“Hello, Maria,” he said, trying to speak as gently as possible. “How are you, Monkey?”
She didn’t reply. She stayed quiet and silently backed up toward the door of the living room, glaring at him from beneath her brows. It looked like she didn’t recognize him. But then, to be honest, he didn’t recognize her either. The Zone, he thought. Shit.
“Who’s there?” asked Guta, peering out of the kitchen. “My God, Dick! Where have you been hiding? You know, Redrick came back!”
She hurried toward him, wiping her hands on a towel thrown over her shoulder—the same good-looking, strong, energetic woman, except she seemed more haggard somehow: her face had become drawn, and her eyes were… feverish, maybe?
He kissed her cheek, handed her his raincoat and hat, and said, “I’ve heard, I’ve heard. Just couldn’t pick a time to drop by. Is he home?”
“Yeah,” said Guta. “There’s someone over. He’ll probably leave soon, they’ve been in there awhile… Come in, Dick.”
He took a few steps along the hallway and stopped in the living room doorway. The old man was sitting behind the table. Alone. Motionless and listing slightly to one side. The pink light from the lamp shade fell on the dark, wide face—as if carved from old wood—on the sunken lipless mouth, and on the fixed vacant eyes. And immediately Noonan sensed the smell. He knew that it was just a freak of the imagination, that the smell only lasted the first few days and then disappeared without a trace, but Richard Noonan could sense it as if with his memory—a damp, heavy smell of fresh earth.
“Why don’t we go to the kitchen,” Guta said hastily. “I’m cooking dinner; we can talk at the same time.”
“Of course,” Noonan said brightly. “Haven’t seen each other in ages! Do you still remember what I like to drink before dinner?”
They went to the kitchen, Guta immediately opened the fridge, and Noonan sat down at the table and looked around. As usual, everything in here was tidy, everything sparkled, and there was steam rising from the pots. The stove was a new electric one, which meant there was money in the house. “Well, how is he?”
“Same as always,” answered Guta. “He lost weight in jail, but he’s already gained it back.”
“Redheaded?”
“I’ll say!”
“Mean?”
“Of course! He’ll take that to the grave.”
Guta put a Bloody Mary in front of him—a clear layer of Russian vodka seemed to be suspended above a layer of tomato juice.
“Too much?” she asked.
“Just the right amount.” Noonan gathered air into his lungs and, screwing up his eyes, poured the mixture into his mouth. He remembered that this was basically the first real drink he’d had today. “That’s much better,” he said. “Now life is good.”
“Everything OK with you?” asked Guta. “Why haven’t you come by in so long?”
“I’ve been damned busy,” said Noonan. “Every week I was planning to drop by or at least call, but first there was the trip to Rexopolis, then I had to deal with a scandal, then they told me ‘Redrick came back’—all right, I think, why get in the way… Anyway, Guta, I’ve been run off my feet. Sometimes I ask myself, Why the hell are we always in such a whirl? For the money? But why in the world do we need money, if all we ever do is keep working?”
Guta clanged the pot lids, took a pack of cigarettes from the shelf, and sat across from Noonan. Her eyes were lowered. Noonan quickly snatched out a lighter and lit her cigarette, and for the second time in his life saw her hands shake—like that time when Redrick had just been convicted, and Noonan came by to bring her money: at first, she was completely destitute, and the assholes in the building refused to lend her a cent. Eventually, the money did appear and, in all likelihood, a considerable sum, and Noonan could guess where it was from, but he continued to drop by—bringing the Monkey toys and candy, spending whole evenings drinking coffee with Guta, helping her plan Redrick’s successful future life. Finally, getting his fill of her stories, he would go to the neighbors and try to somehow reason with them, explaining, cajoling, then finally losing his patience, threatening: “You know, Red will come back, he’ll break every bone in your body…” Nothing helped.
“How’s your girlfriend?” asked Guta.
“Who?”
“You know, the one you brought that time… The blonde.”
“You thought that was my girlfriend? That was my stenographer. She got married and quit.”
“You should get married, Dick,” said Guta. “Want me to find you a wife?”
Noonan almost replied, as usual, I’m waiting for the Monkey but stopped himself in time. It wouldn’t have sounded right. “I need a stenographer, not a wife,” he grumbled. “You should leave your redheaded devil and come work for me as a stenographer. I remember you were an excellent stenographer. Old Harris still remembers you.”
“I’m sure he does,” she said. “I had a hell of a time fending him off.”
“Is that how it was?” Noonan pretended to be surprised. “That Harris!”
“My God!” said Guta. “He wouldn’t leave me alone! I was just afraid that Red would find out.”
The Monkey silently appeared—she materialized in the doorway, looked at the pots, looked at Richard, then approached her mother and leaned against her, turning away her face.
“Well, Monkey,” Richard Noonan said heartily. “Want a chocolate?”
He dug into his vest pocket, took out a little chocolate car in a clear packet, and offered it to the girl. She didn’t move. Guta took the chocolate and put it on the table. Her lips suddenly turned white.
“Yes, Guta,” Noonan said, still cheery, “I’m planning to move, you know. I’m sick of the hotel. First of all, it really is too far from the Institute—”
“She almost doesn’t understand anything anymore,” said Guta softly, and he cut himself off, picked up a glass with both hands, and started pointlessly spinning it in his fingers. “I see that you don’t ask how we are,” she continued, “and you’re right not to. Except you’re an old friend, Dick, we have no secrets from you. Not that we could keep it a secret!”
“Have you seen a doctor?” asked Noonan, without raising his eyes.
“Yes. They can’t do a thing. And one of them said…”
She fell silent. He was silent, too. There was nothing to say here, and he didn’t want to think about it, but he was unexpectedly struck by an awful thought: It’s an invasion. Not a picnic, not a plea for contact—an invasion. They can’t change us, but they infiltrate the bodies of our children and change them in their image. He shivered, but then he immediately remembered that he had already read something like that, some paperback with a bright glossy cover, and the memory made him feel better. People imagined all sorts of things. In reality, nothing was ever the way people imagined.
“And one of them said she’s no longer human,” continued Guta.
“Nonsense,” Noonan said hollowly. “You should see a real specialist. See James Catterfield. Want me to talk to him? I’ll arrange an appointment…”
“You mean the Butcher?” She gave a nervous laugh. “Thanks, Dick, but it’s all right. He’s the one who said that. Must be fate.”
When Noonan dared to look up again, the Monkey was already gone, and Guta was sitting motionless, her mouth half open and her eyes empty, the cigarette in her fingers growing a long crooked column of gray ash. He pushed his glass toward her and said, “Make me another, dear. And make one for yourself. And we’ll drink.”