Roadside Picnic by Boris Strugatsky, Arkady Strugatsky Page A

trampled him, pulled his hair, and inundated him with an endless stream of news. The neighbor’s boy Willy tore off dolly’s leg. There was a new kitten on the third floor – all white and with red eyes, he probably didn’t listen to his mama and went into the Zone. She had porridge and jam for dinner. Uncle Gutalin was smashed again and was sick. He even cried. Why don’t fish drown if they live in water? Why didn’t mama sleep at night? Why are there five fingers, and and only two hands, and only one nose? Redrick carefully hugged the warm creature that was crawling all over him and looked into the huge dark eyes that had no whites at all, and cuddled his cheek against the plump little cheek covered with silky golden fleece.
    “Monkey. My little Monkey. You sweet little Monkey, you.”
    The phone rang by his ear. He picked up the receiver.
    “I’m listening.”
    Silence.
    “Hello! Hello!”
    No answer. There was a click and then short repeated tones. Redrick got up, put Monkey on the floor, and put on his trousers and jacket, no longer listening to her. Monkey chattered on nonstop, but he only smiled with his lips in a distracted way. Finally she announced that daddy had bit off his tongue and swallowed it and left him in peace.
    He went back into the storeroom, put everything from the table into a briefcase, got his brass knuckles from the bathroom, came back to the storeroom, took the briefcase in one hand and the basket with the bag in the other, went out, carefully locked the door, and called out to Guta.
    “I’m leaving.”
    “When will you be back?” Guta came out of the kitchen. She had done her hair and put on makeup. She was no longer wearing her robe, either, but a house dress, his favorite one, bright blue and low-cut.
    “I’ll call,” he said, looking at her. He walked over and kissed her cleavage.
    “You’d better go,” Guta said softly.
    “What about me? Kiss me?” Monkey whined, pushing between them.
    He had to bend down even lower. Guta watched him steadily.
    “Nonsense,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’ll call.”
    On the landing below theirs, Redrick saw a fat man in striped pajamas fussing with the lock to his door. A warm sour smell was coming from the depths of his apartment. Redrick stopped.
    “Good day.”
    The fat man looked at him cautiously over his fat shoulder and muttered something.
    “Your wife dropped by last night,” Redrick said. “Something about us sawing. It’s some kind of misunderstanding.”
    “What do I care?” the man in the pajamas said.
    “My wife was doing the laundry last night,” Redrick continued. “If we disturbed you, I apologize.”
    “I didn’t say anything. Be my guest.”
    “Well, I’m glad to hear it.”
    Redrick went outside, dropped into the garage, put the basket with the bag into the corner, covered it with an old seat, looked over his work, and went out into the street.
    It wasn’t a long walk – two blocks to the square, then through the park and one more block to Central Boulevard. In front of the Métropole, as usual, there was a shiny array of cars gleaming chrome and lacquer. The porters in raspberry red uniforms were lugging suitcases into the hotel, and some foreign-looking people were standing around in groups of two and three, smoking and talking on the marble steps. Redrick decided not to go in yet. He made himself comfortable under the awning of a small cafe across the street, ordered coffee, and lit up a cigarette. Not two feet from his table were three undercover men from the international police force, silently and quickly eating grilled hot dogs Harmont style and drinking beer from tall glass steins. On the other side, some ten feet away, a sergeant was gloomily devouring French fries, his fork in his fist. His blue helmet was set upside down on the floor by his chair and his shoulder holster draped on the chair back. There were no other customers. The waitress, an elderly woman he didn’t know, stood behind the