War & War (9 page)

5.

I gave him my card, the interpreter recalled with irritation, later, in bed, furiously turning his back on his alarmed lover, only to be rid of him, because there was no other way, but the skunk kept blabbering on, blab-blab, and fine, I said, fine pal, we don’t have the time right now, here’s my number, give me a call sometime, OK? that’s all, no more, I mean what is that? so he gave him the card as a piece of courtesy, just a lousy business card, the kind you leave anywhere, in a sad kind of way, sowing your seed like some piece of fertilizer shit, though he wouldn’t do that anymore, said the interpreter shaking his head as if terminally embittered by the experience, because he’d had it, nothing worked out for him, there was no hope, he’d never come to anything in this place; after four whole years in America, nothing but shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, he cried beating his pillow: the Immigration Office job was shit, and yet he had to be grateful for them taking him on like that on a part-time contract basis, yes, grateful for that shit, and he was but what the hell did it all add up to, since one moment was all it took and they sacked him, without a word, with such greased-lightning speed that it wasn’t until he was outside that he took it in, that it was all on account of a stinking business card, but that’s how it was, that’s what it’s like with scum, that’s what it’s like interpreting in such a shit institution, interpreting for shitheads and dumb asses, you really deserve what’s coming to you for that, it takes just a split second and they’ve kicked you out on your ass, because these shitheads, and these shithead Hungarians really are shitheads, dumb asses, and the passport officers were the dumbest of the lot, them and the customs staff, the security guards and the rest, the whole filthy lot of them, asses, terminal idiots, the interpreter repeated, his head bobbing up and down with hysteria, shitheads, shitheads, shitheads, everyone, and thank you, Mr. Sárváry, they said, but, as you know, this is a serious breach of protocol here, initiating or accepting the offer of personal contact like that, it’s regulations, etc. etc., which is shit, the interpreter exclaimed, on the point of tears in his fury, that’s what this fucking animal says to me, pronouncing it Sárváry all the time, though he knows perfectly well it is pronounced Shárváry, the bastard, the fucking animal, and what can you do with fucking asses like that, there’s no end to it, ever, and so saying the interpreter buried his head in the pillow again, because he just can’t take the filthy routine any more, he is a poet, a poet, he suddenly screamed at his lover, a poet and a video artist, not an interpreter, is that clear? and he could wipe his ass with the lot of them, people like that, like that filthy nigger, his ass, that’s how little they’re worth compared to him, because, do you think, he bent over his lover’s face, do you think for a moment that they have the foggiest idea who or what he is, because if you really believe it, go up close to one of them and have a good look and you’ll see that they are all asses, asses or shitheads, he choked and turned away again, throwing himself on the bed-covers, then, turned back to face his lover and continued once more: and he had helped him, helped the idiot, that shithead idiot, because he himself was the biggest shithead of them all, on this whole filthy continent, because why should he help anyone, who had asked him to help, who would pay him a fucking dime more for helping, just because he tried to help that helpless shithead, precisely this particular fucking halfwit, who was probably still standing there, holding his lousy business card instead of sticking it up his ass and fucking off up some shit’s creek, yes, he was willing to bet that the guy was still standing there, as if rooted to the ground, with his simpleton’s face, like some cow, because he had no fucking idea what even “baggage” meant, though he had explained it to him, but he still just stood there; and it was as if he were standing in front of him now, he could see it so clearly, standing there like a guy who had shit himself once and for all without anyone nearby to wipe his ass for him, like all those of his kind, now please don’t be angry darling, the interpreter lowered his voice, addressed his lover, asking her not to be angry on account of him losing his self-control like that, but it wasn’t just his self-control he had lost but his job too, and why lose it, darling, all on account of some shithead, like all the rest, all of them, really, every last single one of them.

6.

Just head for the Exit signs, Korin said to himself aloud, it’s Exit you want, there where it says Exit, head for there and don’t be diverted, because he was likely to get lost, and there it was, yes, Exit, here, this way, straight on, and he took care not to disturb anyone, though who the hell cared whether he spoke to himself or not, after all there were thousands of people here who were doing exactly the same, hurrying confusedly this way or that, keeping their eyes on boards and signs indicating directions, turning now left, stopping, waiting, turning back, then heading right, stopping, then back again, eventually going straight on, onward and onward to ever more and ever new confusion; just like Korin, in fact, who had to keep his eye on the word Exit and nothing else, everything being postulated on the position of the Exit sign which must not be lost sight of, a task that required all his concentration, for nothing must disturb that concentration, because a moment’s inattention in this crazy traffic and all would be lost, gone forever, and he would never find the right way again, nor should he allow any uncertainty in his procedure, he told himself, but to keep going, all the way down corridors and steps, not bothering his head with doors, corridors and steps on either side of him, not even glancing at them, and even if he did catch sight of them, to make as if he were blind as he passed those side doors opening out either side, and refuse to be distracted by facts like the word Exit appearing on one or other of them, albeit in different lettering, to move past them and ignore them, for he felt he was in a crazy warren, not any old warren, he later added, but one in which even the pace was crazy, everyone moving at a furious pace, so he always had to make spur-of-the-moment decisions, such decisions being the hardest of all for he had to choose one of two possible routes in a split second, and every so often, as he proceeded down the corridors and stairs, such snap decisions had to be made, and each time he made one he would happily have gone on but for some sign that planted a seed of doubt in him so he had to stop again, disconcerted by a confusing sign in a disorientating place, and had to decide again in the blinking of an eye, which of the damn corridors was the main one, this one or that one; in other words what was confusing was not so much the question of the most direct route, it was having to decide so quickly, under conditions of such tension, constantly to be seeking and moving and making headway without ever stopping, and, what is more, moving in the certain knowledge that the whole idea of stopping was impossible for stopping as a possibility was absolutely out of the question, a fact etched on each and every occasion for the Door Out of There was perpetually about to be closed and one had to hurry, to positively dash, each according to his capacity, but in any case without stopping, moving, seeking, making headway toward the Exit, which—and this was the second problem—was an utterly mysterious concept since it was impossible to know what was understood by the idea of an exit, which for him meant primarily a way of getting out of the building into open space, to a bus or taxi that would take him into town, providing the taxi was not too expensive, though he would have to wait and see about that, but whether his idea of the whole exit thing as a passage through to an open space was correct or not was impossible to say so he was forced to move forward with ever greater uncertainty, as he later explained, making uncertain progress along corridors and stairs, not knowing whether they were the right corridors and stairs, and feeling pretty frightened by then, he admitted, until, at a certain point, he suddenly felt his feet slipping from under him, when it occurred to him that he had probably been taking the wrong route for quite some time, and that was when he got really scared and in his state of fright he could no longer even think straight, in fact did not think at all, but did what his instincts were urging him to do, which was to trust to the crowd, to accept its judgment and go with the flow, adapting himself to its pace, drifting with it, like a dried leaf in autumn, if he might be allowed such an antique turn of phrase, like a leaf in a fierce gale, hardly seeing anything anymore because of the speed and fury, everything about him being too agitated, too heavy, too flickering, so the only thing clear to him in all this, in the pit of his stomach, was how utterly different it was from what he had been expecting, which meant that he was more scared than ever, he told them, for fear was what he felt, fear in the land of the free, terror even while celebrating a remarkable triumph, because everything hit him all at once, and he had to understand it, to grasp it, to see it clearly, and then had to try to find his way out of it, while all the time corridors and steps came at him, one after another without end, and he was driven along with the rest in a maelstrom of conversation, weeping, shouting, screaming and some kind of wild laughter, and, every so often, through waves of drumming, growling and the general din, noting the word Exit, yes, there, that way, straight ahead of him.

7.

Before the widening entrance to the arrivals hall, in the four corners of an area of roughly four by four meters, four black-uniformed and helmeted guards, clearly trained for special duties, equipped with handguns, tear gas, rubber truncheons and God knows what else, stood motionless, each capable of looking in thirty-six directions at once; four guards with stony expressions on their faces, their legs spread, in an area roped off with a piece of red tape that was just long enough to get round the four by four square meters and keep the crowd at bay, which was all the evidence of the clearly unique security system that first greeted the constant flow of people: no visible cameras, no sign of detachments behind the walls ready to leap out at a word of command, no peculiar collection of vehicles at the entrance to the airport, nor a squad of chief inspectors based somewhere in the building, keeping watch over all eighty-six thousand and four hundred seconds of the day, and this must have been unique, a truly unique security concept, to involve only four visible guards and four lengths of red tape for what these had to defend from which was constantly flowing their way, a whole horde of people comprising people from town, people passing through, aliens, assortments of professors, amateurs, collectors, addicts, thieves, women, men, children, the aged, all, all coming and going, for everyone wanted to see it, everyone tried to push to the front in order to get a really good view of it, of those four lengths of tape, and what the guards were guarding, which was a massive pillar covered in black velvet and lit from above by white spotlights, protected by bulletproof glass, for everyone wanted to see the
diamonds
, as they were referred to for the sake of simplicity, those diamonds that added up to the world’s most valuable diamond collection according to the advertisements, and there they really were, twenty-one miracles, twenty-one incarnations of pure carbon, twenty-one brilliant and matchless stones with the light imprisoned in them forever, their presence arranged by the Gemological Institute but drawing on the kind offices of various other corporations and well-disposed individuals, not forgetting, since it is diamonds on a global scale we are talking about, the publicly acknowledged guiding hand of De Beers Consolidated Mines in the background, twenty-one
rarities
, as the catalogues had it—which, in this case, was no exaggeration, for they were assembled according to the four classic categories of diamond quality, that is to say, Color, Clearness, Cut and Carat, qualities that, apart from the FL and IF classed groups, would not be applicable to any lower class of diamond—a list in which they attempted to give a comprehensive account of the terrifying world of facet, dispersion, brilliance and polish in twenty-one stars, as the text had it, of an entire universe, the very intention of so doing, or so they wrote, being unusual, since it wasn’t just one or two matchless beauties with which they intended to enchant the public but the idea of matchless beauty itself, beauty in twenty-one distinct forms that were not only extraordinary but utterly different from each other, and here they were, practically every sort you could imagine within the River, Top Wesselton, and Wesselton color range, the twenty-one perfect gems as measured by the Tolkowsky, Scandinavian and Eppler scale, including those cut in Mazarin, Peruzzi, Markiz and emerald fashion, in Oval form, Pear-shaped, Navette and Seminavette, from fifty-five carats through to one hundred and forty-two carats, and, of course, the two sensations, the sixty-one carat amber-colored TIGER’S-EYE in an ORLOV silver clasp, all offering a truly extraordinary, mind-blowing radiance under the bulletproof glass, and all this in the most unexpected place, at the most vulnerable point of the busiest airport in the United States of America, precisely where such a billion-dollar splendor was plainly least secure, though it was under the care of four hefty security guards standing with legs spread and four lengths of red official tape.

8.

Korin entered the last of the corridors, saw the arrivals hall in the distance, and as soon as he had seen it, or so he recalled in the course of a conversation later, he knew at once that he had taken the right route, the right route throughout, and that’s it, as he said to himself, thank God, he had left the warren behind and could walk a little faster now, feeling a degree more liberated and less anxious with each step, steadily regaining his good spirits, that intoxicating feeling, setting about the last few hundred meters in this state of mind, until, about a third of the way down, as he was approaching the hall with its light, noise and promise of security, he suddenly spotted a figure among the oncoming crowd, a short, rather scrawny young man of about twenty or twenty-two years of age, more a boy really, in checkered trousers, with a strangely dancing sort of walk, who seemed to have taken particular notice of him, who having got within ten paces of Korin suddenly looked at him full in the face and smiled, his face brightening at the sight, showing the kind of surprise and delight one feels when one unexpectedly comes across an acquaintance one hadn’t seen for a long time, his arms spread wide in greeting, accelerating toward him, in response to which Korin too, as he said, began to smile uncertainly, with an enquiring expression, while, in his case, slowing down, waiting for the point of meeting, but when the moment arrived and they came up level with each other, something quite unbelievable happened as far as Korin was concerned, something because of which, his view of the world immediately darkened, something that made him double up and squat down on the ground, because the blow affected him precisely in the solar plexus, yes, that was exactly what happened, said Korin, the boy, probably out of sheer devilment, on the spur of the moment, had chosen some arbitrary victim from among the new arrivals, had raised his eyebrows and approached him in an apparently friendly manner, then smacked him in the solar plexus, without saying anything, without a word, without conviviality, without any sign of recognition, without any of the warmth you might expect when meeting an old acquaintance, and simply fetched him a blow, but a big one, as the Trinidadian boy told the bartender in his local bar, just like that,
biff
, he demonstrated with a violent movement, properly fucking the guy over in the pit of his belly, with such power, said the Trinidadian boy to the bartender, that the guy clutched his stomach, doubled up, and without a sound, not a peep, but he was flat out on the floor, as if lightning had struck him, said the Trinidadian flashing his decaying teeth, like he was a piece of shit dropped from a cow’s ass, you understand, he asked the bartender, just one biff and the guy didn’t say so much as moo, but collapsed, just like that, and by the time the guy looked up, he himself had disappeared into the crowd, like the earth had instantly swallowed him, vanished, as though he had never been, while Korin just stared, dumbstruck, slowly being scraped off the ground, blinking this way and that, utterly astonished, seeking explanation in the eyes of the two or three people that had hoisted him up by the arms, but they gave no explanation, nor did anyone else as he went on his way, and it clearly did not seem to have meant anything to anyone, since they were wholly unaware of his presence, or where he had been, or that he had appeared one-third of the way down the corridor leading to the arrivals hall of JFK airport.