Somewhere East of Life Read online

  Soss City needed no central meeting-place; the traditional square had disappeared beneath the power of indoor electronics. But in the gaudy Ginza Mall—where you showed an ID to enter—clowns and high-wire acts entertained punters every day, fountains splashed, bands played (strong on Mozart and Miles Davis), and two live white tigers were fed one live black pig every day promptly at noon, inside the Adventure Cathedral.

  Organic cities of an older order are never completed, always in process, like the individuals who work and play in them. Sossenheim City was complete. A package deal.

  It was no secret to Burnell that Soss City was a dull place, and that the Amanda Schäfer was a dull building. He did not mind. Dullness was good plain fare, like bread. For much of his time he was elsewhere. On the roof of the hive were various gymnasia and a large enclosed swimming pool, fringed with palms and the Copacabana Snackeria, where you could drink coconut milk or the Düsseldorf beer with the nostalgic name, Belsenbrau. A few expensive shops graced the mezzanine floor, a patisserie, a jeweler, an Apotheke. On the lower ground floor was a theatre which showed films every day and staged a live show once a week, when lean lightly clad transvestites cavorted for fat men in business suits. Entry to “The Pink Pussycat” was free to those who showed their Schäfer ID.

  A higher culture was preserved, if only as an echo of the past. The Amanda Schäfer was itself named after a German writer of the region, whose slender book of poems, Zeichen am Wege, had acquired cult status. On every floor were EMV cubicles; the system was due to invade individual apartments shordy, as its popularity grew. TV was increasingly given over to amateurism; anyone with a camcorder could secure a viewing. That was democracy. TV’s feeblest jokes were greeted with rapturous applause by studio audiences. But nothing by way of a living art form actually took place in, or was inspired by, the Amanda Schäfer.

  The fragmentation afflicting Western society from the 1980s onwards found its embodiment in edge cities like Sossenheim. Among a vast crowd of demographically separate people, it was easy to be alone.

  Even within the WACH offices, a sense of isolation prevailed. Burnell was aware of it as a secretary showed him into a small conference room. The air-conditioning reduced voices to a whisper. The very word “culture,” so vague and threatening, had a deadening effect.

  Burnell’s superior, Karl Leberecht, rose from his desk, rushed round it, and embraced Burnell, clapping him on the back. As usual, Leberecht was immaculately dressed, sporting a carnation in the buttonhole of his pinstripe suit. Rumor had it that he beat his large Scandinavian wife.

  He sat Burnell down, ordered coffee, sent his equally immaculate secretary out of the room, and insisted on hearing all Burnell’s troubles. Putting his feet up, leaning back, and gazing at a bust of Eugene Ionesco was Leberecht’s way of concentrating. He did not speak until Burnell had finished.

  In his sympathetic fashion, Leberecht brushed to one side the whole business of Stephanie and any other affairs of the heart (as he phrased it) which might be contained in the erotic EMV bullet. Burnell was still a young man and would have plenty of time to accumulate more memories of beautiful women. Having said which, he laughed heartily; Burnell joined in in doleful fashion. The two men had often gone out on the town together.

  What worried Leberecht—and at this point he struggled up and put his feet in their polished shoes firmly on the carpet—was that all Burnell’s professional knowledge should be so easily available on the second bullet. He felt strongly that knowledge should be accessible only to those who were prepared to work for it—“like good fortune,” he said. Knowledge should not be purchased in the street, like ice cream or the services of a prostitute. He promised he would do all he could through WACH channels to track down the offending bullets and have them destroyed. Meanwhile, he offered Burnell indefinite leave.

  Burnell said he was rootless and restless. He would rather work. Work at least gave him some sense of identity. Any assignment would be welcome.

  Peering into the VDU on his desk, Leberecht pressed a few keys.

  “The Caucasus, Roy. Georgia, Armenia, Abkhazia… Lots of obscure people with obscure names: Chechens, Ossetians, Ingush, Adygs, in that general area. Mainly the states are run by terrible men—ex-bomber pilots, mass murderers. Fighting goes on all the time. Just the sort of place you would love. Not a toilet that flushes from the Black Sea to the Caspian, I’d guess—but, some little treasures from a WACH point of view, here and there. Those treasures need to be documented—well, frankly, before someone or other blows them up. Do you like the sound of all this?”

  “Suits me,” Burnell said. “If I don’t have some action, I’ll be in a coma.”

  Leberecht gave him a hard look. “You’re not insane or anything? Frankly, I’d prefer my desk in Soss City.” They both laughed.

  The immaculate secretary brought in a map of the Caucasus. Leberecht indicated an area near the Black Sea coast which had recently proclaimed itself to be West Georgia, under a leader by the name of Lazar Kaginovich.

  “Kaginovich is one of the maggots who have risen to the surface since the body of the Soviet Union decayed. Don’t worry, you won’t meet him.” Leberecht put a well-manicured finger on the map. “In this mountainous area somewhere here is a place called Ghvtism. It’s not marked. It’s very remote, which may mean it’s peaceful. We’re interested in documenting a church called—it’s a bit of a mouthful—Ghvtismshobeli. Say ‘Gutism’ and ‘Show belly’ and you’ll remember it.” He chuckled. “The Georgians have long prided themselves on being the southernmost outpost of Christianity. Just a few miles south of Ghvtismshobeli, it’s Islam. So this little church is something of an outpost.”

  “When was the church last inspected?”

  “It’s been listed for years, never inspected. An Italian traveler called in there in the eighties of last century, reporting a legend of a valuable ikon. Go and see if it’s still standing, document it before they blow it to hell in some petty war or other. You sure you like the sound of it?”

  Nodding, Burnell said he would go. Leberecht told him that as usual he would be given a pack with cameras, camcorders, survey instruments, and so on. Also, some American protection might be forthcoming.

  “Oh? Why’s that?”

  “Well, Roy, a) the area’s dangerous, and b) the Americans are interested in oil and anything else they can get their hands on. Georgia is on the way to the resource-rich nations of Central Asia. I should add that there’s also a hush-hush c). A big-noise American general is taking a personal interest. I can say nothing more.”

  “And that’s very little, Karl.”

  “Everything connects, my friend. A flight leaves FAM for Tbilisi on Saturday afternoon. I’ll come and see you off.”

  Back in his apartment, he began slowly to make arrangements to pack. To unpack, to repack. He opened a window. That hole in his life moved in to occupy the center of his being. In Georgia new difficulties would fill the hole.

  He took some slap. A bumblebee flew in the window, landed on him, and clung to his shirt, seeming to fondle the fabric with its forelegs. It was a matter of wonder what this industrious creature might be doing in flowerless Soss.

  The bee, seen through Burnell’s temporary glow, was an angelic creation. Its lovely body, covered in yellow and black fur, seemed to blaze. By contrast, an armorial luster slid along the chitinous combs of the insect’s legs. Its wings lay glistening along its body. He regarded it with veneration.

  As he looked, he saw a small brown dot move in the region of the bumblebee’s neck. A parasite was crawling about its furry host.

  The bee flew to the window and began an angry buzz against the pane. He shooshed it into the open with a shirt.

  Beginning slowly to contemplate the shape of his journey, he noticed a blank business card tucked into the noticeboard in his kitchenette. Written on the card in red ink was a local phone number. No name. It meant nothing to him, although he was certain it was not the number of his dealer.


  He stood with the card in his hand, admiring its sharp edges, so precisely cut. Going over to the phone he dialed the red figures. A recorded voice said in German, “Who is it? You’ve probably dialed the wrong number.”

  “Oh…” He stuttered a little. His responses were slow. Before he could hang up, a woman’s voice said in German, “That’s you, Roy? Sorry, I’m here.” Not recognizing the voice, he did not know what to say.

  “Is anything wrong? Are you alone? I canceled all our appointments since you didn’t call. You want me to come round? I can still fit you in tonight.” It was a quiet voice, with an unusual accent.

  “I—look, I’ve been away… Yes, come round. What time?”

  A slight surprise entered her voice. “Seven-thirty, I guess, as usual, OK? You sound funny.”

  “I’m fine. I’ll explain when I see you. Wiederschön.”

  He put the phone down. He should have asked her who she was; but these things would be easier face to face. It was so wimpish to have to admit you had had your memory stolen; no one liked admitting loss of memory. Whoever she was, she must be a girlfriend. She might be able to fill in some of his past. They could eat in the Schäfer’s Chinese restaurant, and maybe they would make love. It sounded like a good way to pass an evening in the Federal Republic.

  Wandering about the apartment, he found himself unable to think. In the top drawer of his dresser was the photograph of a pretty woman in a large straw hat, smiling, as people felt compelled to do when they saw a camera about. Was it a photograph of the girl he had just phoned? But this one was standing in front of what looked like a Spanish building. He was baffled. He thought, “It’ll be better after Saturday afternoon. That’s the future. In the future all men are equal—nobody has memories of the future…”

  He began to look out a book to take on the journey. Gibbon, of course. Montaigne. From his travel shelf he pulled down Freshfield’s Travels in the Central Caucasus.

  As darkness was falling. Burnell’s phone rang.

  “Burnell?” A neutral voice.

  “Yes. Who’s that?”

  “Tartary. Listen to this message. Georgia, in the Caucasus. A missing ikon, known as ‘The Madonna of Futurity.’ Could be it’s at Ghvtismshobeli. Number One wants it back here. Do your best…”

  “Who’s that? Who’s Number One?”

  “Just get that ikon.”

  The phone went dead. On several previous trips Burnell had carried out seemingly unimportant missions for Codename Tartary: in this way he earned money to support his habit. He could not identify the voice; its owner probably spoke through a masker. Possibly it was a German voice speaking an American English. Many mysterious things went on in FAM.

  For a while he worked on his personal computer, summoning up data he had forgotten.

  Number One might refer to “Gus” Stalinbrass himself, the crazed American general in charge of the EU peace corps who had somehow turned his troops into an invading force, apparently with the intention of carving out an empire of his own… Strange things happened these days.

  Another theory was that WACH was part-funded by Stalinbrass monies. He had listed possible evidence of this. The Director of WACH might be involved—mainly in the theft of art works from the emergent nations with which WACH was principally concerned. Someone in WACH was using Burnell. He stared into the illusory depths of his screen.

  Burnell believed evolutionary pressures determined that people exploited each other. Consequently, he tolerated being exploited unless he felt himself squeezed. In retrospect, even the trick Butterworth had played on him was amusing.

  He looked again into his electronic diary for further details on Tartary which might have been lost with the extracted memories. There was nothing. Not even a phone number. They got in touch with him, not vice versa.

  How deeply he was involved he did not know. However, if someone wanted an ikon which he might come across in Georgia, he was complaisant enough to oblige.

  Flicking through the electronic index, he saw the name Remenyi. It was another unknown. He turned up the entry.

  Peter Remenyi was thirty-two years old, a celebrated Hungarian ski-jumper. It appeared he was a close friend, and that he and Burnell had been in the Alps the previous summer, traveling on horseback. A home address in Budapest was given. Vexed to think he had been in Budapest and not called his friend, Burnell immediately phoned Remenyi’s number.

  For a while, he listened to the phone ringing in Hungary. Nobody answered.

  He switched off the processor, sitting back, trying to sort through the struggle of non-memory in his head. Whatever had happened in the recent past was a puzzle. The sections of the brain involved with memory retention contained many amacrine cells or microneurones. Yet non-localized storage of data also occurred; in consequence, ghost images rose up. Faceless men and women came and went. And was there not someone he knew, possibly this Peter Remenyi, lying somewhere in a coma?

  The nightmare thought occurred to him that he might himself be Remenyi. But that was absurd. His colleagues in WACH had identified him as Roy Burnell.

  As he was throwing some clothes into a pack, his doorbell buzzed. It was seven-thirty on the dot. Burnell went and opened the door.

  A young woman entered his domain, self-possessed on her high heels. A man of unprepossessing aspect had accompanied her. He remained in the corridor, giving Burnell a hard look, not speaking. The woman was in her late twenties, well-built, not quite plump. Her dyed blonde hair was cut short, bristly at the back of the head up to the occipital bone. Her eyes, fringed by long false lashes, were curiously masked by the application of shining scarlet makeup which curved to a point on the temples. Her lips were painted black. She wore a tight green plastic skin dress, buttoning up the front, which emphasized her generous bosom. The dress ceased just below the swell of her mons veneris.

  He understood immediately.

  “You’ll have to tell me your name.”

  She was looking about the apartment, very business-like. “That’s silly. You sounded strange on the phone. Not yourself.”

  “Maybe. I’ve been robbed. It’s the EMV craze. Someone has stolen my memory. The immediate past is a blank. I hoped perhaps you might help me.”

  “I don’t offer that kind of therapy. Sorry. You’ve got ninety minutes of my time. You can still have erections? I guarantee I will leave you relaxed and happy. As always.”

  “It’s clear we’ve met before. Because of the theft—I just don’t remember you.”

  “Let me remind you.” She was wearing nothing under the dress. It fell open like a chest of drawers spilling out its goodies.

  “Does this look familiar?”

  Her pubic hair had been shaved off.

  She insisted on checking his anti-AIDS status. The indicator on his watch showed green. She showed her indicator, also reading Safe. It was OK. They went briskly through into the bedroom. She led the way. Burnell followed, admiring the jaunty buttocks, smooth as machine parts.

  He had always liked the Germans, not least because his father hated them. The neatness of German towns, where modernity sat comfortably with antiquity, had been achieved nowhere else in Europe. In the same way, a Teutonic drive toward success—success in all things—was moderated by an everyday courtesy. Earnestness was similarly moderated by a sense of humor. He found the Germans honest; or at least they retained a respect for honesty. They were good on respect. Wholeheartedness attracted him, perhaps because he had never possessed the quality: it formed an element in the life here which excited him, an intense secret eroticism buried under the surface of daily existence which foreigners rarely saw: an eroticism which differed from the flashiness of Italian, the polish of French, the bounciness of Scandinavian, and the salaciousness of English eroticism, in that particular culinary quality, Teutonic wholeheartedness. He understood well that national wholeheartedness had led Germany into disastrous follies in the past, just as it had led to leadership in Europe in the present; st
ill he found that wholeheartedness admirable: not only in economic life, but in bed. He paid her before undressing.

  German women brought to lovemaking the same kind of homely expertise they once brought to breadmaking, the sleeves of their blouses metaphorically rolled up, their hair piled out of the way, the smells of a warm hearth in the air, flour spreading up to their armpits, the dough kneaded into required shape under those dimpled practiced hands.

  After ninety minutes and three orgasms, Burnell was relaxed and happy.

  As the woman was leaving, he said, perhaps trying to restore his reputation in her fringed eyes, “I won’t be here next week. I’m going to Georgia.”

  “I too shall visit the USA one day.”

  The bruiser was waiting for her in the corridor.

  7

  “The Dead One”

  The high-wing Yak 40 labored toward the landing-strip like an aged pterosaur, fighting against a headwind which poured through the mountains. Below the snowline, the landscape was a faded green, patched here and there with livelier color. It rose up to embrace the light aircraft. A river glinted, hastening down a valley, and was lost to view.

  The airstrip was laid out on a plateau. The plateau was dominated by cliffs above and below, set in an extreme landscape, shiftless, unthriving, lying under puffs of cloud. This was a territory of religion, ideology, blood-letting, a land forever fought over, passionately disputed.

  The Yak circled, coming in again, lower, still rocking, then into calmer air under the great slopes. Now buildings could be made out below, in particular a circular structure of some kind, with a cluster of vehicles round it like ticks round a wart. The plane burst through another puff of cloud, unexpectedly low, and tore it to shreds. Someone was firing at the craft. A way of saying Welcome to Transcaucasia.