Nowhere: A Novel by Thomas Berger

Author:Thomas Berger [Berger, Thomas]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
ISBN: 9781480401051
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2013-03-12T05:00:00+00:00

The critic immediately dropped his loaded fork, went to his armpit, and brought out a large automatic pistol. His first shot broke the glass in front and slightly to the right of me; the slug continued past my forearm with a hideous whistle.

I didn’t wait for another. I plunged to the floor and left the room on running hands and feet. I hurled myself down the stairs and dashed out the door of the pink house and leaped into the waiting rickshaw, ordering Helmut to depart on the double.

But, looking back, I saw I was not pursued. The life of the Sebastiani authors, however intramurally passionate it was, never crossed the threshold to make contact with the great world. And no doubt that was best for the country.

Once we were beyond the Street of Words, I directed Helmut to pull over to the curb. Riesling’s attack had returned me to sobriety. I realized that I should sit quietly somewhere and try to make some sense of what I’d seen and heard since arriving in Saint Sebastian. I might use Helmut as a sounding board. He was so stupid that I would not appear foolish no matter what nonsense I bounced off him; also, he had no personal axe to grind.

We were on a street of low wooden sheds, each separated from the next by some distance; no people were in view or in hearing.

“Here’s how it looks to me,” I said towards Helmut but really to myself. “The prince is a pervert, an eccentric, and so on, but as rulers go, he’s far from being the worst imaginable, because he has no effect on the country.”

“Sir vill vish—”

“Please, Helmut, I’m trying to follow a train of thought. You wouldn’t understand, but I have been sent over here from my country to find out what happens in yours. If we like what we see, we will give you money.”

“Is interesting place,” Helmut said, pointing to the sheds. He picked up the shafts. “You should look.”

“What is it?” I asked. “It resembles the fireworks factory that was at the edge of my hometown when I was a child.”

“Yass,” said Helmut, pulling me into a graveled lane that went amongst the little frame buildings.

“You mean it is a fireworks factory?”

The establishment of my childhood had been surrounded by a high fence topped with barbed wire and everywhere posted with warnings as to the explosive nature of what was made therein and the danger of fire. Here there was nothing to restrain the layman or -child from wandering about the premises, not even an informational sign.

Helmut stopped before a certain hut, which was distinguished in no way from its fellows, lowered the shafts, and went to the door of weathered wood, saying “Come, please,” and I did as asked.

Inside, along three of the four walls, were workbenches at each of which sat a middle-aged woman. The one nearest me, her gray-blond hair in a bun, was pouring what would seem to be gunpowder through a funnel into a stout red cardboard tube.

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