Markov's voice sounded wet and wheedling through the telephone. "Ivan," he said, "it is the last time he will see her. He gave his word."
"The word of a boy whose pants are out of shape," Cherkassky said. "You trust this word?"
"He is infatooated," Markov said. "He will have her, and then his schwantz will droop, and the world will not be changed, and she will seem less beautiful, and it will all be over."
Cherkassky fretted. He looked across the narrow, still canal to the garish mint-green house on the other side. So stupidly cheerful, these Americans, with their houses of peach and turquoise, archways and walkways of bright tile, their obnoxious optimism and cars the colors of candy. Finally he said, "Would have been much better if you tell him simply no."
"Ivan," said Markov, "do you remember, long ago, what happened when your schwantz would stand?"
The scoop-faced man hung up.
He sat there in his unlived-in living room and he thought a while. He didn't pace, he didn't fidget He just looked out the window and wondered why it was that the more wretched his life became—the more devoid of joy, the more totally inhabited by mistrust and disapproval—the more determined he was to safeguard it at any cost. He once again picked up the phone.
He called the Belorussian woman who cleaned Lazslo's apartment. He told her to get on her scooter and come to Key Haven right away.
"So Sam," said Bert "when you worked, what kind of work did you do?"
Sam scratched his head through the tangles of extravagant Einstein hair, said modestly, "I invented things. I was, ya know, a tinkerer."
"Invented things?" said Bert. He was impressed but also distracted. His chihuahua needed attention.
They were sitting poolside at the Paradiso, in the shade of a metal umbrella painted like a daisy. But the sun had shifted and now Bert had to reach across the table to slide his dog back into the retreating shadow.
"Gets dehydrated," he explained. "Eyeballs dry up. Lids stick. He goes ta blink, his ears wiggle but nothing happens wit' the eyes. Looks confused. And his little asshole too. Dries up. Looks like chapped lips. Crinkly. Vet said rub a little Chap Stick on it. Can ya believe it, Chap Stick. I gotta remember which pocket his is in, which pocket mine. So wha'd y'invent?"
Sam didn't answer right away. He watched the pale chihuahua, sublime in its passivity, being slid across the surface of the table, its tiny toenails screeching softly against the paint. When it was safely in the shade again, it seemed to smile; its mouth twitched open, showing mottled gums. Finally Sam said, "I invented very simple things. Useful little gizmos. Like, you know that kind of can opener, it has a wheel, you squeeze the handle and the wheel bites through the top? I invented that."
"You invented that?" said Bert. "You musta made a fortune."
Sam said, "Before that wheel, you opened a can, you got dents in your fingers, that's how hard you had to squeeze. But a fortune? Ach! I sold the patent, flat-rate, to a company. Moved my family to the suburbs. Spent a lot more time at home."
"Retired right away?"
"Nah," said Sam. "Kept working. Built myself a bigger workshop. Fiddled with crystal radios, phonograph needles, wireless intercoms. But I liked being home. Seeing my boy grow up. Helping with homework. Going to the bakery together, now and then a day game at the Stadium. Simple things... And what did you do, Bert?"
The table they were sitting at was right next to the pool. The breeze was fresh and it was too cool for swimming, but that didn't stop the short-term guests from swimming anyway. They kicked, they splashed, the liquid noises obscured the words when Bert said softly, "I was in the Mafia."
Sam wasn't sure he'd heard right. He double-checked that his hearing aid was in. He looked dubiously at his new friend, the skinny face, the banana nose. He said, "You were in modeling?"
Bert leaned in a little closer, spoke no louder but bit the words off cleanly. "Not modeling. Mafia."
Sam said, "Now you're making fun of me."
"An old man," said Bert, "does not make fun of another old man. God doesn't like that shit."
There was a pause. Tourists splashed; a red biplane dragged an ad across the sky above the beach.
Finally Sam said, "So you're in the Mafia now?"
"Retired."
Sam pursed his lips. "Things I've read, movies—I didn't think you could retire."
Bert said, "Special case. I died."
Sam wagged a finger in his face. "God doesn't like that shit," he warned.
So Bert told him the story. The dread subpoena; the murderous stress of being called to testify. The heart attack on the courthouse steps. Ambulances, sirens, the mask thrust over his bluing face. And finally, the deliverance of a dead-fiat EKG. Twenty-seven seconds of eternity, before they shocked him back to life. Enough for Bert to persuade his bosses that he'd fulfilled his solemn pledge: He'd come in living, and gone out dead, and this second go-round should be his own.