‘Why did he jump into the river?’ asked Richard, showing his passport.
‘Suicide,’ said the policeman. ‘This is known as the Bridge of Suicides. I have orders to shoot anyone on sight trying to commit suicide. It’s a difficult job. The government doesn’t like people to kill themselves, because it gives it a bad name. There’s only one thing better than a dead Nihilist, and that is a live Nihilist. Also, there’s a saying in Nihilon: “Stop a suicide, commit a murder”. That always means better business for the police, anyway. Only last week a man was saved in the nick of time by a friend from killing himself, and next day he killed his wife. So we’re trying to stamp suicide out. I shot three of them last week as they were climbing on to the parapet. It certainly slowed them down a bit. This one just now was the first this week.’
‘What’s the point of killing them?’
‘Only way to stop them. “Died resisting arrest” looks much better than “Committed suicide”. We’ve got our statistics to think of.’ He walked away, whistling some popular Nihilonian folk-song.
Beyond the bridge was a squalid café whose exterior looked much like that of an old warehouse. A few wickerwork chairs and tables were set on the dry mud pavement outside. There was little traffic however, and, for the moment, no shooting. Richard hoped that here at least he wouldn’t be recognized for the general he was, ordering a cold orange drink which, when it came, he sat back to enjoy. After writing some high-flown notes on the Bridge of Suicides, he lazily opened his magazine and read an article describing how the Future was supposed to Work for the inhabitants of Nihilon from a domestic point of view. ‘Homemaking’ was its title:
‘After a meal, all dishes and cutlery will be thrown away, and within a few minutes new ones, of the finest porcelain and stainless steel, will come up the chute to your flat and be mechanically placed on your sideboard. There is an end to the drudgery of washing-up for Nihilists, both men and women. On taking off your clothes at night, they are to be thrown with nonchalant nihilism out of the window. These will be collected by the garbage man and, in the morning, complete new sets of identical garments will be found by the door, together with milk and newspapers. In fact,’ the article concluded, ‘the future has already arrived in Nihilon, because this is exactly what takes place in one of our recently constructed towns called Paradise City, whose inhabitants will be able to avail themselves of these delectable services.’
A young blond man with a beard sat nearby, and he must have seen the article that Richard was reading, for he called out: ‘They never tell the real truth about Paradise City. I escaped from it a month ago, climbed over a wall and ran a machine-gun gauntlet to get free. The dishes aren’t porcelain at all. They are crude earthenware. In the morning they come back broken and dirty. Everyone suspects they are the same ones they threw out, but badly patched up and stuck together. So the wily housewives clean their own dishes, and put them away carefully so that they don’t break. Some housewives didn’t even put them in the chute at the beginning, preferring to save the time and the risk, but they were arrested for a breach of the peace and as enemies of national endeavour.
‘As for the clothes that we were told to throw out of the window, they were returned even more torn and dirty after being kicked up the stairs again by the street cleaners. In fact this experiment isn’t working very well, and people in Paradise City are always trying to exchange their flats for more humble dwellings in other towns, even in the slums where life might be harder. Somehow they would feel safer there!’
‘What are you doing now that you no longer live in Paradise City?’
‘I’m a disgruntled young intellectual, so the government gave me a particularly difficult and thankless task. I’ve been assigned to find and kill the leading generals of the insurrectionary forces. I spent last week combing the surrounding area of the city, posing as a revolutionary, but it’s impossible to find out who their leader is. I suspect it’s because they change him so often. You’re a foreigner, so you can have no idea how difficult it is for us Nihilists. I don’t suppose you’re even interested. But my whole future is at stake, because I’ve been promised a full pension for the rest of my life if I find one, and I’m only twenty-four so you can see how much it means to me. I shall just have to go on looking, because if I find him, and kill him, the whole insurrectionary movement will collapse.’
His breath stank of drink, hunger, exhaustion, and avarice. Richard had an impulse to promote him on the spot to General of the Insurrection by handing over the briefcase, simply to see the effect it would have, but he didn’t do so because the position that had been so haphazardly given to him had already grown attractive by the very weight of its power. So he preferred to keep his rank for the moment, in spite of possible danger from this assassin.
‘Goodbye,’ said the young man, offering his hand to be shaken. ‘I must hunt my enemy.’
‘Good luck,’ said Richard, taking it, but glad to see him walk quickly towards the Bridge of Suicides, talking to himself.
Chapter 27
The progress wound its way from town to town, and on the wooden throne at its head sat Mella who, after the incredible hardships of her young life, was now wheeled high on a seat of honour by the soldiers of the new revolution. At first she had insisted that Edgar sit on her knee as she went along, though after argument and tears she had finally agreed that he should take his place by her side on a separate and more ordinary chair, but certainly close enough for her to reach out and take his hand whenever the motherly impulse came upon her.
Far from feeling annoyed at her milder attentions, Edgar now began to enjoy them, for having separated from his wife some years ago it was comforting once more to be the only person a woman doted on. And it was obvious to anyone that Mella cared for him alone, except during those moments when she was sadly reflecting on the fate of her father.
During their triumphant way towards Orcam, when Edgar was out of his chair and walking by Mella’s mobile platform, he saw in the distance a figure pushing a wheelbarrow. Whoever it was moved slowly, for the wheelbarrow was laden with suitcases, but he eventually drew level, a man with the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up, a jacket draped over his suitcases, and a white handkerchief on his bald head as protection from the sun.
At the sight of armed men, and the medieval contraption on which Mella was seated, he moved well into the side to let them pass. Edgar noticed, by the large labels on his luggage, that they were compatriots. In other circumstances he would have taken this as a warning to keep clear, but now that Nihilon was boiling with insurrection and trouble he called out a friendly greeting. ‘Where are you from?’ he asked, when the man came over to him.
‘I set out from Nihilon City yesterday, on a motor bike,’ he was told. ‘But then it broke down, so I managed to buy this wheelbarrow.’ The convoy stopped to rest and eat, and while food was prepared, Edgar told the man how he had recently landed at Shelp and was on his way to Nihilon City to write a guidebook.
‘I wouldn’t go if I were you,’ the man said. ‘There’s trouble there by anybody’s standards. I was on holiday, but I’ve given it up. When I got back to the apartment I’d rented, after a stroll, I found that an artillery shell had blown half of it to pieces. So I came away, because if I’d stayed till the end of the month there’d be trouble over the inventory. They’d want to know where the wall went. You know what these Nihilists are — they’re just a pack of vicious misers.’