Somewhere East of Life. Brian Aldiss
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, Belsenbräu. A few expensive shops graced the mezzanine floor, a Pâtisserie, a jeweller, 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 shortly, 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. Rumour 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. A Italian traveller 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 centre 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 lustre 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 dialled the red figures. A recorded voice said in German, ‘Who is it? You’ve probably dialled 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 cancelled 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?’