Bugs (11 page)

Her lovely eyes widened. ‘Vhy do you ask? Oh, I suppose it is my accent! Vell, darlink, I am from Scotland.’

‘Scotland? Really? Your accent sounds Eastern European. Russia, maybe.’

She looked shocked. ‘Vat a thought! I am vee lass from Scotland. Do you know Scotland?’

‘Not very well.’

She relaxed slightly. ‘I am from dere.’

‘I’m from Britain myself. England.’

She looked sceptical. ‘Maybe. You tell fib, I think. To impress me.’

‘No, really, I –’

She laughed. ‘Is no matter. I like you, Fred. I like your country. In America, anything can happen, yes? And alvays do. Here am I, a young typewritist from Scotland, alone in the big American city, having coffee with a nice American Fred.’

She laughed again, and Fred joined in, not sure why. If she was Scottish, Gorbachev was a wee lad from the Gorbals. But why push it? She was beautiful – wasn’t that enough? Bearded men in expensive running-suits sat at other pine tables and stared hungrily at her, forgetting everything. They forgot to talk about their recent stockmarket killings, they forgot that they owned gleaming new Volvos parked outside with bicycle-racks on top, they forgot how many gears there were on their bicycles, they forgot the bottles of Perrier losing their fizz before them, they forgot the women they were sitting with, even forgot to rub the knots from their legs.

‘Vat kind of work do you do, Fred?’

‘I’m a software engineer,’ he found himself bragging. ‘For Cyberk Corporation. Have you heard of them?’

‘Not really.’ Her eyes looked elsewhere.

‘Heh, heh. Well, no matter. What brings you to Minneapolis?’

She sipped her coffee and made a face. ‘Is no chinnamon.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Is suppos-ed to be chinnamon in this Byzantine blend coffee. Vere is our vaitress? Can you call her?’

He craned around, looking for the waitress. She was very busy; the place had filled up with people in running gear. When he finally managed to flag down the waitress, she assured him that the Byzantine blend did not normally come with cinnamon.

‘My mistake, I am sorry,’ KK said cheerfully. ‘Vell, drink up, darlink.’

His coffee tasted even stronger of bitter chicory. He complained about it as they left the place.

‘The worst of it is, it doesn’t set me up at all. I’m every bit as exhausted as I was before – more so. In fact I don’t feel very well.’

‘Come vith me, darlink. I leave very nearby. You maybe need rest.’

Fred opened his mouth to yawn. Before he could finish the yawn, the world sagged into blackness.

He awoke in a cool dim bedroom, minus his shoes and trousers. There was the whisper of air-conditioning and, when he stood up, the feel of deep-pile carpet underfoot. Outside the window was a balcony, flying far above Lake Calhoun. The cool melodious voice of KK came from the next room. He padded to the door and peeked in at her.

She was sitting with her back to him, a white telephone receiver cradled on her shoulder. She spoke rapidly in some Slavic tongue. He noticed that she was holding his trousers and, as she talked, going through the pockets.

When she got to his wallet and started looking through it, he managed to say hello.

She jumped. ‘Oh, hello, darlink.’

Lowering her voice, she told the phone,
‘Do svedahnia,’
then spoke loudly. ‘Yes, Mother. Sank you for senting me hakkis; it vas delicious. And kilt, yes. Ven is cold, I year kilt, yes. Yes, gootbye, Mother.’

‘My old Scotch mother,’ KK explained, as she helped him gather up the spilled contents of his wallet, mostly old library tickets.

‘I am not rubbing you, darlink.’

‘Rubbing?’ I only wish you were.

‘I am not teef. I look for your address, to tek you home.’ She picked up a library ticket. ‘Vat is?’

‘A library ticket. Don’t they have them in … er, Scotland?’

‘No, only in America. Is everythink in this vonderful country. Everythink. Evel Knievel. Oral Rubberts. Jems Din. Jems Garner. Disc camera. Fonny greetink cards. K-Mart
store. Joan Collins. Like sign says, I heart America.’ Discovering a plastic card interrupted her train of thought. She held it up. ‘Vat is? Credit card?’

‘Not exactly. It’s a bank card. You use it … well, to cash cheques.’

‘Identity card? In plastic. How modern! I have so much to learn. Do you know, I have only yesterday drunked one banana daiquiri. But I must sent you home now, you are ill.’

‘I feel much better, really.’

‘Or perhaps you are too ill to move? I get doctor, yes?’

‘No, really, I’m fine. Just a bit of a headache.’

She held up a photo. ‘Your vife?’

‘We’re … uh, separated. She’s in England.’

KK seemed oddly disappointed, as though she would have preferred a married man.

‘So. You vork here alone? For Cyberk Corporation.’

He nodded his aching head. ‘Well …’

‘Yes?’

‘Actually, I got fired today.’

‘You don’t vork?’

‘Nope. I’ve got to find a job, heh, heh.’

Smartly, she gathered up his papers and restored them to his wallet. ‘I phone texi for you.’

‘Don’t bother. I can walk. It’s not far.’

She helped him into his clothes, then walked down to the street with him and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

‘Tek care, darlink.’

‘When will I … er, see you again?’

She sighed. ‘Fred, ve do not meet. Ve are sheeps.’

‘Sheeps.’

‘Passing in night. Ve may meet again, in some shopping-mall. Who knows?’

But even after that dismissal he could not help feeling elated as he walked home. A beautiful, wealthy, mysterious woman had taken him home and undressed him. Well, almost. He walked home in a glow of unmerited self-satisfaction, from the rich side of the lake to the poor side.

He was too self-satisfied even to take note of the two insurance companies, dividing the world into hardware and spirituality.

His letter-box sprang open at the turn of a key, spewing bright circulars over the floor, a jackpot of junk. There was a sample chocolate hair-mousse and an offer of pet insurance. (‘One morning, Bud Papadom’s dog bit the mail-carrier. Funny? Not after an allergy caused toxic shock syndrome. Bud ended up with
HALF A MILLION DOLLARS
in bills. Every year, thousands of pet-owners like yourself face unexpected crippling bills for vet care, damage, liability, and even full pet replacement. Ask yourself …’). Two envelopes marked
URGENT
turned out to be a circular for a tyre sale and an invitation to join a health club
(‘FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS OFF
your first year’s membership!’).

The television provided a background to his browsing. He glanced up to see a reporter looking serious: ‘According to police, the assailant may be the same man who shot up other Little Dorrit restaurants in Cleveland, Canton, Columbus and Cincinnati. This is Bug Stemnull, IBS News, Chicago.’

Fred chucked all in the brown metal wastepaper-basket, even the letter from his Congressman, printed in blue. Even this:

Manfred E. Jones,
YOUR FIFTY MILLION DOLLARS IS WAITING!

Dear Manfred E. Jones,

Get ready to be rich, Manfred E. Jones! Yes,
FIFTY MILLION DOLLARS
has already been won by someone. Could it be Manfred E. Jones?
YES!!!
Manfred E. Jones of Mpls, MN, replying to this letter could be the luckiest thing you ever did!

CERTIFICATION OF READINESS TO AWARD FIFTY MILLION DOLLARS
to Manfred E. Jones.

URGENT!!
Detach the special label with your name, Manfred E. Jones, your Mpls, MN, address, and your
LUCKY PRIZE NUMBERS.
Affix the special label to your special order form. If you wish to be entered for the
FIFTY MILLION DOLLARS,
affix the gold coin sticker marked
YES.
If you do not want the
FIFTY MILLION DOLLARS,
Manfred E. Jones, simply affix the black sticker marked
NO.
Hurry! Send your entry today to me – Grantly Fortnight. We must receive your entry, Manfred E. Jones, by the printed date, or the
FIFTY MILLION DOLLARS
must be burned.

Why not? he thought, throwing himself down on the unmade studio couch. Is America, after all. Is money to burn. Lying on his back gave him a good view of the cracked ceiling, smoke-stained by some previous tenant (who had no doubt moved to a hobo jungle for the summer) and now the haunt of a couple of hopeful spiders. He looked around at the unwashed dishes, the brown curtains over tiny basement windows. The place looked suitable for an unemployed alien, or anyone leading a pointless life.

In the laundry room next door, someone loaded the washing machine with marbles and started it up.

I can always do reviews until something turns up, Fred frequently told himself. Now was the time to find out. The morning after KK, he went to the
Minneapolis Sun-Times
and found the office of the reviews editor.

A thin nervous-looking man was sorting books into stacks. The room was full of little stacks of books, on counters, shelves, desks.

‘Hi. Makes you realize what a literate country we really are, doesn’t it? Fifty thousand titles a year, many of them with books attached. One or two almost readable. I’m Bill. What can I do for you?’

‘I’m Fred, and literate. I’d like to do a review or so.’

‘Do I hear the over-refined accents of an Englishman?’

‘I’m not so sure about the over-refined part –’

‘Thank God, an Englishman. Maybe you can help us out with the Bloomsbury books.’ He got up and led the way to a desk on which stood a large cardboard box overflowing with books. ‘We got a shitload, man.’

‘Bloomsbury books?’

‘There’s one published every week. God knows why. Just
look here:
Harvest of Bloomsbury
, a biography of Leonard Woolf’s gardener (by the gardener’s granddaughter);
Bloomsbury Memory
, by the sister of Vita Sackville-West’s maid;
Bell, Woolf and Candle
, a reminiscence of the pastor of the church where they would have gone, if they hadn’t all been atheists; and so on. Plenty here. Take your pick.’

‘Well I …’

‘I was afraid you’d say that.’ Bill scratched his head, and a faint shower of dandruff descended on a portrait of Virginia Woolf presiding over
Through Parted Curtains: Impressions of a Bloomsbury Neighbour
.

‘There’s always a cookbook or a medical around, and a tax guide. I don’t know which is more dangerous:
The Rutabaga Gourmet, Endocrine Balance for Winners
or
Your Tax-Free Lifestyle
. The last one advises people to set up corporations with their pets as officers. Oh, and speaking of pets …’

He reached beneath a table and pulled a huge carton into view.
‘Interpreting Your Dog’s Dreams
. A real winner there. Or how about
Let Your Cat Speak?
Listen to the blurb: “Ever wonder what your cat is thinking? Now you can find out! Proven sign-language technique allows direct contact. Just as scientists teach sign-language to apes, you can teach your cat a handful of signs and have real conversations within hours.”’

He moved to a large table heaped with gaudy titles. ‘Confessions of priests and nuns. Nobody wants this stuff. All they ever show is that their lives are as humdrum as anybody’s. Here’s a priest who managed to write a preface comparing himself to Flann O’Brien, would you believe? Flann O’Brien? Gimme a break.’

‘Probably thinking of Pat O’Brien.’

‘How about a novel? Romanian novels are pretty hot stuff, so are Polish. Jawel Zbaglsky. Only’ – he turned to a metal bookcase – ‘I guess those are all gone. They get snapped up as soon as they come in, you know. Likewise Central American surrealists. García López, Marcia Gómez, Alberto Camuz. Let’s see – nope, those are all gone, too.

‘Then there’s genre fiction: we almost never review that, although we do a very occasional round-up. How about an adult Western from Longhorn Books?
Hot Spurs
, for example. Or
Barb-Wire Woman
. No? Couple tons of bodice-rippers, too, and a whole range of romances: the Swirling Ecstasy series, the Penetrating Fire series, the Exploding Passion series.

‘Crime? Here’s every kind of crime fiction from Agnes Dustworthy’s
Murder at High Tea
to Jake Hacker’s My
Gun Is Long
. Plenty in between, too. Whole range of detectives, including five old ladies, two jockeys, a blind musician, four priests, a one-legged rabbi, three nuns (one of whom is an albino) and four investigative journalists. And that’s only the amateurs. We also have a complete range of professional PIs, including a midget, an astrologer, a pair of Siamese twins and a hard-boiled trans-sexual named Julian O’Toole.

‘Science fiction offers a rich choice. Here’s a black lesbian adult science fiction novel with an explicity rating of six. Plenty of environmentalist ecodisaster novels: psychic teenager wanders the ruined freeways of Los Angeles. Likewise plenty of militarist items that get turned into board games: psychic teenager kills giant spiders of Fomalhaut. We’ve also got juvenile sci-fi, either chemically dependent or martial arts, take your pick. Or this,
Buyers of the Dream
, profiles of thirty famous science fiction fans. Can you beat that? Famous fans! Probably have their own fan clubs …