The procession came closer and soon drew even with me. Alongside the singers walked a very pretty girl with a red dot on her forehead. She was holding a tray with some round pinkish sweets arranged on it. I stood on the edge of the sidewalk and watched the philosophers of song and dance go by.
She came up to me and held out the tray:
“Take one!”
“What is it?”
“Imagine that it’s a pill that will relieve you of doubt and suffering forever.”
“But how?”
“It will end your material existence, which is the source of both doubt and suffering.”
Well now. So they have pills too. To help one lead a purely spiritual existence. But she’s a nice, normal-looking girl! What got her so involved in… philosophy? And she’s not shy about preaching, apparently—just comes right out with it. Must be new at this.
“No, I’m sorry. I’ve already heard about you. And I like you, really. I far prefer your methods to those of other schools. But… I’m not ready yet.”
The walk light turned green and I started across the street. The procession continued on its own way. Within a few minutes, all I could hear was that thin, bell-like sound, mixed in with the noise of the cars and people. And then it faded away, dissolved into the din of the great city.
I walked down the canal embankment that ran perpendicular to Nevsky Prospect, and stopped in one of my favorite cafés, one that was relatively quiet for this part of the city. I waited briefly in line and ordered an espresso.
I didn’t really want any coffee.
I needed to gather my thoughts.
Though I had already made my decision.
I needed to find the business card.
And that wasn’t difficult.
I knew that it wouldn’t be.
Not the kind of business card that you stick in your pocket at some point, and then you decide you need it for some reason and so turn everything inside out looking for it, upending your briefcase, shaking everything out onto the floor, rummaging through your whole apartment, even checking inside books to see if you might have stuck it between the pages. And you still can’t find it.
The kind I mean is always with you. And when you finally make your decision, it’s right there where you need it.
I took my wallet out of my inside jacket pocket and opened it. There was the business card, in the transparent plastic pocket. Where my debit card used to be. But I didn’t feel at all concerned, just then: I figured I must have put the bank card in some other pocket.
There was only one word on this business card too.
And some numbers. A phone number, I presumed.
I didn’t have my cell phone with me. I’d stopped using it long ago. Hadn’t even thought to bring it along.
There’s a telephone on the wall near the counter in the café for customers to use. You can call anywhere in the city for free and talk as long as you want, so long as there isn’t some antsy girl waiting in line behind you looking at her watch. And so long as it’s a direct number. This number was the most direct imaginable. All seven numbers were the same. I procrastinated a moment wondering if there were even any numbers in our area code with that prefix. But it could have been a new system with its own fiber-optic cables, or something, operating independently from the regional phone system.
I dialed the number. A girl’s voice answered. I gave my name, and she said simply: “I’ll connect you.”
Then a man’s voice came on the line. I gave my name again. He said:
“Delighted. Come right over to the office, and we’ll go through the contract.”
Which caught me off guard.
“But I haven’t told you what I want yet…”
His answer didn’t quite match: “We knew you would call.”
He transferred me back to the girl, who told me how to get to the office. It wasn’t that far from Nevsky Prospect; in fact, it was quite close to the café where I was making the call. Soon I was at the address, standing by the door. There wasn’t anything special about it, no gothic monograms or anything like that. Just a doorbell. I pushed it.
I heard footsteps on the other side, and a girl opened the door and invited me inside.
“Come with me. I’ll take you…”
Judging from the sound of her voice, it was the same girl who’d answered the phone.
We passed through a large foyer and went down a long corridor to a spacious office, where a man was sitting behind a massive desk. Apparently the girl and this man, her boss, were the only people working here. Such extravagance, thought I, and right in the center of the city, with its insanely high rents for commercial space! They must own the building.
The man stood up when I entered the room.
He didn’t look at all like Al Pacino. Young, blond, with soft features. There was absolutely nothing infernal about his appearance. He shook my hand; his grip wasn’t too firm, wasn’t too limp: just right. He didn’t hold my hand for too long, didn’t pull back his hand too early, and his palm was dry and warm. Everything was ideal—creepily so.
“Hello! Glad to see you! Have a seat.”
He indicated a comfortable chair in front of a small coffee table at the wall, and instead of going back to his desk, he took a seat in a chair on the other side of the table, just like mine, exactly the same height. Perfect manners.
“To tell you the truth, we’re a little pressed for time. I have to close the deal today and submit a report.”
“I’m ready. I’ve just been a little busy, finishing up my book.”
“Good for you! Was it difficult?”
There was nothing forced or artificial about his tone. Just sincere interest and concern. The question could just as well have been about my decision or my literary labors… I preferred to believe the latter.
“How to begin… actually, this is harder. When you finish a book, you think that you’ve already said and done everything you could, and you don’t know why you should bother to go on living… Time to die, pal, you tell yourself. But the days go by, weeks, months, and you accumulate new experiences, new ideas come to you. Or maybe they’re just new words and images for the same old thoughts. And the conclusion you reach is always the same, essentially: Just keep on doing what you’re doing. Keep on pushing that boulder up the hill, dance while the music is playing, fight on without worrying about victory or defeat. Everyone finds his own image, the only possible thought for him or her, and tries to communicate it to the world. We have no choice! But a feeling of emptiness at a certain stage is unavoidable.”
“I understand. I hope that the fruit of your labor was worth all the effort.”
“Sometimes it seems to me that any normal person who’d read my book would have only two questions: First, what was the author smoking? And second: Is there any more?”
He laughed the beautiful laugh of a healthy, genial, self-assured man.
“Well, that’s hardly the worst reaction! Your literary experiments are undoubtedly extremely interesting. But let’s get down to business. Please take a look at the terms of the contract.”
There was a stack of papers lying on the table. He slid it over to my side.
I skimmed the dozen or so pages, which were covered with fine print, and said, “All right. I agree.”
“Then let’s sign.”
I have to admit that I was still a little nervous. I’d made a point of bringing a pen from home. I got it out and pricked my finger with the sharp end.
A single drop of scarlet blood spilled onto the white page next to my signature.
He gave a satisfied smile and, gathering up the signed contract, noted: “That was not at all necessary.”