‘A war poem,’ shouted the roving young peasant who had woken up and made his way back inside. ‘The oldsters can sing it as they swing out with the left, and latch in with the right!’
Adam confessed that he was now hungry. ‘When you’ve told us another poem,’ said the proprietor, ‘we’ll cook you a couple of rabbits — if we like the show.’
His eyes were sore from glare and smoke, and the exhaustion of a long day. ‘Where’s the nearest hotel?’
‘At Fludd,’ he was told, ‘ten kilometres away.’
‘I must go then,’ he said, trying to push through. The proprietor grabbed him: ‘You promised us another poem.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘If we say you did, then you did, and that’s enough for us.’
‘My performances cost a thousand klipps,’ he told the proprietor, and the policeman who also barred his way, ‘and that’s the fee you’ll have to pay now.’
Knowing that Adam could barely stand, the proprietor pushed him roughly in the chest: ‘It’s outrageous! Calamitous! Horrific! Petty! Mean! Ridiculous! He actually wants money for reciting his mediocre and subversive poems.’
‘Throw him out,’ someone shouted.
‘You’d better go,’ the policeman said, raising his fist, ‘or I shan’t be responsible for your safety.’
‘That’s exactly what I want to do,’ said Adam, and such was the disgust which everyone felt, that they actually made way for him, though one or two punches were aimed at this back before he reached the door.
The cold night air revived him, but only as a reminder of how tired he was. They were still arguing inside, though it seemed more of a quarrel among themselves now. A bottle smashed — empty, he imagined — and then came a breaking of furniture, and high-pitched protestations from the patron. He wiped the dew dry from the handlebars of his bicycle, then set out for Fludd.
Every few metres his dynamo headlight lit up a cluster of pot-holes in the paving, some so deep and steep-sided that he had to clamber over them. It must have been raining in the northern mountains, for streams occasionally flowed over the road, splashing his trousers up to the knees. At one place he fell in to his waist, being forced to let go of his bicycle, which crashed down a slope. Because the lightbeam was dependent on the spinning of the wheels, he was unable to see much during the times when he was obliged to push, and now that his bicycle had slid away it seemed to have gone forever.
A traveller must have faith in himself, he thought. He had such faith, otherwise he wouldn’t have thrown away the buoying comfort of his home. He would deny having left it for the fame or financial rewards which contributing to the guidebook might bring, though when his journey was over he would indeed be able to advise those who had not yet set out on it. His first thoughts had been to test himself on a pilgrimage into the unknown, to find what lay at the centre of what was already known.
He was seeking something, otherwise he would not have come, though he did not know what he might find beyond the perils and uncertainties of the journey itself. Perhaps in this desert of nihilism he was searching for himself in order that others could find themselves should they ever decide to cross it and follow in his wake. He smiled at the conceit of what was probably true, but which could never be put into a guidebook, a thought not less fascinating for occupying his mind as he sat by the roadside, feeling that unique mixture of despair and elation which sooner or later comes during any man’s travelling, the first powerful indication that he belongs nowhere but where he stands.
Looking up, he saw stars shining in patterns of crosses, crescents, animals and gods, route-markers and lifesavers. Each one pierced his heart with light, and if they weren’t exactly friendly they at least appeared to sympathize with his plight. He stood up, shivering. A tangled shadow down the slope led him to his bicycle, and he struggled back with it on to the broken ridge of the road.
He wanted to sit and brood all night, bend his head down to his knees till he could see again the landscape that he had passed during the day, but the flashing of two brilliant headlights in the distance put sudden purpose into him, and he mounted his bicycle, hoping to see signs of Fludd from the next high point of the road.
It twisted and curved, but the surface improved, though presently it became so steep that in places he had to get off and push. The lights belonged to a huge lorry, and as he got close he saw that it was parked in a layby set dangerously on the U of a hairpin bend, so that when coming out it would have no visibility along the road either before or behind.
The town of Fludd lay at the bottom of a steep-sided valley, and its multi-coloured lights comforted him. The streets were wide and well paved, lined with small trees and attractive blocks of flats. He followed signs saying ‘Hotel Fludd’, cycling along a level avenue in which people were walking, or sitting at café tables on the pavements. There was an air of gaiety, of men and women enjoying themselves after a day’s hard work.
The hotel was modern, yet unpretentious and homely, a promise of comfort pulling him in at the end of what seemed a very long day. When he pushed his bicycle into the hall and leaned it against the reception desk, a young girl came from the switchboard and smiled: ‘We have a luxury room with bath, at two klipps a night. I’m sure you’ll be satisfied with it. If I were you though, I’d go straight into the dining room for a meal, because it will be closing in an hour. The price of your dinner will be one klipp, including Nihilitz, which goes on your bill.’
This was almost free, and so made him wary at taking advantage of it: ‘Why is it so cheap?’
‘That’s the official price,’ she said agreeably, ‘so please don’t argue. Nobody else does.’
‘I can’t understand it.’
‘Why try?’ she said, holding his hand which he had laid on the counter. ‘The beautiful town of Fludd extends a courteous welcome to all foreign travellers. You’d better go into the dining room now.’
‘I’d rather wash and change first,’ he said, being wet through with sweat and water, grimy, dishevelled, and mentally confused among the lights. She reassured him by saying that there was no formality or false pride in Fludd. The people were tolerant and understanding both of themselves and strangers. Fluddites lived in a light-hearted way, from one minute to the next. ‘In any case,’ she concluded, ‘you look quite presentable for our tastes.’
Several middle-aged couples talked at their tables in subdued tones, a composite mumble that did indeed give off an air of kindliness and mutual interest. An elderly waiter, immaculately dressed and with a white napkin over his arm, guided him in fatherly fashion to a separate table. A second waiter placed a glass, and a large bottle of Nihilitz before him, with the homily that, ‘A good drink will relax you, sir, and set your appetite on edge. It goes with the meal, anyway.’
‘Thank you,’ said Adam, picking up the menu. ‘Will you take my order now?’
‘I am only here to serve you, sir,’ said the waiter, notepad ready.
‘I’ll have fish to begin with, and I shall want it served directly. Is it sea fish, or lake fish?’
‘I can recommend the fish from the reservoir, sir,’ he said, opening the Nihilitz and pouring a glass for him. ‘What about the second course?’
‘I’ll try mutton cutlets, spinach and potatoes.’
‘Very good, sir.’ Adam drank half a glass of Nihilitz, and in a few minutes the fish came, decorated with parsley and sunk in butter sauce, accompanied by a straw platter of fresh-baked bread, so that after eating it he felt that his harrowing adventures of the day were only part of a very old dream. Halfway through a cigarette, the meat course arrived, and he bit hungrily, deciding to give a special mention to this agreeable establishment when the guidebook came to be written. Yet he was not totally at ease. Since entering Nihilon, he had learned to be suspicious about what happened to him, so that even now, in the midst of this considerate and superb treatment, he felt that much had still to be explained. Not that his appetite diminshed in any way, for after the meal he was still hungry, and ordered a further dish of braised pigeon and rice. This was followed by a dessert of monumental splendour, of incredible flavour and sweetness, which made the coffee taste like the best in the world. ‘I ought to let you go home now,’ he said, while choosing a large cigar.