Doctor Opir finally ran down, leaned back in his chair, and inhaled deeply with total enjoyment. I sucked on the mighty cigar and contemplated the man. I had him well pegged, this doctor of philosophy. Always and in all times there have been such men, absolutely pleased with their situation in society and therefore absolutely satisfied with the condition of that society. A marvelously well-geared tongue and a lively pen, magnificent teeth and faultless innards, and a well-employed sexual apparatus.
“And so the world is beautiful, Doctor?”
“Yes,” said the doctor with feeling, “it is finally beautiful.”
“You are a gigantic optimist,” said I.
“Our time is the time of optimists. Pessimists go to the Good Mood Salon, void the gall from their subconscious, and become optimists. The time of pessimists has passed, just as the time of tuberculars, of sexual maniacs, and of the military has passed. Pessimism, as an intellectual emotion, is being extirpated by that self-same science. And that not indirectly through the creation of affluence, but concretely by way of invasion of the dark world of the subcortex. Let’s take the dream generator, currently the most popular diversion of the masses. It is completely harmless, unusually well adopted to general use, and is structurally simple. Or consider the neurostimulators….”
I attempted to steer him into the desired channel.
“Doesn’t it seem to you that right there in the pharmaceutical field science is overdoing it a bit sometimes?”
Doctor Opir smiled condescendingly and sniffed at his cigar.
“Science has always moved by trial and error,” he said weightily. “And I am inclined to believe that the so-called errors are always the result of criminal application. We haven’t yet entered the Golden Age, we are just in the process of doing so, and all kinds of throwbacks, mobsters, and just plain dirt are under foot. So all kinds of drugs are put out which are health-destroying, but which are created, as you know, from the best of motives; all kinds of aromatics … or this… well, that doesn’t suit a dinner conversation.” He cackled suddenly and obscenely “You can guess my meaning — we are mature people! What was I saying? Oh yes, all this shouldn’t disturb you. It will pass just like the atom bombs.”
“I only wanted to emphasize,” I remarked, “that there is still the problem of alcoholism, and the problem of narcotics.”
Doctor Opir’s interest in the conversation was visibly ebbing. Apparently he imagined that I challenged his thesis that science is a boon. To conduct an argument on this basis naturally bored him, as though, for instance, he had been affirming the salubriousness of ocean swimming and I was contradicting him on the basis that I had almost drowned last year.
“Well, of course…” he mumbled, studying his watch, “we can’t have it all at once…. You must admit, after all, that it is the basic trend which is the most important…. Waiter!”
Doctor Opir had eaten well, had a good conversation — professing progressive philosophy — felt well-satisfied, and I decided not to press the matter, especially as I really didn’t give a hang about his progressive philosophy, while in the matters which interested me the most, he probably would not be concretely informed at all in the final analysis.
We paid up and went out of the restaurant. I inquired, “Do you ]mow, Doctor, whose monument that is? Over there on the plaza.”
Doctor Opir gazed absent-mindedly. “Sure enough, it’s a monument,” he said. “Somehow I overlooked it before…. Shall I drop you somewhere?”
“Thank you, I prefer to walk.”
“In that case, goodbye. It was a pleasure to meet you…. Of course it’s hard to expect to convince you.” He grimaced, shifting a toothpick around his mouth. “But it would be interesting to try. Perhaps you will attend my lecture? I begin tomorrow at ten.”
“Thank you,” I said. “What is your topic?”
“Neo-optimist Philosophy. I will be sure to touch upon a series of questions which we have so pithily discussed today.”
“Thank you,” I said again. “Most assuredly.”
I watched as he went to his long automobile, collapsed in the seat, puttered with the auto-driver control, fell back against the seat back, and apparently dozed off instantly. The car began to roll cautiously across the plaza and disappeared in the shade and greenery of a side street.
Neo-optimism… Neo-hedonism… Neo-cretinism… Neo-capitalism… “No evil without good,” said the fox. So, I have landed in the Country of the Boobs. It should he recorded that the ratio of congenital fools does not vary as a function of time. It should be interesting to determine what is happening to the percentage of fools by conviction. Curious — who assigned the title of Doctor to him? He is not the only one! There must have been a whole flock of doctors who ceremoniously granted that title to Neo-optimist Opir. However, this occurs not only among philosophers.
I saw Rimeyer come into the hall and forgot Doctor Opir at once. The suit hung on Rimeyer like a sack. Rimeyer stooped, and his face was flabby. I thought he wavered in his walk. He approached the elevator and I caught him by the sleeve there.
He jumped violently and turned on me.
“What in hell?” he said. He was clearly unhappy to see me.
“Why are you still here?”
“I waited for you.”
“Didn’t I tell you to come tomorrow at noon?”
“What’s the difference?” I said. “Why waste time?”
He looked at me, breathing laboriously.
“I am expected. A man is waiting for me in my room, and he must not see you with me. Do you understand?”
“Don’t shout,” I said. “People are noticing.”
Rimeyer glanced sideways with watery eyes.
“Go in the elevator,” he said.
We entered and he pressed the button for the fifteenth floor.
“Get on with your business quickly,” he said.
The order was startlingly stupid, so that I was momentarily disoriented.
“You mean to say that you don’t know why I am here?”
He rubbed his forehead, and then said, “Hell, everything’s mixed up…. Listen, I forgot, what is your name?”
“Zhilin.”
“Listen, Zhilin, I have nothing new for you. I didn’t have time to attend to that business. It’s all a dream, do you understand? Matia’s inventions. They sit there, writing papers, and invent. They should all be pitched the hell out.”
We arrived at the fifteenth floor and he pressed the button for the first.
“Devil take it,” he said. “Five more minutes and he’ll leave…. In general I am convinced of one thing, there is nothing to it. Not in this town, in any case.” He looked at me surreptitiously, and turned his eyes away. “Here is something I can tell you. Look in at the Fishers. Just like that, to clear your conscience.”
“The Fishers? What Fishers?”
“You’ll find out for yourself,” he said impatiently. “But don’t get tricky with them. Do everything they ask.” Then, as though defending himself, he added, “I don’t want any preconceptions, you understand.”
The elevator stopped at the first floor and he signaled for the ninth.
“That’s it,” he said. “Then we’ll meet and talk in detail. Let’s say tomorrow at noon.”
“All right,” I said slowly. He obviously did not want to talk to me. Maybe he didn’t trust me. Well, it happens!
“By the way,” I said, “you have been visited by a certain Oscar.”
It seemed to me that he started.
“Did he see you?”
“Naturally. He asked me to tell you that he will be calling tonight.”
“That’s bad, devil take it, bad….” muttered Rimeyer. “Listen… damn, what is your name?”
“Zhilin.”
The elevator stopped.
“Listen, Zhilin, it’s very bad that he has seen you…. However, what the hell is the difference. I must go now.” Re opened the elevator door, “Tomorrow we’ll have a real good talk, okay? Tomorrow… and you look in on the Fishers. Is that a deal?”
He slammed the door with all his strength.
“Where will I look for them?” I asked.
I stood awhile, looking after him. He was almost running, receding down the corridor with erratic steps.
Chapter FIVE
I walked slowly, keeping to the shade of the trees. Now and then a car rolled by. One of these stopped and the driver threw open the door, leaned out, and vomited on the pavement. He cursed weakly, wiped his mouth with his palm, slammed the door, and drove off. He was on the elderly side, red-faced, wearing a loud shirt with nothing under it.
Rimeyer apparently had turned into a drunkard. This happens fairly often: a man tries hard, works hard, is considered a valuable contributor, he is listened to and made out as a model, but just when he is needed for a concrete task, it suddenly turns out that he has grown puffy and flabby, that wenches are running in and out of his place, and that he smells of vodka from early morning…. Your business does not interest him, while at the same time, he is frightfully busy, is constantly meeting someone, talks confusingly and murkily, and is of no help whatsoever. And then he turns up in the alcoholic ward, or a mental clinic, or is involved in a legal process. Or he gets married unexpectedly — strangely and ineptly — and this marriage smells strongly of blackmail. … One can only comment: “Physician, heal thyself.”