Alien Accounts (13 page)

Now the bus emerged from the tunnel into blue light and crossed a bridge. The air conditioning hummed, concealed speakers played a medley of show tunes, blue girders and factories flitted by. This was not a familiar part of the city to Andor, but seeing it caused him no panic. It was obvious from the bus’s speed and from the driver’s sure motions that all was going according to plan.

Near the outskirts of the city the bus stopped for ten minutes at a glass-walled restaurant with a spire or steeple. Where the cross or rooster should be was a weathervane showing a nursery rhyme, Simple Simon. Inside were long rows of booths upholstered in pink and green leatherette. The waitress who brought Andor’s coffee was a thin redhead with bad nails and teeth. She wore a uniform of pink-and-green gingham. The coffee was too hot for him to drink before the bus departed.

There was a small rest room in the rear of the bus, marked ‘Toilet’. Andor walked back to it and washed his hands in the tiny sink. On the way to his seat, he noticed that a few servicemen were aboard the bus. Now he recalled seeing a great many servicemen in the great bus terminals, as well as several persons in religious habits.

Now he perceived that there were forty other people on the bus besides himself: two family groups consisting of man, pregnant woman, and small child, all speaking a foreign language; two elderly women and two young women in black religious habits; two young servicemen in tan uniforms and three others in white uniforms; six men of middle age carrying worn briefcases; three men of about twenty-eight carrying new attaché cases; a florid-faced drunken man of indeterminate age who addressed an occasional remark to the air in front of him; a cowboy and a thin woman who looked very like him, either his sister or his wife; one young man and two young women equipped with knapsacks and expensive casual clothes; two large women of middle age, who smelled
bad; one young man in a college sweater; four very old men and three very old women, the latter wearing identical hats.

The bus moved past blue fields of plants Andor could not identify. He intended to read an article in the travel magazine in his lap about the resort to which he was going. He would read the article slowly, anticipating and savouring.

‘Are you going far?’ asked the man beside him. He had white hair and held an attaché case in his lap, upon which he now spread a copy of the same travel magazine Andor was holding. The copy was open to the article on Andor’s resort, as the stranger pointed out when Andor named the place he was going. Andor opened his own copy and began reading.

All the hotels at this resort maintained their own ballrooms for nightly dancing, but in addition there were public dances at the popular boardwalk pavilion and clambakes on the beach. Each hotel featured a heated pool, so that even in coldest weather – although the article assured him the weather was never really cold – one could immerse one’s body in warm blue liquid and glide silently about in the depths, safe from the gelid moon. What a joke, Andor thought (repressing the thought at once), if someone were to put jello in that blue pool!

The thought was shocking and foreign to him, like an object surgically inserted into his brain. He glanced down to make sure his tie was securely clipped to the front of his shirt.

There were beach facilities and equipment for many water sports, including sailing, skiing, surfing, water polo, rowing, and deep-sea fishing. There was an impressive list of restaurants, bars, and clubs. The vicinity boasted a number of places of scenic or historic merit. It occurred to him that the man beside him article at the same time, and a disturbing thought burst like caviar in Andor’s mind:

‘Every person who reads the same magazine is the same person.’

He was confused: had he actually thought this aloud, or had the man next to him spoken it? He stole a glance to see, but the stranger was just getting up to go to the rest room. Before he returned, the bus stopped at a large, elegant restaurant by the side of the interstate.

Andor found his appetite increased when he hurried through the hot, sunny, pink air of the outside to enter the blue-green coolness through a big glass door. As in the bus, concealed speakers played muted popular music constantly. Seating himself on a pink-and-green leatherette seat before a table of pale wood-grained plastic, Andor opened the giant menu.

Without much delay, he chose the house speciality, meat loaf, mashed potatoes and gravy, creamed corn, bread and butter. The bread consisted of one slice of white, one of whole wheat, wrapped together in clear plastic; the butter was a foil-wrapped cube.

Andor ordered coffee with cream. The cream was in a tiny tetrahedron of thick paper coated with impermeable plastic; there were two paper envelopes of sugar which Andor ignored.

When he had finished his meal (and it went down remarkably fast, except for the coffee), Andor found himself still hungry, so he ordered a
dish of strawberry ice cream.

After the waitress had taken away the waxy dinner plate, and before she had brought his dessert, he had time to examine the paper place mat before him. It depicted the United States, a network of pink lines (‘Interstates’) and green lines (‘Tollways’). They seemed veins and arteries, and he was even able to imagine tiny corpuscular cars nudging along them from coast to coast. The restaurant chain’s name arched across the top of the map, in giant green letters, followed by the words, ‘The Wonderful World of Food’. At various points on the map were tiny replicas of the chain’s familiar spire, each one marking the location of a single ‘Eating Palace’.

There was nothing else of interest on the mat but a large spot of gravy near one edge. For an instant he had the crazy notion of swiping up this spot with his finger and licking it down, but he at once realized how foolish this would look. Nevertheless the impulse remained strong until he received the dish of pink ice cream, and with it the pale green check.

As he paid the check, Andor bought a bag of the restaurant’s own brand of caramels and a consumer magazine. Back in the bus he dozed for perhaps an hour.

A light rain had begun streaking the blue windows diagonally when he awoke. Otherwise the landscape seemed unchanged. Large green-and-white signs marked exits and interchanges; shadows of overpasses flashed overhead; an occasional billboard announced some distant casino or hotel; a row of red signs advertised shaving cream:

Beards grow faster

In the grave

Take it with you –

The light rain stopped without his noticing. The man next to him was asleep, and now Andor could see, in the fading afternoon light, his creased forehead and sagging, slightly bristled jowls. Andor did not like to look at this face. He began to read interesting performance reports comparing three new cars; he ate caramels. The bus came through a tollgate and entered the driveway of another restaurant of the same chain.

‘There will be a thirty-minute stop here for dinner,’ the driver announced. ‘Please remember the number of your bus, 3350.’ He spoke through an electronic amplifier that broadcast his voice throughout the length of the bus.

‘This is where I get out,’ said the man next to Andor. ‘I’m here to check the books. So long.’ He climbed out of the bus and went into an unmarked door just to one side of the big glass entrance. Another bus drew up as Andor disembarked. Several middle-aged women in dark glasses stepped down from it and helped one another inside.

While Andor did not feel particularly hungry after having finished half his bag of caramels, he nevertheless ordered the house speciality, to avoid
being hungry later. The speciality was pot roast and escalloped potatoes, with creamed corn. As soon as he had eaten it and drunk a soft drink, Andor felt slightly hungry, as if the process of eating had stimulated his appetite by some obscure chemical means. He quickly ordered a piece of pie from the glass case on the lunch-counter, pie of some unknown dark berry, and a glass of milk. There was barely time to bolt it down and get back to bus number 3350.

A younger, thinner driver was now in charge of the bus. He tore a coupon off each passenger’s ticket. Out the blue windows, the land and sky were dim purple. The man who checked books did not come back aboard.

When Andor put on the reading light to begin his newly bought detective novel, he saw something on the floor at his feet. It was the travel magazine, either his copy or the one belonging to the book-keeper. Andor picked it up and quickly reread the article on his destination.

In the amusement park there were thrilling rides – including the Octopus, the Ferris wheel and the roller coaster – colourful games of skill and chance, curios and souvenirs and a beer garden with an authentic German band. It was near the amusement park that the Aquatic Festival was held each summer – including the famous Aqua Follies – and Andor was glad he had planned to arrive at the resort in time for these colourful pageants previewed for him in the travel article. Here were golden girls riding water skis in formation, coloured lights turning their wakes to purple, crimson, old rose, and azure. Here were yacht races in the glaring sun, tilted sails turning to translucent, delicately fluted shells. Here were giant flowers formed, on the floodlit water, of naked girls swimming toe to toe in unison. Here were hydrofoil races and moonlight cruises, fancy diving and fireworks.

Finished with the magazine, Andor shoved it into the dark niche beneath the seat ahead. He would never look into this niche again, and in time, it would be cleaned by someone he would not see.

Nothing at all could now be seen out the windows, but for an occasional blue light that moved slowly past. Andor opened the detective novel and read it up to the point at which the detective was struck in the head by an unknown assailant. The bus driver switched off all interior lights, and Andor composed himself for sleep, sprawling diagonally across two seats. He continued to worry about the detective novel, which seemed to involve a case of mistaken identity.

Andor awoke once in the night, when the bus stopped for fifteen minutes at a restaurant with a glass front entrance and green-and-pink interior. Andor had a cup of coffee.

At eight o’clock, the bus pulled into another great bus terminal. There was a forty-five minute stop for breakfast. Passengers were requested to take all their belongings with them, for the journey would continue in a different vehicle. Andor took his two suitcases into the terminal and checked them in a steel locker with a secure lock.

There were over a dozen servicemen and two or three clergymen waiting for buses in the terminal. The clergymen strolled about or read breviaries. Most of the servicemen lounged on benches, trying to sleep, though some slouched up, reading hot-rod magazines. Andor entered the terminal restaurant, sat in a pink-and-pale-green leatherette seat before a table of wood-grained plastic, and opened the giant menu.

After a breakfast of pancakes and syrup, he retrieved his suitcases and shaved in the terminal men’s room. On the way out of the city, the new bus, number E-4799, passed a number of used-car lots, their plastic propellers spinning in the fresh morning breeze, or what Andor imagined to be a fresh morning breeze. Looking at them gave his heart a lift.

Before Andor opened his book to read, the bus was rolling along the turnpike, and through the concealed speakers came a sprightly morning song.

By mid-morning, things had changed. Andor left off reading the detective novel, finding he had read it before. He was sure it had once had a different title, or at least a different cover picture. Disgusted, he shoved the book into the pocket on the back of the seat ahead of him. In doing so he discovered a worn copy of a popular news picture magazine. It contained an interesting article on the very resort he was going to, as well as a feature on ancient Egypt, ‘Land of the Pharaohs’. By the time he had digested both of these, it was time for the lunch stop at a familiar spired restaurant.

‘Going far?’ asked the salesman who eased into the seat beside him later that afternoon. Andor named the resort he was bound for, and the stranger whistled. ‘Vacation?’

‘That’s right. Two fabulous weeks in the sun,’ said Andor.

‘Yes, I’ve been there five times myself. Great place. Lot of women on vacation, bored, you know. One thing leads to another: a dip in the pool, a drink in the hotel bar …’

They exchanged several pleasant words about the resort, and the salesman confirmed many things Andor had read in the travel and news magazines, and in a travel brochure: the place was expensive, but worth it.

The salesman took down his ample case and got off at the next city, where the bus once more changed drivers and another coupon was taken from Andor’s ticket. It seemed as if the number of coupons remaining had not diminished; the ticket looked as long as ever.

Andor napped as he finished digesting his lunch of hamburger steak, french fries, and cole slaw. He got off the bus at dinnertime hungry enough to order creamed dried beef on toast, steamed potatoes, garden peas, and coffee. This time he debated whether or not to order dessert: he was hungry, but he was not getting enough exercise. At first he ordered apple pie à la mode, then changed it to plain apple pie. After paying the pale, green check, he returned to leave a coin on the wood-grained plastic table.

The next stop was after midnight at another restaurant of the same
chain. Andor thought he glimpsed the book-keeper eating and reading a newspaper in another part of the large restaurant. It was only when the white-haired man looked up that Andor saw he was a cleric, and a complete stranger.