Nest of Worlds (8 page)

Gavein’s job filled his day. He had an hour break around noon but couldn’t use it; driving home took too much time.

He had three subordinates. Two, Agatha and Greta, were young women about the same age as each other, one a gray, the other a red. Both were sleepy and slow. The third was Wilcox, a retired policeman, dried up and gray before his time, who apparently had chosen to work at the bookstore so he could read for free. He claimed he was making up for what hadn’t been paid him on the force. Wilcox was a black, but unfortunately for him he had turned gray and the writing in his passport had been rendered illegible by a coffee spill. Therefore he was often treated as a red or barely even a gray. He didn’t seem to care.

An official change of social category was possible, but that happened only in cases of doubt, and Wilcox had unquestionably been a black. Also, raising someone’s category required that the category of another be lowered, and lowering could take place only upon an individual’s arrival from Lavath, because obviously no one would come forward afterward to ask for a lower category. Thus a petition for elevation could languish for years. Applications from persons without category (whites) were generally not even read.

The used-book store did little business. Agatha dozed by the cash register; Wilcox put prices on the books that came in; Greta walked through the store, now and then asking customers if they wanted something in particular. Gavein supervised. Mainly he had to find Wilcox when people brought books to sell. Wilcox was usually reading in the back.

“A man who has stood for twenty years at the corner of 2837 Avenue and 5312 Street, in every kind of weather, has the right to read our books before we sell them,” Wilcox told Gavein. Gavein scolded him but privately thought that Wilcox was right. After that, he didn’t hunt him down too assiduously.

It was easy to tell when Wilcox had found a good book. He would brew bitter tea in a half-liter metal pot and smuggle it into the storage area. He would sit at the old pigeonhole desk there and pull off his battered work shoes, which he wore year-round. His wool socks, darned in a dozen places, were multicolored (his wife being color blind). He would wriggle his toes to get the circulation in his feet going, take a sip of his bitter tea, and settle down to reading.

Wilcox’s ways were not that objectionable. Before long Gavein was adapting to them and even taking breaks himself to dip into the more interesting books.

It was not hard to imagine what Wilcox had been like as a policeman: preoccupied, his back to the street he was supposed to be monitoring, with untied shoes and nonregulation gear. The man had managed to keep his job until retirement, but not once was he promoted.

Occasionally Anabel would call, ask what was new and how Gavein was managing. She wanted details, but he cut the calls short. How had she obtained the phone number of the bookstore? What was she trying to find out?

While crossing a street, Max Hoffard, the letter carrier, was hit by a truck that veered out of control. He died on the way to the hospital. Because his Significant Name was
Murhred
, the police opened an investigation. His wife, a
Sulledda
, was placed in a hospital for the insane as a preventive measure, in case she attempted to take her own life. No one seemed to worry that this confinement might add to the widow’s distress.

Max’s death put a new strain on Gavein’s relationship with Edda. Suspicious stares, the avoidance of conversation. He waited for the senseless accusations to begin. He only had to wait two days.

“What did Max ever do to you?” she asked him at dinner. “Such a quiet man, he hurt no one. He brought you that TV set, and was always . . .”

Gavein said nothing, picking a piece of cardboard out of his teeth.

Massmoudieh said, “Stop, Edda. If there’s an eclipse of the sun or a river overflows, is that Dave’s doing too?” Although a white, he was speaking to a red without being spoken to.

It was plain from Edda’s face that she thought so.

Gavein lost patience. “But this is ridiculous. Before I came, people didn’t die in your wonderful Davabel?”

Edda considered the question. “They died, of course . . . But their deaths never touched me. I can’t remember anyone in my circle who died.”

There was no point arguing. Edda’s behavior had to be chalked up to what she had endured over the last few weeks.

Massmoudieh asked how the TV was working, and the iron. He shouldn’t have mentioned the present from Max. The TV worked, but the contrast was so poor and the images so distorted, you could barely see anything on the white screen. The iron, however, after a second repair, worked fine. Ra Mahleiné had been using it a bit. She was stronger, was again coming down for meals. There was even a little color in her cheeks now. When Mass asked her a question, she murmured some stock reply.

Their inflatable mattress was never inflated enough. When Gavein lay down beside her, she was lifted up. “The elephant is wallowing again,” she would snort, or, “The bag of potatoes broke.” Or sometimes it was, “Again I’m being catapulted.” Or, “The bear came and flopped in its den.” He loved this, because she complained only when she was in a good mood. After such a remark she would be all sweetness. Even back in Lavath, Gavein had observed that Ra Mahleiné scolded with style. He riposted with a playful “For Pete’s sake,” but only when she was in humor.

He bought an iron-frame bed at a secondhand store. They had only the one style. The paint was chipped, but the construction was solid, permanent, and the box spring too.

When he washed and got in bed, she began.

“You’re like a hippo in a river,” she gritted, instead of thanking him for the new bed. “The water makes such a racket, it’s worse than hammering. You splash, splash, and everything echoes, the whole house shakes. It’s enough to drive a person mad.”

Happy with these reproaches, because they meant she was herself again, he stretched out, his joints cracking. He took her in his arms. She was wonderful to the touch, warm and fragrant.

“It’s stuffy in here. The room is tiny, and you breathe so much of the air, there’s not enough for me. I have nothing!” she burst out, pulling away, but not pulling away too much, lest he let go.

He began to caress her, although she was angry with him. Her berating was always in earnest at first.

“What about me annoys you the most?” he asked, nibbling on her earlobe. When her hair was swept aside, you could see that Ra Mahleiné had ears that jutted. He didn’t want to hurry with her: the medical summary said that his wife would need an operation to be a normal woman again.

“What I hate the most is the way you slap peanuts into your mouth. I can’t watch television, because the whole sofa shakes,” she said without hesitation. Then changed the subject, understanding his gentleness with her in bed. She began to talk about her bleeding, which had been caused by the beating on the prison ship. Her flows were less frequent now, so she must be mending.

Only now did he make a connection between Anabel’s phone calls and the arrival of Ra Mahleiné’s medical records.

The damn witch waits like a vulture, he thought. She regrets that she didn’t finish my wife off when she had the chance.

Max’s widow, Bette Hoffard, was put in the room vacated by Hilgret. Wordless, pale as a corpse, she swept her surroundings with dull, unseeing eyes and took an enormous number of psychotropic pills. Often she forgot meals. Then Edda would send Laila up to her.

The insurance money allowed Edda to add a floor to the house. Although she asked 440 packets for the new apartment, she quickly found a taker: a worker at the local immigration office. Edda told everyone that the new tenants were Ian and his wife Phyllis.

The introductions were made at dinner. Ra Mahleiné wore a colorful sweater; she had just finished knitting it. The others at the table were gray and glum: Helga in mourning; Edda with her mind elsewhere; Zef bored, his Mohawk drooping; Gavein worried; and the Hougassians silent—they had had to send their daughter back to the hospital, because among Laila’s burns was an infected place that made grafting impossible.

Ian was a short, broad man of about sixty, his hair very thin. Gavein had seen him before and quickly remembered where. Ian’s wife was taller than her husband, wore glasses, had short curly hair, and was too animated and talkative. Both were reds, their hair dyed black except for the obligatory strip.

“Ian
Yacrod
Hanning,” he said, presenting himself. Although he would not be moving to Ayrrah for several years yet, he gave his Significant Name in the Ayrrah style.
Yacrod
belonged to the group of the Names of Man.

“Phyllis
Yacrodda
,” said his wife, and they both sat.

“So many whites here!” he remarked, looking around. It was not the most diplomatic beginning, since the Hougassians were opposite him and in their best clothes. Fatima had even gone to the trouble of tying a turban.

“On the other hand,” retorted Haifan, “we never had such reds before.”

Zef put a finger in his nose.

We are indeed an odd group, thought Gavein. Ian is the normal one here. In Davabel there are very few homes where you eat at a table with whites. The people here twist the name Ra Mahleiné, but only because they twist everything. Actually, Magdalena, Magda is not so bad. And out of me they’ve made a Dave.

There was an awkward silence. Zef dug deeper, with pleasure, into his left nostril.

Edda saved the situation by bringing in a bowl of steaming pasta. To eat, Zef had to stop playing with his nose.

“I seem to know you,” said Ian, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “But I can’t place you.” He thought a moment. Gavein didn’t help him. “Dave . . . that’s it, Dave. You came for paperwork, for a woman named after a cat.”

“That’s correct.”

“So you are Mrs. Dave Throzz?” he asked Ra Mahleiné, who practically spat like a cat, her eyes flashing gold. The gold meant she was angry. And if it was visible even through the lenses of her glasses, she was angry indeed.

It dawned on Ian that he had somehow offended the people around him. He tried to mend things. “I understand you perfectly, Dave. If in my life I discovered such a snowflake, I would protect it like the apple of my eye.”

Speaking so honestly got him into trouble.

“You could keep the snowflake in the freezer,” remarked Phyllis, tight-mouthed.

“I once invited you both to dinner,” Ian said, “and now look, we are neighbors.” He was doing his best.

Phyllis couldn’t let things stand at that. “Dave,” she said, “may I ask you something?”

Gavein nodded.

“People say that blacks have a scent, that reds have none, and that whites stink. Could you tell me if it’s true? You understand, I’m only talking about body odor.”

The barb was well aimed, because Edda and Zef were reds. Gavein had no wish to antagonize either of them. “Absolutely true,” he replied. “And the body odors all change the moment one moves from Davabel to Ayrrah.”

To his wife he whispered, “Let’s take our pizza upstairs.”

“No,” she said. “This is live entertainment, better than the canned stuff on TV. Let’s sit and watch.”

Phyllis went on. “Ian says he can tell when people have just arrived from Davabel. In time, the whites learn to use special deodorants, extra-strength. Ian has booklets that give advice about body odor. Isn’t that true, Ian?” She turned to her husband. “They say white women have a different kind of period, and that’s the reason they stink even worse than the men,” she added.

Fatima blanched, which accentuated the pimples on her face. Massmoudieh looked around helplessly.

“Actually, no, it’s the reds who stink,” said Zef, running a palm along his fiery red comb, which had been stiffened with egg white. “Me, for example. I’m a regular polecat if I don’t clean my nose out properly. The smell comes from my snot.” He put a finger in, extracted a gray ball, and flicked it on the tablecloth in Phyllis’s direction.

Ra Mahleiné giggled.

Zef pulled another missile from his nostril. This time, by accident, he hit Haifan’s newspaper.

“Whites ought to keep to themselves,” declared Phyllis, setting aside all innuendo when the third ball of snot landed on the edge of her plate.

“I’m only getting rid of my body odor,” Zef said apologetically.

Unfortunately his barrage didn’t cease with that, so everyone had to leave the table before the next course.

When Ra Mahleiné later warmed up a couple of slices of pizza for the two of them, she almost dropped the pan, she was laughing so hard.

“Yes, he dealt with her,” Gavein said. “Stupid people ought to be put in reservations.”

“Absolutely not. They make you feel good. You know, in Lavath I had no idea the reds hated us so much.”

“And the blacks who came from Llanaig had the same experience. Though I think social segregation in Lavath was taken less seriously than it is here.”

“I never considered the reds or grays worse than us.”

“I know. Or even blacks.” He smiled at her.

“You see? I married you precisely to put myself in a better mood.”

“And did it work?”

“I’m not complaining.”

Their conversation was continued in bed. The pizza burned.

The next day, he didn’t go to the bookstore.

Early in the morning, Wilcox called and asked Gavein if someone could fill in for him. He said he had to finish reading some book. Gavein didn’t object.

They went down to the dining room. Ra Mahleiné settled on the sofa, covered herself with a blanket, and watched television as she knitted.

Edda was ironing her sheets. Zef was deep in thought over some lecture notes, sitting cross-legged in the armchair but not thinking it necessary to remove his shoes. Gavein smiled, beholden to the young man for having come to the rescue.

“I didn’t know you knew them, Dave,” Edda said, with a long, hard look.

“I knew only Ian. He took care of an official matter for me. Then he gave me his card and an invitation. That’s all.”

“Dave. Forgive them for last evening. We’ve had enough tragedy. Don’t start it again, like a magnet. Magda, tell him not to start it again.”

Ra Mahleiné lifted her eyes from her knitting. She didn’t like to be interrupted when she counted loops. She muttered something.

Gavein sighed and said, “Edda, please, this is absurd. If you want, we’ll move.”

“Magdalena,” Zef said, not shortening her Davabel name, because he liked the sound of it, “tell your husband he should feel proud, instead of complaining, that others think him so powerful.”

“Would you please stop it? It’s so stupid,” Ra Mahleiné exclaimed, returning her eyes to her work.

Edda left without a word.

“Don’t let my mother get under your skin, Dave. She exaggerates.”

“You were in good form yesterday.”

“I’m not doing badly today,” he laughed, making as if to pick his nose again.

But Gavein could see that something was bothering the young man. He asked what it was.

Zef answered with a question. “Why do you two both dress the same? Jeans and a flannel shirt.”

“What?”

“You look younger than you should, and that Magdalena of yours, Dave, she’s a knockout. If she has great legs, as you told me, then why doesn’t she wear black tights like other girls?”

“He told you I have great legs?” asked Ra Mahleiné.

“I might have said something like that,” Gavein confessed.

Ra Mahleiné hmphed. “A few times I put on things like that. It was back in Lavath. And he told me that was the reason he had been avoiding me. The bastard didn’t want to marry me because of the tights. He wanted me all to himself.”

“I’m not just talking about legs,” said Zef. “Why don’t you do your hair in thirty-six braids, and why doesn’t he have a comb like mine?”

“I could shave my head on the sides, all right,” said Gavein. “But where your comb is, that’s where I’m thinnest. There wouldn’t be a lot to look at.”

“My hair falls out too, but with a little egg white or sugar it stands up fine and looks like I have more.”

“And I’d hate for my wife to tie her hair up into a hundred knots. It’s soft, wonderful hair.”

“You complain it tickles your nose,” said Ra Mahleiné.

“In braids it would be worse. A braid is stiff, it can put an eye out.”

“You both dress like mice,” said Zef. “And then some dimwit broad gives you a hard time. People like that judge others by their clothes.”

“In Lavath, people dress plainly. Protective coloration.”

Zef sighed. “Maybe you’re right. That’s a style too, I suppose.” He got up from the armchair to stick something to the door. “I have to do this, with the gum, for my mother. When she sees it, she’ll feel that the world has returned to normal and that maybe you are no longer the finger of doom.”

He sat again and sighed.

“You were going to say something else, before,” Gavein said.

“Yes. It’s little Laila. They called from the hospital today.”

“More bad news?” Gavein didn’t believe in Edda’s theory, of course, but all this trouble on the heels of trouble did seem to go beyond coincidence.

“Depends on how you look at it. When she was examined, they found she was pregnant.”

“But she’s . . . twelve at most,” Ra Mahleiné exclaimed, looking up with surprise.

“What are you talking about? She’s sixteen, just small.”

“And?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“The father . . .”

“The father is me. I was the first on the scene. Earthworm tried his luck, but tried elsewhere after he got a knuckle sandwich for his efforts, and radio earphones as a consolation prize. Beanpole tried too, but with no success, so he didn’t cost me anything.”

“She’s that much of a charmer? She seems so . . . nondescript,” blurted Gavein.

“But mysterious, wrapped in all those white rags. She has to sit all the time, because everything hurts when she lies down.”

“You can’t even see if she’s pretty,” Gavein protested.

“She’s pretty. And she’ll be pretty on the top half, too, after they stick the skin back on. You can’t see it now.”

Ra Mahleiné sniffed her disapproval. She didn’t speak, not wanting to lose count, so it wasn’t clear whether it was Zef’s notion of feminine beauty she disapproved of or his way of expressing it.

“What will become of you two?”

“What has to. I’ll get her written into my passport as my wife, though she’s white. Just as you did with Magdalena. You impressed the hell out of me: a black man with a white woman, unheard of in Davabel. A red man with a white woman, that’s not as biff, but it’s something, don’t you think?”

“Definitely.”

“But isn’t she too young to be married?” asked Ra Mahleiné.

“A white woman is never too young.”

Ra Mahleiné guffawed at that.

“In Davabel, I meant,” said Zef, embarrassed. “I’ll tell old Mass that the girl’s moving in with me. He’ll be glad, because he hardly has room as it is. And my mother pays no attention to classifications.”

“I have a problem too,” said Gavein after a pause.

“Sexual counseling is on 5667 Avenue, a twenty-minute walk from here.” Zef had to wisecrack; it was his role.

“It’s not personal,” said Gavein, smiling. “It’s scientific.”

“Then chop away, man. I love scientific problems. Particularly if it’s physics.”

The young man had been working on his leather jacket, Gavein noticed. There didn’t seem to be any more room for skulls, but somehow Zef always found a spot for another.

“Here’s the problem, then,” Gavein said. “Ra Mahleiné told me about her voyage by sea. It appears that time on the ocean passes faster than it does in either Lavath or Davabel.”

“How so?”

“It was constant night, for one thing. On rare occasions the night would turn a black-blue, and without clouds in the sky. That may have been day. The women with good eyes could see airplanes overhead, not moving. Each seaplane was motionless at first, then accelerated as it descended, braking only on the water. I think that time goes faster at sea level than on land. What do you say to that?”

“It sounds right. A guy by the name of Mill has calculated that equilibrium must be preserved, that is, if things slow down above us, below us they will speed up. In other words, Lavath and Davabel are connected only by a thin layer of real time, or common time, since both are at the same level. Determining the width of that layer is actually my homework assignment.”

“How do we know there exists a layer of real time? How do we know that time in Lavath and Davabel is the same?”

“I love the way you flex your cerebral biceps. No one else in this shanty does that,” said Zef admiringly.

“All right, now it’s your turn.”

“How can you stand the way he talks?” asked Ra Mahleiné with a groan.

“He has no choice,” Gavein told her. “He’s wired that way.”

“You could try ear mufflers,” advised Zef.

“I’ll make myself a pair.”

“To work, then. This is really not known,” said the young man, commencing. “A common layer of time appears to exist, because there is fairly good agreement among different clocks. But, you know, a pilot’s hand jerks, and say good-bye to the accuracy of time measurement taken on the plane.”

“What about this speedup of time on the ocean? Doesn’t it contradict the common-layer idea?”

“You’re caught in a froze.”

“A what?”

“A mental froze. Because it’s all beautifully logical.”

“I’m afraid this froze won’t let go of me.”

“The point is, why should the effect stop at the Earth’s surface? If time slows in the absence of mass, then it should speed up in its greater presence. Did you notice that the coast is a cliff of several hundred meters? How does one get to a boat? By elevator.”

“I was never on the coast.”

“Neither was I. But I read about it in a book.”

“You’re right,” Ra Mahleiné chimed in. “The elevator drops through a tunnel in the rock. It goes fast, and it goes for a long time. You have to be careful not to put out your hand, because the railing is not high, and fifty, sixty people are packed inside. For the elevator back up, I had to wait a month. That was in addition to the quarantine.”

“You see, Gavein?”

“Miners far below the surface must get a lot accomplished,” Gavein said. It was not a brilliant observation.

“Not necessarily. The deeper you descend into the Earth, the weaker the gravity. Calculate the gravitation of a spherical body, and you’ll see. At sufficient depth, there’s a play between the dependence of time on distance and the fall in the mass contributing to the gravitational force, and no one knows which of these wins out. So far in mines, even in the lowest, no appreciable change has been observed.”

“In that case, why should the effect at the surface of the sea be stronger than it is beneath the ground at the same altitude?” Gavein asked, unconvinced.

“Use integral calculus. Ever gnawed on that nut? The y-axis does funny things near the coast.” Zef wasn’t making too much sense, and his forehead was beaded with sweat, as Haifan’s face had been before.

“Why don’t we write this Mill a letter, with the question?” Gavein suggested, as if holding out a life preserver.

“Mill happens to be in our college. I’ll talk with him as soon as he returns. He’s out on some geodesic study.”

Their conversation was ended by the appearance of Beanpole, who stood in the doorway, as pock-faced as ever and glummer than usual, chewing gum.

“Let’s go, Mohawk,” he said, shifting his weight nervously. “And don’t forget your umbrella. Today it’s their turn.”