The Place Where

by Rodion Pretis

  - your foot.

  The tramp examines his raised leg, still submerged in the tank, but now below Corso's altered angle of view. Freshly washed from its mud mask. Thanks to what her hidden otherness was exposed.

  - Well, yes, apparently, of course, not really. But, my God, how you jumped, you might think that I'm some kind of alien.

  Which, of course, is the problem itself. Now it's not anymore. A problem.

  As a homeless tramp takes his foot out of her bath. And the discovered object of Corso's confusion is completely anthropomorphic. Covered with scabs, cracked, with keratinized nails, everything is true. But nothing more remarkable.

  Corso is recovering. As much as possible.

  “I offer my deepest apologies.” Please accept this donation for future treatment and restoration of your leg.

  Corso offers him a five-dollar bill. Extracted from a trouser pocket. In the process of extraction, at least one hand was partially wiped. In a way more than not appropriate for his best trousers. On which a wet spot now flaunts. Much closer to the groin than we would like.

  - Wow. Thanks buddy.

  - Do not mention it.

  Paper towels from the dispensing tray complete Corso's water treatments. Although some stickiness from the soap remains, not rinsed to the end due to an awkward situation. He turns to leave. But he cannot resist the temptation to throw one farewell glance back. And he sees the tramp putting on his tattered sock again. Which toilet item has a strategically located hole. Allowing the spur to stick out without interference.

  Corso shakes his head. He should have expected some kind of test of this kind. Since this is not the first time that reality plays a joke with him. Like a lying whore.

  And if he were once again asked what his problem was, he would blame everything openly, although perhaps unfairly, for his occupation: science fiction.

  Twenty years have passed. Two decades, as he writes science fiction. And before that, of course. Over the past two decades. He read it. From a young age, putting himself on an exclusive diet. Boulevard adventure novels. Sophisticated extrapolations. Space operas, dystopias and technological fantasy. Millions of words that defined his view of the world. Inevitably. Like a lot of hands wrinkling raw clay, giving it a rough shape. And then burned. In a pottery furnace, the fuel for which was paraliterature. So even afterwards no other kind of literature could leave a distinct imprint. On the ceramics of his brain.

  Then came the youthful dream. The circumstances of the birth of which are forgotten. Lost in the fogs of his intoxicated science fiction youth. But quickly turned into an omnipresent urge. To write what he loved. Despite the fact that no one invited him to do this. In fact, rather blocking the gate. With rifles taken at the mercy of the guards of the genre. Hard years of apprenticeship. Hundreds of thousands of words. Carefully arranged. And then read and rejected. Cruel editors. The oozing mustard gas of its terrifying insight. To paraphrase ginsberg. And along the way, proving that Corso Fairfield is able to quote.And other authors, except Asimov, Bradbury or Clark. ABC genre. Of course, long crowded out by younger names. However, they are still magic talismans for the ignorant and uninitiated.

  Going forward with microscopic steps. Gradually starting to better understand yourself. And also what the story is made up of. Debugging tools. And finally, the first publication. Ecstasy, soon replaced by despair. From the implementation of how hard this path promises to be. And yet without giving up. Further publications. On more favorable terms. Then a book contract. A novel called Cosmocopy. Allowing him to leave a permanent job. Manager in a bookstore, combined with a Bavarian pub. Named with limitless imagination. CHAPTER AND WURST.

  And Jenin helped him all the way. She married in college. I always believed in him. I was glad that he was finally starting to achieve success. Even attended various meetings. Unlike most sci-fi spouses. Which are more likely to allow themselves to make a tracheotomy with a tablespoon. What to meet with a strange look and bizarre way of thinking by readers, on whose necessary and even often pleasant support the publication of books is based. Not to mention meetings with annoyed and exhausted colleagues. Deeply immersed in their glasses. And peeping from beneath the surface of the liquid with the unfortunate look of drowning victims.

  And the future, which seemed to stretch forward, being quite bright, despite intensive work. Until the recent constipation of Corso. As a result of a complete inability to cope with the author's lack of faith. In own representations. And a vision. And even selected means. And the advance payment for an overdue project has long been spent. To replace the sump, a trip to Bermuda and a new transmission. And the latter sent part of Corso's not yet earned future fee for the “Black Hole Muzzle” straight into the pockets of the treacherous Jack Sniper. Who readily came close to save Jenny when she left the Corso Fairfield Spaceship. Parasitic Consciousness with Dementia VII.

  The first hallucination happened to him in a supermarket. A face emerged from the watermelon. The face is cheerful, but still depriving the presence of the spirit. And she spoke to Corso. Failed to keep track of the essence of watermelon speech. His attention was so fixed on two parallel rows of black seeds forming teeth in a juicy fleshy mouth. No doubt the watermelon had a lot to say to him. His words might have somehow directed Corso. In further similar breakthroughs.

  Needless to say, Corso did not share this vision with Jenny. But subsequent manifestations were no longer so easy to hide. Because Jenny was present at them. Shocked watching. As Corso tries to open a door that was not there. On pavement In front of the local cinema complex. A crowded Saturday night. As well as other specific hallucinations in other cases. Until she reached a critical point. And she didn't run away.

  Oddly enough, Corso did not feel fear of these emissions. Surrealism And sinister fantasies. Of course, at times they could be shocking for a moment. When he was taken by surprise. Thinking of something else. As in the case of a person with a bird's foot. But each time, finding himself faced with a new case of frustration, while it lasted, Corso embraced an undeniable feeling of liberation. From duties and expectations. From your own self. From this reality of consensus.

  Why else

  eventually

  any reader

  science fiction

  may require?

  Office of the science fiction magazine "Ruslan". Cheap premises at the end of Broadway, leased by the parent corporation with frugality. Klacto-Press. And shared with fellow publishers. "Monthly fisherman." "To help lovers of acrostic." "Lace weaving." One secretary for all these wildly incompatible magazines. Tired young woman with a scattering of freckles. Over a few acres of open cut. What a spectacle excites Corso's penis in his solitary refuge. But, like the impulse of any hermit, this moment will inevitably pass by without receiving relief.

  - Uh. I'm Corso Fairfield, to Sharon Walpole. She is expecting me.

  - Please wait a moment. I need to print here.

  Corso perforce sits down. Putting your briefcase on top of a wet spot in the groin. In case of resumption of voluptuous attack. While the varnished nails of the secretary with a chatter fly on the keyboard. In the end, awakening some activity in the printer standing on the side of it. Why does Corso painfully recall his recent futile attempts to somehow squeeze products from his own printer. In the rollers of which were not found the unborn chapters of the "Dula of the Black Hole." Only one pain.

  Picks up the phone. Contact Sharon Walpole. Offensive: "How did you say your name?" The name again comes to the secretary, and then to Walpole. Unhappy entry permission has been reached.

  Through a buzzing dressing room full of junior collaborators, assistant editors, and graphic designers. Photos of girls on the tables. Free donuts near the coffee maker. Carefree chatter. All employees regularly receive their checks. With regular deductions for health insurance, thoughtlessly scolded. However, how willingly they would be accepted by Corso. In exchange for some stability.

  The view from the window of the Walpole corner of
fice furnished with furniture. Water tank on an adjacent roof. The ghostly luminous advertisement of Nihi-Soda. A piece of one of the mighty towers of the Brooklyn Bridge. Walpole at his desk. Hugo figurines on a shelf behind. Blond, short cropped hair. Mustard-colored pantsuit. Thick gold chain around the neck, earrings, bracelets. Corso is chained to the place with a beaming bright-eyed welcome smile. For which the message is read. "Do not waste my time."

  “Corso, always glad to see you.” - Air kisses. Flower-vanilla perfume. “What brought you to our city.”

  “Oh, mostly a meeting with my editor at Book Hill.”

  “You mean Roger Wankel.”

  - Yes, Wankel.

  Corso flinches inwardly. With a memory. About the recent bastard arranged by phone. About Wankel's voice screaming about missed deadlines. And the resulting penalties from the printing house. Which will be added to the account of Corso. If not literally, then at least karmically.

  “Well, of course, I have to contact my agent.”

  - Clive Maltrem.

  - Yes, still. Well, most likely I will have lunch with Malachi.

  There is no need to pronounce a surname. Because in science fiction, anyone knows Malachi Stiltjack. Constantly featured on the bestseller list. Also appearing at many conventions. Consisting of several committees. American science fiction writers. And also in the PEN club. Not to mention the many prizes awarded to him. And his appearances in the media. As an unofficial Ambassador of Science Fiction on Sinful Earth. With statements regarding cloning. Or the Internet. Or virtual sex. And only God knows where he takes the time to write from ...

  Walpole almost jumps at the mention of Stiltjack. Embarrassed girls' intonations appear in her voice.

  “Oh, please, convey to Malachi my best wishes.” Ask him when he will have something new for us. We have not seen anything from him since he did this article for us two months ago.

  “Well, of course, Sharon.” For two whole months. Just think about it. - The last appearance of Corso in Ruslan was so long ago that since then the millennium has succeeded. “Always happy to serve as a matchmaker, ha ha ha.” Which, incidentally, brings us to the purpose of my visit. I was hoping that maybe you could take something from me.

  Walpole begins tugging at the bracelet on his left wrist.

  “Well, we, of course, are always glad to any of your story, Corso.” In the end, our readers are still talking about the Cambrian Exodus. But it seemed to me that you are not currently working on small forms. Do you have the manuscript with you?

  - Eh, so this is the catch. No manuscript. Damned oversight. Running away from home to catch a train. In fact, the story has just begun. But it will be a sensation. I'm sure of it. - From the fluid mind, Corso completely slipped an impressive name, coined by him in advance to roll to Walpole. Now you have to invent it from scratch. In desperation, he glances out the window. - "Towers ... Towers Nihilin."

  Walpole turns the bracelet around his left wrist. An obvious sign of impatience. Corso discovers that it is difficult to focus his eyes. On her unfriendly face. The golden moving stream around her wrist is attractive. The bracelet turns into a blurry spot of supernatural energy. He feels the start of a fugue. The approach of yet another of his sci-fi hallucinations. However, the prospect of visiting the unreal world seems attractive to him. More seductive than this humiliating ritual of begging.

  Walpole speaks in a dry teacher's tone.

  “But you know that we very rarely order something in advance or buy according to the synopsis.” At least a synopsis because you can show me, right?

  - Abstract. He is not with me either, alas. So silly. I forgot all this, running away from home. But if you could somehow indicate your trust - in the form of, uh, a contract, or maybe even a check - I would send you all the soldering with the project by email on Monday. The sketches are very extensive. In fact, we are talking about an alternative world. Like Anderson or Clement.

  Sharon Walpole rises. And already quite openly begins to unscrew the hand. Corso readily accepts this revelation. The inhuman nature of Walpole. The bracelet is not a decoration at all, but a rim of a certain prosthesis on a thread. Which is now disconnected. Discovering shiny metal. Evocative familiar terms such as metaplast and durastal. As well as the corresponding threaded hole in her forearm. Corso cannot take his eyes off this disclosure. More than an intimate exposure. His mouth opens even more. Because now the arm is completely disconnected. And the editor puts it on her desk. Like a paperweight. And crawls into the box.Pulling out a replacement nozzle from there. Giant Crab Claw. Bright red color. Which is taken to screw into place disconnected.

  At the same time, without ceasing to say:

  “I'm afraid, Corso, I can't help you with anything.” Because of your being late with the novel for The Hill, a scandal has already erupted. And such a track record does not inspire confidence. I simply cannot issue advances from Klacto-Press money for such unreliable projects.

  The claw claw is already firmly screwed. And sways in the air. At the end of an inappropriate looking female hand. Illustrating editorial hardheartedness. And business experience. Which Corso cannot but admit. Except for the fact that he can hardly respect in others examples of common sense, which he himself never had in his whole life.

  Voice of Walpole. It drops to a monotonous alien buzz. And Corso's calm begins to dissipate. Because fantasy is no longer an attractive alternative to his everyday problems. But it seems more threatening.

  - Send me a story. Send me a story. Then we'll see. Then we'll see.

  A claw looms before him, swelling more and more. And clicking loudly. Right in front of Corso's widened eyes on a bleeding face.

  And he hurries away

  away from the office

  from the building

  outside

  thinking only about

  how gigantic the pan should be,

  to weld crustaceans of similar sizes.

  Rows of office workers near the stalls with hot dogs, falafel and shawarma. Their earthly brains are not occupied with anything. In addition to payments for rent, love affairs, television shows, shopping spree and dragging a host of satiated children from entertainment to entertainment. They are not obsessed with intergalactic messengers. Or the threat of invasion by creatures from the fifth dimension. Or the paradoxes of time travel. They are occupied only by sound, sound everyday business. Enduring values. Home and family. Sex and social status. Not affected by delusions based on technological concern. And feeling wonderful. They do not know anything.They flip a switch on the wall to light the room. And they never think. About the infrastructure hidden behind this act. Yes, and why should they. There are electricians for this.

  Corso grumbles in his stomach. However, he makes an effort by turning away from the edible trays. Why splurge on cheap snacks. If Clive Maltrem can feed him lunch. And didn't his agent owe him this. Considering what money was earned for the Cosmocopy. Award winning. Science Fiction Book Club. The rights to the film adaptation of which were bought by a Hollywood film studio. Under the name of Fizz Boys Production. Which subsequently turned out to be composed of two former employees from a Los Angeles gas station. Temporarily flooded by the proceeds of the sale of a particularly large batch of ecstasy. And who had no more real chances to ever really make a film.Than two orangutans just arrived from the jungle of Kalimantan. And by the time their license has run out. Interest in Cosmocopy has already faded. And everyone went crazy for some other novelty of the season. Perhaps out of the pen of Stiltjack.

  The abode of Maltrem in the southern part of Park Avenue. A much higher class than the Ruslan office. Concierge in an operetny uniform. Your name, sir. Let me examine your briefcase, sir. Obviously, Maltrem and his associates living here are a seductive target. For angry terrorists. Perhaps burning desire to avenge the injustices caused by the disenfranchised authors. One of which, of course, is Corso. However, he will be able to hide his true social identity from an alert guard. A full sixty year old man w
ith dandruff sprinkled with a smooth haircut. Which calmly directs Corso to the elevator.

  Eleventh floor. Corridor, many doors. The door of the 1103rd apartment has been ajar open on warning the admiral from the hall below. Impeccable furnishings. Carpets from Arabia and Persia. Pictures of artists not yet known outside of New York. But to whom fame and fortune are inevitably destined. This is the unmistakable taste of Maltrem. Leather sofa. Bar with drinks. Bookcases full of hundreds of works by Maltrem's clients. They look like they were being arranged by some Hollywood designer. “Cosmocopy” on the lowest shelf, partially covered by a neighboring book.

  From the depths of the room appears Maltrem's personal secretary. Well-known Corso. And others like him. Imperturbable Korean woman. Strict black dress. His face is flat, his hair is pitch black, so it seems that they should be dotted with stars. With a completely unbelievable name - Kichi Ku. Corso always wanted to ask her. Did she consciously choose such a name for herself. In some crazy episode of gypsy-style Greenwich Village. Or is it the result of the cheerful cruelty of her parents. But he still has not asked, and never will. Because so far, Kichi Ku has never even smiled in his presence.