Soma Blues

by Robert Sheckley

  “I’d love to talk to you some other time,” Hob said. “For now, why don’t you run like mad out of here and call the cops, and maybe have them send an ambulance, too.”

  “Yeah, buddy,” the larger South American said. “Why don’t you get your ass the hell out of here?”

  “I have need to talk to Mr. Draconian,” the stranger said. “My business is pressing.”

  The smaller man laughed—a short ugly sound from a short ugly man. “Pressing? Listen, baby, you want pressing, we’ll give you pressing.” He started to walk toward the whitehaired stranger, who was standing in a little space between cars, illuminated now by stray beams from a vagrant three-quarter moon drifting lazily between wispy clouds.

  The stranger said, in conversational tones, “Mr. Vargas is arriving tomorrow.”

  The two men stopped, but only for a moment. The bigger one said, “So what’s that to us?”

  “He wants everything to stay nice and quiet.”

  “It’ll be nice and quiet by the time he gets here,” the bigger man said. “Now, get the hell out of here. We have business with this guy.”

  “No,” the white-haired stranger said. “Forget your business and go away.”

  The South Americans started to move again, approaching the white-haired stranger from different sides. Hob was getting ready to throw himself into action, as soon as he could control the violent quavering in his knees. The stranger was up on his toes, bouncing lightly, and then he was moving toward the big one, taking quick little dancing steps. The little rat-faced guy was taking something from his pocket—gun, knife, or razor, Hob couldn’t tell what it was in the darkness. But no matter, because the stranger suddenly turned, rocked back on one leg and kicked, a beautiful kick, like a soccer sweeper. The toe of his shoe caught the object and sent it spinning into the darkness, to land with a metallic clang on the roof of a distant car.

  “Wha’ the fuck?” the big man said. He put down his bullet head and charged, but the white-haired man was turning, pirouetting in a weird sort of ballet movement, dancing and darting to one side, and his hands flashed out, making sharp, snapping sounds as they came into contact with the big man’s shoulder and head. The guy was stopped dead in his tracks. He took a clumsy off-balance swipe at the stranger, but the man was already out of range, dancing on his toes, coming at the smaller man, moving past him and catching him in the kishkes with a vicious elbow blow. The little guy bellowed and swung his fists. The stranger pirouetted again, and his foot lashed out behind him. He caught the little guy in the pit of the stomach. The little guy made an obscene sound as all the air was forcibly expelled from his body. He fell backward, making horrible retching sounds as he tried to catch his breath. The stranger tiptoed in again coming toward the other man, his arms whirring in a blur of motion, his legs kicking out. Suddenly the big guy seemed to go airborne. For a moment his body was horizontal to the ground and at right angles to the white-haired stranger, and then he came down hard on the back of his head. He lay there, groaning through bloodied teeth, looking like a gigantic beetle with a South American accent who’d been flipped over onto his back and crushed.

  The white-haired stranger turned. The big guy had scrambled back to his feet, but he was not renewing the attack; he was running. The little guy hobbled after him a moment later.

  “I think we are finished now,” the stranger said.

  “Thank you,” Hob said, resisting the impulse to throw himself at the stranger’s feet and kiss the top of his soft-soled shoes for saving, if not his life, at least his hide and hump. “Might I inquire your name?”

  “Of course. I am Juan Braga, but everyone calls me Vana.”

  Braga! With a rolled Spanish r! No emerald ring, but he might have taken it off while showering and forgotten to put it back on. Still, Hob decided not to jump too immediately to conclusions. Lots of Spanish names had an r in them. It was one of the popular letters all over the world, except possibly in Japan.

  “I haven’t seen you around,” Hob said.

  “That is because I spend most of my time at the finca.”

  “Which finca is that?”

  “Ca’n Soledad. It belongs to Silverio Vargas, my patron.”

  “Vargas. He got a son named Etienne?”

  “Yes, that is correct.”

  “Small world,” Hob said, superfluously, because Ibiza was a very small world, though it seemed to expand a lot once you were living in it.

  7

  Hob enjoyed a good night’s sleep that night, in his own bed in his own bedroom in his own finca, with the branches of the almond tree outside his window making soothing sounds at his window. In the morning he shaved and dressed in clean Lois jeans and a three-button blue Rastro T-shirt and went down to the kitchen to make himself some breakfast. The butano was empty, and the spare bottle hadn’t been refilled. He put both of the big orange bottles in the back of his car and drove to Anita’s for his breakfast. He ate in the outer courtyard, under the shade of the vines that had been trained to crisscross the open rafters of the low roof. After finishing he exchanged the empty butanos for full ones at Pablo’s general store next door, but decided not to go right back to the finca. He considered driving to Harry Hamm’s finca, but decided he’d likely see him in El Kiosko in Santa Eulalia. He drove to the town, found a parking place near Humberto’s Hamburguesas, and walked to the Kisoko. Harry was there, just finishing his ham and eggs and reading a three day old Paris Herald Tribune. Hob sat down and joined him for a café con leche.

  “So what’s new?” Harry asked.

  Hob told him about the previous night with Annabelle and the two guys in the parking lot and his white-haired rescuer. “Said his name was Juan Braga but everyone called him Vana. Ring a bell?”

  “Never heard of him,” Harry said.

  “He told the two guys that Silverio Vargas was arriving on the island today. That was supposed to mean something, though it didn’t seem to impress them. Ever hear of him?”

  Harry shook his head. “The only news I got is a letter from Maria. She’s having a good time in Mallorca and coming back the day after tomorrow. What now?”

  Hob tried to look keen, but the calm life of the island was already getting to him. “I think it might be well to await developments. What did Fritz Perls say? Don’t push the river.”

  “That could be the motto of the island,” Harry said. “Want to go to Agua Blanca this afternoon?”

  “Yes,” Hob said. “I can’t remember when I was on a beach last. We’ll have lunch right there at La Terraza.”

  “Fine,” Harry said. “Let’s meet at the Agua Blanca road and just take one car down that goat track.”

  “We’ll take mine,” Hob said. “It’s only a rental. See you in about two hours. I’ve got some work to do.”

  “What work is that?” Harry asked.

  “I need to pick up my laundry and buy some club soda and take my butanos home. The labor never ends.”

  Hob finished his chores and was waiting at the Agua Blanca road when Harry drove up. Harry had brought blankets and a few paperbacks. They transferred them to Hob’s SEAT and drove down the bumpy dirt track that wound through the lower hills and came out at last at the parking space above Agua Blanca. They took their stuff, stopped at the restaurant to reserve a table and order lunch in an hour, and continued down to the beach. It was a glorious day of blue sky and small white clouds and the blue-green ocean and the tanned bodies of bathers scattered here and there across the two-mile-long beach. They parked under a straw umbrella, for which they paid one of the urchins whose job that was, spread out their towels, and lay until they were hot. Then they went for a swim, then came out to heat up again. This routine, repeated twice, brought them to lunch hour. At La Terraza they had the fish fry, a mixed batch of whatever the fishermen had brought in that day, with rough island bread, olive oil and olives, and a couple of San Miguels to wash it all down. Then they returned to the beach, took a dip, and napped under the umbrella for severa
l hours. It was one of those perfect inconsequential days that were the essence of the Ibizan summer life—for foreigners, that is, since Ibicencos didn’t go near the water except to fish in it.

  Hob drove Harry back to where he had left his car and arranged to have dinner with him later. He returned to his finca, showered quickly (the gravity-flow tank hadn’t been pumped for two days), shaved, and dressed for the evening. He drove back into Santa Eulalia and went to Sandy’s. Checking his mail, he found a note from Big Bertha, delivered by one of her friends coming into Santa Eulalia. “Got stuff to talk about. Come see me in the morning.” He folded the note and put it into his pocket. Chances were only a few dozen people had read it before he came in. Harry arrived soon after. They had a couple of drinks, then joined several of their friends for dinner, a satisfying lobster mayonnaise at Juanito’s. They had a final nightcap at The Black Cat and then home to bed.

  8

  “Hob,” Bertha said next morning, over breakfast, after he had come to visit her, “do I get an expense account?”

  “What do you need one for?”

  “I’ve already run up some expenses.”

  “Make a note of it when you hand in your paperwork. Just kidding. What expenses?”

  “I bribed somebody. That’s the thing an operative’s assistant does, isn’t it?”

  “Depends on what you found out.”

  “Well, it’s going to cost you two thousand pesetas. That’s what I laid out in drinks for Dolores.”

  “Who’s Dolores?”

  “She’s a waitress. Works at Dirty Domingo’s. She has a little apartment right next to Annabelle’s.”

  “No problem,” Hob said, peeling some thousand peseta bills from his pocket. “What did you learn?”

  Bertha tucked the money into her Ibiza basket. She was beaming. “I really feel like an operative now. This is the most exciting thing I’ve done since my first acid trip.”

  “I can’t tell you how pleased I am at that,” Hob said. “Now, if you’re finished gloating, would you mind telling me what you’ve got?”

  “Nothing much,” Bertha said archly. “Only the identity of that fellow you’ve been trying to trace. The one who was with Stanley Bower in Paris.”

  Bertha told Hob what Dolores had told her. She had been out on her front terrace laying out a wash when a man arrived at Annabelle’s apartment. This was on the day after Stanley had left for Paris. The stranger was not very tall, but burly, with a tanned dark skin and what Dolores described as “evil eyes,” though she did not explain in what respect. Annabelle had not seemed to know the man, but she let him in. By going to her rear terrace with the rest of her laundry, Dolores was able to hear the tone of the conversation, if not the actual words. It had not been amicable. The man had raised his voice. He had been speaking Spanish. Annabelle, replying in English, had seemed to be protesting. Dolores was certain she had heard the sound of a slap, then a cry from Annabelle. Then more conversation, this time lower pitched and urgent. Dolores had been considering leaving her apartment and finding someone who might help—there was a Guardia Civil barracks only half a mile away—when the man came out, slamming the door behind him. He got into a car parked down the block and drove away in the direction of San Antonio, the opposite direction from Ibiza City.

  “Did she notice if he had on an emerald ring?” Hob asked.

  “She didn’t mention it when she told me the story. But when I asked her she said yes, she thought so.”

  “And what about the name?”

  “The only words Dolores was able to make out were Annabelle saying, ‘Arranque—please, don’t!’ It was after that he slapped her.”

  “Arranque?”

  “That’s what she heard. Or thought she heard.”

  “You’ve done very well,” Hob said. “It’s a long way from a positive identification, but at least I’ve something to go on.”

  “Can I get you a drink?” Bertha asked. “I’m positively aglow with excitement.”

  “A coffee would be nice.”

  Hob followed her into the tiled kitchen. While she prepared the pot, he said, “Annabelle, told me she had been going with Etienne. Do you know anything about that?”

  “Of course I do,” Bertha said. “Milk? Sit down right there and I’ll tell you. Etienne is the French name of a Brazilian boy who is staying on the island. The first thing you should know about Etienne is that he’s beautiful.”

  “And the second thing?”

  “That he’s rich. Or rather, potentially rich. Give me a cigarette and let me tell you the tale.”

  When Annabelle and Etienne met at a party at Ursula Oglethorpe’s new townhouse near Santa Gertrudis, it was lust at first sight. These two beautiful, uninhibited people were made for each other—at least for that month. And it was springtime in Ibiza, with everyone sick of winter and prepared for summer romance. Etienne had just flown in from Rio de Janeiro. He and Annabelle looked at each other over fluted glasses of champagne, and the game was on.

  They did all the fun things together: went to the discos, picnicked on the beaches, drank in the quaint little bodegas of the old city, visited Tanit’s cave, looked at the sunset from Vedra, walked along the old Roman wall and saw the cruise ships far below in the harbor like tiny toys on a wrinkled green sea.

  When the pleasures of the island began to pall, they availed themselves of Etienne’s unlimited airline pass and went on a trip to Biarritz, Santander, Juan-les-Pins, and then across the Atlantic to Jamaica and even Havana. When they came back, something seemed to have changed. An experienced eye like Bertha’s could tell that a certain disenchantment had set in. Annabelle never told Bertha exactly what had gone wrong. But within a week, she was seeing Stanley Bower and no longer seeing Etienne. Soon after that, Stanley left for Paris. Etienne had retired to his father’s villa in the mountains above San Juan and had not been seen much of late. And that’s where the matter stood.

  9

  After showering and changing into the easy-fitting white garments customary for a summer evening, Hob left his finca and drove into Santa Eulalia. Finding a parking place only with difficulty, he walked back to Sandy’s, through the violet sunset. Inside Sandy’s, one platoon of the usual crowd was there. Sandy’s record player played baroque melodies of the Renaissance. Ice tinkled in Bloody Marys and gin fizzes. Diffracted light shone through woven straw baskets shielding low-wattage lightbulbs.

  Hob pushed his way through the crowd, dense in the small room, and checked the mail piled up on the counter next to the bar. He wasn’t expecting anything, but you could never tell. He was surprised to find a flimsy blue envelope postmarked Paris. Opening it, he found a money order in the amount of ten thousand francs and a note. It was from Jean-Claude. The note said, with Jean-Claude’s customary succinctness, “Here is a partial payment on latest agency deal. Nigel has filled you in on details by now. He is also taking care of the other matter.”

  Nigel in Paris? What agency deal? What other matter? Hob’s pleasurable reaction to the arrival of unexpected money—one of the greatest pleasures known to modern man—was clouded only by the unpleasant feeling that something important was going on that he didn’t know anything about.

  He checked through the mail again, hoping to find an explanatory letter. Nothing. He caught Sandy’s attention and asked if there had been a telephone call for him recently.

  “My dear,” Sandy said, “you know I would have told you. But let me ask the barman.” He turned. “Phillip, has there been a telephone call for Hob recently?”

  “Nothing,” Phillip said. “I would have said.”

  “Could I use the phone?” Hob asked. “It’s sorta important.”

  Sandy had one of the few phones in Santa Eulalia at that time, and he didn’t like to tie it up with customers. But Hob was a special case, and brought a certain panache to the island with his detective agency. “Of course. Just try not to tie it up too long. And be sure to get time and charges from the operator if you’re
calling off the island.”

  Hob went upstairs to the small tiled room where Sandy slept on nights when he kept the bar opened late and didn’t want to drive all the way to his finca in Siesta. He got the Ibiza operator and put in a call to Nigel’s present digs in Edna Schumacher’s apartment. No answer. He tried to reach him at his small, entailed house in Kew Gardens, London, without success. Then he put in a call to the Kit Kat Bar in Paris where Jean-Claude was currently getting his phone calls. The proprieter said that Jean-Claude was out of town, he didn’t know where, and could he take a message? Hob said who he was and stressed the importance of his reaching Jean-Claude immediately; couldn’t the proprieter even make a guess as to his whereabouts? The proprieter said, “You may well be his employer, m’sieu, but for me you are only a voice on the telephone. But perhaps you know Jean-Claude. If so, you know he would kill me if I told you where he was. And anyhow, I swear to you, I do not know.”

  Hob remembered to get his time and charges for the call. When he came down, he asked Sandy to add them to his tab. Then, seeing Harry Hamm had just come in, he showed him Jean-Claude’s note.

  “You’ve always told me Nigel is absentminded,” Harry said. “This is proof of it. Do you think Annabelle might know something?”

  “She might,” Hob said. “She’s the only person I know who knows both Nigel and Señor Arranque. I’ll take a run in and see.”

  “Want me to come?” Harry said. “I got nothing better to do.”

  They went to Ibiza in Harry’s car, went around the city to Figueretas, and so to Annabelle’s building, The Beehive, arriving at about ten in the evening. Annabelle’s apartment was dark, and she didn’t respond to repeated knocking. But her next-door neighbor, Dolores, came out in a bathrobe with a towel wrapped around her head.