Then the airflow from the big fan would waft in. My desk was not in the path of the breeze so it wasn't really any cooler, but it was rather pleasant to hear the rustle of papers accross the room and see the table skirt stir. On such days I would suddenly think of Fazelo-- my heart would race, my face would flush and I wouldn't know what to do. In any case, the whole of July was occupied by the following tasks:
Then August began. On the afternoon of August 2nd, I was writing a detailed description of a stone carving from China's Han Dynasty when the office boy suddenly tapped the back of my neck.
"The director says you should come."
When I turned around, slightly annoyed, he repeated with some haughtiness, "The director says come now."
Without replying, I threaded my way past the desks of the others, opened the door and respectfully entered. The director was sitting on his fat white hands, in front of the fan, reading the newspaper. When I entered, he raised his heavy eyelids slightly, then pulled a sheet of orders from a folder on his desk and handed it to me. I was extremely pleased to see what was written on it: "You are ordered to the Iyhatovo seacoast from 3 August to 28 August, for the purpose of collecting eggs of coastal waterfowl."
To go to the beautiful Iyhatovo seacoast, with its numerous reefs, to search for eggs that we did not then possess was more of a paid holiday than a job. This was a clear indication that the director and all the others were aware of my hard work, and I expressed my heartfelt appreciation. The director glanced at my face, then went back to his newspaper. All he said was, "Go to Accounting and draw your travel advance."
I bowed politely and left the room. I greeted my fellow officials and showed them my orders, and finally went to the Accounting Office. The old man there had a sullen expression; he took my seal in silence, and handed me eight large banknotes. Next I checked out our office's large camera and binoculars. When I got back home, I took all my phonograph records to the old watch shop in town and sold them. Then I purchased a broad-brimmed panama hat and a linen suit the color of eggshell.
The next morning I locked up the watchman's cottage and caught the first train to Samo, the northernmost town on the Iyhatovo seacoast. Over the next three weeks I worked my way south from town to town, cape to cape and reef to reef, pressing seaweed, gathering rock samples, sketching and photographing old sea caves and geographic formations, and shipping all these back to the office. The people of the coast found even a low-ranking official like me to be a rarity, and made me welcome wherever I went. When I wanted to go to an offshore reef, there would be 16 men pulling the oars in unison to take me out in a boat with a red or yellow flag. At night they would gather in front of my lodgings, and show me various dances-- sometimes I thought I'd rather die than watch another. But when I thought of Fazelo and the beautiful Rozalo, who was working day after day in the hot fields, I had to admire the young women and men before me who wore themselves out working all day and then came to dance and sing. Then I would pledge to myself to be firm in doing what had to be done, and to serve others.
Thus, on the afternoon of August 30, I took a small steam packet to a port in the neighboring province of Sjormo, then went by train to the city of Cendad. During my travels I had sent a letter asking to view the specimens at the College of Science there on the 31st. I got off the train at Cendad, carrying the camera and a number of knapsacks, just as lamps were being lit. I got into the car sent by a hotel close to the college, along with five or six other guests. As I held the specimens I had gathered and rode in the car as it ran between the large buildings, I felt just like a general returning from a glorious victory. When I arrived at the hotel, however, I found the windows firmly sealed despite the heat. It was quite sticky when I went to inspect the room, so I asked the bellboy.
"Say, what's the deal? I can open the window, can't I?"
He ran his hand over his glossy hair, and said, "No, sir, I'm very sorry to say that we've had a bad outbreak of poison moths in this area, and windows cannot be opened after dusk. I'll bring a fan up right away."
As I watched the boy leave, I noticed a thick bandage wrapped around his neck like a stone ring, and his face was quite swollen. Undoubtedly, I thought, he had been bitten by these poison moths. A few moments later I heard, a sharp exchange of words between the boy and the guest in the next room-- it was both lengthy and intense. I was hot and tired, and in poor humor; I decided to make a quick visit to the barbershop, and left the room. As a passed the next room, I saw that the door had been left open and the boy was standing with his head hanging in great dejection. He was facing a fat, old man with grey hair and whiskers who was sunk deep in an easy chair, in the path of an electric fan.
"You work as a bellboy, but don't know how a first-class hotel operates, do you?" He scolded the boy with his cheeks puffing out.
I figured they were arguing about the fan and, laughing bitterly to myself, started to go on downstairs. Just then the boy faced me, and rolled his eyes as though there was nothing more that could be done. That cheered me up somewhat. I descended, step by step.
Now that I knew about the poison moths, I saw the sense behind a number of strange-looking things I had seen between the depot and the hotel. There had been the remains of numerous little fires on the sidewalks, and people had been walking along covered with bandages, or wiping their faces with white cloths. Oil lamps dangled from from the willow trees that lined the avenue. I entered a barber shop, a fairly spacious one. There were nine mirrors on the wall facing me, cleverly joined to make the room look just twice as big as it actually was. There was a line of potted cypress or hemlock trees. A man who appeared to be the boss was in the corner giving instructions to half a dozen apparent employees. A large placard hung on the wall above them elegantly listed four of their names as tonsorial artists, and described two others as assistants.
"Is your present hair style satisfactory?" one of them asked, as I sat on a high chair draped with a white cloth in front of a mirror.
"Yes." My mind was filled with Iyhatovo plain, to which I would return the following, and I didn't give much thought to my reply.
At that, he crooked a finger to call over two others who were not occupied.
"What do you think? The customer thinks this style is satisfactory, but may I ask your view?"
The two walked behind me and stared at my face, reflected in the mirror, for a moment before one of the artists folded one white-clothed arm over the other and replied.
"The customer's gums are pale and round, and very well-behaved, so don't you think a neo-Grecian would be preferable to a pompadour?"
"Yes, I think so too," the second agreed.
My artist nodded as though they had echoed his very thoughts, and then addressed me.
"How would this be-- a neo-Grecian style would harmonize with your face better than your present style..."
"Really? Just do that, then," I replied politely. I did so because I understood them to be skilled craftsmen.
My head was quickly made lovely, and my weariness was greatly relieved as well. As I looked at the green potted trees and the movement of the white fingers of the artist, I listened to the clip-clipping of the shears and thought of how I would sleep well that night, then spend the following day in the basement of the college sharing views with one of the assistants there.
All of a sudden, there was a loud scream from the man in the next chair. "No! Oh, no! Get it! Damn, damn, damn!"
I turned and looked in astonishment. The artists were swarming around him. The man who had screamed had one half his beard shaven off and was much thinner, but without question he was Destupago. I felt I had succeeded. Destupago was scowling ferociously without paying any attention to me.
"Where did it brush you?"
The head artist, wearing a linen morning coat, came over with a large flask in his hands, and pushed his way through the others. In the meantime, several of the artists had captured the small, yellow poison moth with a butterfly net.
"Here! Right here!" Destupago said as he pointed under his left eye.
The head artist quickly soaked a cloth with the fluid in the flask and wiped the area under the eye.
"What kind of medicine is that?" Destupago yelled.
"A 2% solution of ammonia," the boss replied calmly.
"Ammonia doesn't work-- I read it in the paper this morning."
"What paper did you read that in?" The boss was calmer than ever.
"The Cendad Daily News."
"It was mistaken. The director of the Provincial Health Department has declared that ammonia is effective."
"That doesn't make it true."
"Is that so? In any case, the spot seems to be quite swollen." The head artist looked somewhat annoyed. He turned around and carried the flask back to its place, enraging Destupago.
"That's an insult! I have an important meeting with army veterinarians tomorrow, you know. They'll get a bad impression if I go like this. I'll sue your shop!" As he shouted, he examined his red, rapidly swelling cheek in the mirror.
The boss's anger was clear in his reply. "What are you taking about! The poison moths are everywhere-- if one brushed you while you were walking around the streets, would you sue the mayor?"
Destupago sat down with an astringent look, and said "You. Hurry an finish up. Right now!" The other half of his beard was shaved, with careful attention to his misshapen cheek.
I was in a hurry as well; I wanted to be sure to finish before him. I planned to get up immediately if he finished first, and quietly found my wallet and pulled out a large coin. But for some reason, my artist was in even a bigger hurry than I was. He frequently looked at the clock.
He was able to shave a face like mine in 35 seconds.
"Now, sir, let me wash it."
Holding my hands so that Destupago would not recognize my face, I stood in front of a marble wash basin. The artist ran cold water over my head, occasionally wiping my face with his fingers, so I went ahead and washed my face myself. Then I returned to the chair.
Just then the boss said "There's one more minute. Finish up the important things while there's still electricity. Is the acetylene ready?"
"I've filled them," a boy dressed in white replied.
"Well, bring them in. You can't wait till the lights are out."
The young assistant carried in four acetylene lamps, lined them up in front of the mirrors, added water and lighted them. the acetylene began burning with a harsh growl. Just then, whistles at factories around the town all blew at once, children called out, and the bells of churches and temples began to ring. The electric lights blinked out. Lit only by the acetylene lamps, our surroundings took on a bluish cast. As I looked in the mirror at the dark, transparent glass door of the blue room, light seemed to float in the middle of the sea, and brought to mind ancient India. Outside the door, one of the artists had lit a little bonfire.
"The poison moths will be exterminated tonight," someone said.
"Well, how does that look?" my artist asked as he sprinkled my head with cologne from a gilded vase. Then he wiped my face carefully, turned toward the door, and said, "Please come take a look."
Some of the artists were standing by the door; others were out by the fire, gazing at the outdoor scene. But they all noisily came over and stood behind me. They examined my face in the mirror as though it were a matter of great interest, then said "Quite nice."
I got out of the chair, and paid with the coin that had grown warm in my grasp. Then I left through the big glass door and stopped in the street. It was my intention to follow Destupago.
I had a very strange feeling as I stood there; I couldn't stop the strong pounding of my heart. I was on a central avenue of Cendad, lined with with large Victorian buildings, but there was not one streetlamp lit. Large yellow lamps were hung from the willows along the street, and smoke from the red bonfires along the sidewalk rose into the gentle night air. The constellation Cassiopoeia glimmered above, and Lyra was also visible through the haze. For some reason it seemed to me like a summer night of some country far to the south. I waited, peering at what was happening inside the shop. I saw a number of winged insects actually fly into the flames. Everywhere I looked, people of the city were lighting fires, their faces wrapped in bandages or covered with cloth.
A little ways away I heard a high, sharp voice with somewhat unusual power coming in my direction. It came from a strange little old man, stooped but sturdy, who was holding up a board with four whale oil candles.
He called out this refrain: "No lights in the house! Don't light other lamps while the electricity is off. Put out any lights in the house."
If there were houses with lights burning, this old man went to each door and called out his instructions: "No lights in the house! Don't light other lamps while the electricity is off. Put out any lights in the house."
His voice echoed between the rows of buildings, and disappeared in the darkness.
The old man seem to be respected by all. Everyone he passed bowed politely. I could hear him calling at the top of his voice. "No lights in the house! Don't light other lamps while the electricity is off. Put out any lights in the house." Then, "Oh, good evening." He would greet the people around him as he was calling out the message.
"Who is that?" I asked the artist who was tending the fire.
"That's the fencing master."
The fencing master was walking straight toward us.
"No lights in the house! Don't light other lamps while the electricity is off. Put them out right away. Oh, good evening. You've had a long day."
The head artist had come out to greet him. "Good evening. It certainly has gotten hot."
"Yes, really. The moth restrictions make it unbearable."
"That's true. Well, good night." The fencing master kept calling out as he went on his way.
The voice faded in the distance, then stopped as he turned a corner somewhere. As it did, Destupago finally emerged from barber shop, with its look of a blue sea. He looked at the passers by for a moment, then walked off to the south. I started out after him, pretending to watch moths fall in the fire, but keeping close behind him. Destupago appeared to be very agitated about having been brushed by the poison moth. He seemed rather pitiful as I followed after him. Needless to say, no one greeted him, and Destupago walked along the edge of the street, in the shadows of the row of trees that lined it, as though trying his best to avoid being seen by others.
I was sure his bragging about meeting with army veterinarians was a lie. After a while Destupago stopped and looked around for a moment, then turned into a small side street. I kept on walking, as though unaware of him. Soon after turning, Destupago entered the gate of a cottage with a front garden. Up till that moment, I had been wondering whether to learn the situation and approach Destupago, or to go to the police, tell them this was the Destupago the Iyhatovo police were looking for and ask them to arrest him. But ignoring the consequences, I ran to try getting into Destupago's house.
"Mr. Destupago! Just a moment."
Destupago stopped still. He didn't attempt to flee when he saw me, but stood there looking despondent.
"I've come looking for Fazelo-- hand him over."
His hands were shaking. "That is a misunderstanding-- a misunderstanding. I know nothing of the boy."
"If that's true, why are you hiding in a place like this?"
Destupago turned quite red.
"The Iyhatovo police have been searching for you and Fazelo. They haven't given up. You'll be arrested tonight for sure. Where is Fazelo?" I spat out those lies without a thought.
Destupago shivered as he squinted at me from a face swollen into an odd shape by the poison moth, then spoke so fast I could barely understand him. "That's not the way it is-- not the way it is. This involves my honor-- my honor as a gentleman."
"If that's so, why are you hiding out here."
Destupago finally stopped shivering. He considered for a moment, then spoke more slowly.
"I only received a summons from the police. I received a travel permit, and sent a proxy. That was with the full acquiescence of the chief of police. I'm sure the police do not suspect me of anything."
"Then why did you get a travel permit and flee?"
Destupago was finally settled down. "Well, why don't you come in, and I'll explain in detail."
Destupago pushed open the small entryway door behind him. An old lady, who appeared to have been standing and watching us, came to greet him.
"Get us some tea."
Destupago walked directly into the room on the right. Although I didn't think there was much danger of it, it wouldn't do to let him escape now, so I went and stood in the doorway.
"Come on in, please."
I went into the parlor. Destupago had settled down completely.
"It's not completely wrong to say I came here to get away from someone. Actually, I'm the president of a carbonization plant in that forest, as you must be aware. However, it has been accumulating losses with the change in pharmaceutical prices; that couldn't be helped. Needless to say, I staked all my assets on this enterprise. Then, at a meeting of the board of directors, one of the directors proposed that we turn it into a brewery. We approved that, and tried brewing a very small amount on an experimental basis, but we didn't report it to the tax bureau. However, one of my subordinates has used that fact to intimidate me. That evening was a difficult time for me. The people who were there were all stockholders. I had picked that spot carefully. But the stockholders' opposition was extremely strong. I was ruined, and that's why I got so drunk. And that's the scene you walked in on."
The events of that evening finally became clear to me. At the same time, this Destupago sitting in front of me became an object of pity.
"Yes, I understand. But still, what happened to Fazelo?"
"I have no hatred for that boy," Destupago said. "If conditions were better, like they were once before, I would have helped him, and even gotten him into school. But I'm certain the boy has gone somewhere and is doing something. The police take the same view."
I suddenly stood up and bid Destupago farewell. "I'll leave, then. Please leave this place and return yourself, since I can't promise not to say what's happened when I get back."
Destupago spoke forlornly. "I really have no place to turn now. Please try to understand."
I bowed.
"Is Rozalo okay?" Destupago blurted out.
"Yes, she seems to be working." For some reason, my reply was not in my normal
voice.
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