11

05:29

With Gemma gone, Melquiades found himself alone in the house. Alone and hungry. All of a sudden he had to cook for himself and for himself check whether he wasn't spending too much time with books. If there was one sensible guide on raising a country from the ruins he would have been glad, but there were many touching upon various aspects of civilization and he needed to make a whole out of their parts. From time to time he would go to Jacob's room inhabited over the years by Gemma, he would sit there alone, look at their clothes, and didn't know who he missed more: his brother or his protegee. From time to time he would look at Jacob's old picture from the times that he remembered him so vividly, when the father was still alive, when they were young and so different, and then he would look at a completely different Jacob, lurking at him from the photograph, smiling powerfully without exposing his teeth. That was someone he didn't know at all, even though physically he thought that he knew him so well.

K. was slowly getting in shape. Melquiades was spending nights reading about society and he tried to use his wit to make a simplified version of this society in K. He organized schools. He implemented people who knew something about herbal medicine and treating the sick. He introduced small groups of men who would take care of the order, their only uniform being a black piece of material on their shoulders. He wanted to limit the population growth by the means of contraception but that part wasn't such a successful enterprise. Condoms were getting used fast, while he didn't have enough plants to produce enough of them. Some men claimed that it took all the pleasure from sexual intercourse and some women, surprisingly, got used to being pregnant every year and didn't mind. Melquiades thought that they would mind if they had to take care of their newborns for the rest of their life, but in K. there was no idea of a marriage or a family. There were no ceremonies of weddings, and even though men usually made love to one woman throughout their life, the most faithful relationships weren't legalized. Melquiades thought that it was mainly due to the lack of space and the impossibility of two people living together on their own. Flats were usually divided into rooms, rooms into segments, and those segments were occupied by dozens. And there was a law for the citizens of K. which forbade building anything new, thus the number of people inhabiting one block of flats was systematically raising. And simultaneously, the space for one individual shrank.

Melquiades was glad that at least, thanks to a proper nutrition, people were healthy, there were no major diseases, only incidental cases of death during childbirth, some unfortunate accidents and people's life rate was impressively high.

There were a couple of questions Melquiades desperately wanted to ask, but apart from the time devoted to the meetings, no one wanted to stay in his place for longer and dispute over issues forbidden to talk about. The old man was content with what he had achieved but his inborn curiosity was stronger. Late at night one day after reading letters from circuits about the state of education and healthcare, he went to his basement for the first time since he had come back and found there an impressive collection of wines. There were wines bought by his father when he first started belonging to the class of the rich and there were wines purchased probably later than that. Hundreds of bottles of wines were occupying his own basement and he wasn't even aware.

Melquiades smiled at the very thought of such an amount. He wasn't fond of alcohol but he distinctly remembered what wine did to his father, how easily persuaded he was when he drank and how Jacob used his temporary weakness to achieve what he wanted, whether it was money for a new pair of shoes or the permission to spend the night at his friends' house. And when Melquiades wanted to get money for another book, he would do exactly the same. He would pour another glass of wine and pass it to the father, and with a soft and innocent voice he would tell him the story, a boyish fairy tale why he needed such an item, and why spending money on it was so crucial. It wasn't even the fact that the father instantly agreed on such a purchase, but that he did that with the eagerness of a schoolboy getting a chocolate for a small house chore. The distant memory gave Melquiades an idea.

Melquiades wrote letters announcing the feast. Then he went to the town to ask if there were any people willing to cook and any girls willing to have fun with guests. As he suspected there were plenty who, in exchange for food, drink, and good fun, would be likely to work for him.

The feast was to be held the following week. The elderly were invited. It was required of women to wash and put some pretty shades on their faces. The best food was cooked and Melquiades' house was decorated with lanterns and flowers to welcome a party of a hundred guests.

He himself wore the best suit and polished his shoes. He welcomed the ladies and showed them rooms which they could use for moments of pleasure, he showed the cooks the kitchen and encouraged them to use the tastiest recipes they knew ever existed, and he provided the freshest fruit and vegetables. He took boxes with wine and made sure that tables contained the right number of bottles.

And, as he welcomed his guests, he made sure that after an hour or so they would be drunk enough to make room for his work.

It was a funny sight to see old men running, red in the face, slipping and tripping in the hunt after naked women. It was a little bit disturbing to see them in his own bed, spreading legs of funny, cheerful girls who visibly liked it, wishing that one such night would have a profitable effect on their future. The sound of the elderly exhaling their gasps and moans of sexual fulfillment was to Melquiades embarrassing, but he stayed there, poured wine to every empty glass, and encouraged every girl to take care of a lonely man not yet properly entertained.

And he waited until three in the morning, when most girls had been lying naked in the arms of the men of desire, until almost all food had disappeared from the tables, until almost empty bottles of wine had been lying on the table spilling its juice on the table cloth, which used to be white but now looked like a proof of a defloration of a hundred girls.

And then he approached a few half-conscious, half-naked elderly men, who then looked less admirable, powerful and respectful. He sat next to them and whispered questions in their ears. Some of them were not able to speak, some of them had heads as strong as to have reasons not to answer but some answered willingly and spoke more than he wished they would.

'Why can't we build new houses?'

The man laughed.

'Isn't that obvious? If we build something new there won't be any fields for growing plants. There's just enough land for feeding two hundred million people. There was once an enormous hunger, years and years ago. Crops failed. Millions died. We need grounds to grow food for everybody, and some more in case there will be another crops disaster. Everything is calculated. We have so much because for years there had been no such a cataclysm. We were lucky. We have food for more than two hundred million.'

'But there is more than two hundred million people. When I came here six years ago there was two hundred million. With what I have seen, and with my failed plan to put a stop to it, there must be more than that.'

'... But this is obvious! They are taken to N.! If there's more than two hundred million, all those above this number, they are taken to N. That's why the number is constant. It never changes.'

'They are taken to N. to do what?'

The old man looked at him with disbelief and stopped talking.

Melquiades ran upstairs to find another man and repeated the same question over and over again to those unconscious and drunk, but they were looking at him with a mix of ridicule and madness in their eyes.

The last man raised his head over the breasts of a young girl, lying under him.

'What happens to those transferred to N., Mel? What happened to those you hadn't seen for ages when you were leading your comfortable life far away and we had seen worse things than you can even imagine? What happens to millions each year, Mel?'

Melquiades felt silent at the accusations shot at him from the drunk machine gun of a man.

'I will tell you, old little boy. They are eaten!'

And with that last sentence, he fell on the breasts of the girl he had been playing with all those hours of the feast.