron, and, without turning off the light, left the den.
The suit was already laid out on the bed, and Redrick began to dress. He was tying his tie in front of a mirror, when the floorboards squeaked softly behind him, he heard agitated breathing, and he had to make a serious face to avoid laughing.
“Boo!” a high voice suddenly yelled beside him, and he felt someone grab his leg.
“Aah!” exclaimed Redrick, collapsing on the bed.
The Monkey, squealing and shouting with laughter, immediately climbed on top of him. She stepped on him, pulled his hair, and showered him with important information. The neighbor kid Willy tore dolly’s leg off. There was a new kitten on the third floor, all white and with red eyes—he probably didn’t listen to his mommy and went in the Zone. There was oatmeal and jam for supper. Uncle Gutalin was sloshed again and felt sick, he even cried. Why don’t fish drown, if they’re in water? Why wasn’t Mommy sleeping at night? Why do we have five fingers, but only two arms, and one nose? Redrick carefully hugged the warm creature crawling all over him, looked into the huge, entirely black eyes with no whites, pressed his face to the chubby little cheek covered in silky golden fur, and repeated, “My Monkey… Oh, you Monkey… What a little Monkey…”
The phone rang sharply in his ear. He stretched out a hand and picked up the receiver. “Yes?”
There was no response.
“Hello?” said Redrick. “Hello?”
No one answered. Then there was a click, and he heard a series of short beeps. After this, Redrick stood up, put the Monkey down on the floor, and, no longer listening to her, put on his jacket and pants. The Monkey chattered without pause, but he only smiled absentmindedly, and so it was eventually announced that Daddy must have bitten then swallowed his tongue, and he was left alone.