Jagannath Part 3

"You have a responsibility to keep informed and send the right information to the unemployment benefit fund, Per," Arvid said, in a soft voice.

"b.i.t.c.h. Hag," said Per and hung up.

Arvid removed his headset, ma.s.saged the sore spot it left above his right ear. He wrote in the log: 2.07 PM, March 15: Have explained the raised fee.

"Coffee break?" said Cornelia from the terminal to his right.

The light by subject 3426 was blinking when Arvid sat down again.

"Operator," said Arvid, calling the details up on his screen. There was no information except for a surname: Sycorax, miss. He hadn't seen this subject before.

"h.e.l.lo?" said a voice. It was thin and flat.

"Yes, h.e.l.lo."

"I would like to be put through to my dead mother," said Miss Sycorax.

"Just a moment." Arvid muted the call. "Dead mother? How am I supposed to imitate her dead mother?" he said to his terminal. He peeked for the guidelines that should be popping up next to Miss Sycorax's name. There was nothing. Then he saw his hand rise up and flick the mute switch, and a sonorous voice burst out of his mouth. "h.e.l.lo?"

"Mother, is that you?" said Miss Sycorax.

"Darling! h.e.l.lo there. It's been a while, hasn't it?"

"Finding a good connection to h.e.l.l isn't easy, Mother."

Arvid fought to press his lips together. Instead they parted, and his mouth said: "It's lonely down here."

"Not much I can do about that, Mother," Miss Sycorax replied.

"Can't you come visit, just for once?" said Arvid, his voice dolorous. He desperately wanted to rip his headset off, but his hands lay like limp flippers in his lap.

"Well, if you're only going to be whiny about it I think we can end this conversation," Miss Sycorax said, tartly.

Arvid called her just that-tart- in her dead mother's voice. His ear clicked. Miss Sycorax had hung up. Arvid's hands were his own again. He took his headset off with shaky hands and looked around. At the next terminal, Cornelia was talking to subject 2536 (Persson, Mr, talking to an old friend from school in Vilhelmina), twirling a lock of dark hair around her pencil as she spoke to the subject in an old man's voice. When she ended her call, Arvid stood up from his chair.

"I'll be leaving early," he said.

"Oh. Are you all right?" Cornelia asked, reverting to her melodic Finno-Swedish.

Arvid looked for any sign that she had overheard him talking in a dead person's voice, but thought he saw nothing but concern in her liquid brown eyes.

"Migraine, I think." Arvid took his coat from the back of the chair. "Migraine, I have a migraine."

"Go home and rest," said Cornelia. "It happened to me a lot when I was new. It'll get better, I promise." She turned back to her terminal to take a new call.

Arvid punched out and left the office. Outside, yellow afternoon light slanted through the street. As Arvid unlocked his bicycle, a woman in a phone booth next to the bicycle stand was arguing with someone. Arvid caught the words "unemployment" and "fee." He wondered briefly if that was Cornelia's call; she was unyielding in her caseworker personas.

Arvid did feel better the next day. By nine-o'-clock coffee, he felt more or less normal. As he entered the break room, he saw that Konrad, the senior operator, was carefully laying out pale cakes on a plate. Cornelia was stirring an enormous mug of coffee.

"Kubbar!" said Konrad. "I made them last night."

Arvid picked a cake from the plate and bit into it. It was dry and tasted of ammonia and bitter almonds. Cornelia was sniffing at hers.

"How are they?" Konrad asked. He was watching Arvid eagerly. "I haven't made these for years. I was wondering if I got the proportions right."

"It's different," Arvid managed. He washed the cake down with some coffee.

"It tastes like cyanide shortbread," stated Cornelia. "Very Agatha Christie."

"Heh," said Konrad. He took a cake for himself and tasted it. "Your generation isn't used to ammonia cakes, I suppose."

Arvid had another one. The ammonia taste was strangely addictive.

"I have a question for you," Arvid said after a moment. "You've been here the longest. How are the subjects picked, really?"

Konrad shrugged and bit into his third kubbe. "No idea," he said. "I signed an NQ-NDA, just like you."

Arvid looked at Cornelia, who was chewing. She jerked a thumb at Konrad and nodded.

"So n.o.body knows?" said Arvid.

"The manager does, I expect," Konrad replied.

"But don't you ever wonder?"

"No Questions, No Disclosure, son. I'm not about to bite the hand that feeds me. Besides, all you need to know is in the work description. We take calls to governmental agencies . . ."

". . . and calls to persons the subjects don't know very well," Arvid filled in. "But - "

"And follow instructions. That's all there is to it. That's all you need to know. The manager relies on our discretion, Arvid. NQ-NDA."

Arvid sighed. "All right. What did you do before you got this job, anyway?"

"Stage actor," said Konrad. He picked a fourth kubbe from the plate. "Mhm?" he said, pointing at Arvid with the cake.

"Ventriloquist." Arvid nodded at Cornelia. "You?"

"Book audiotapes," said Cornelia.

Konrad swallowed. "See there, three c.r.a.p jobs you can't make a living off of. Isn't it nice to be able to pay rent and eat good food?"

"I guess," said Arvid.

"You're new here. When you get over that starving artist thing, when you're my age, you'll agree that it's nice to be able to eat roast beef." Konrad pushed the plate toward Arvid. "Here, have another kubbe."

It was one week later, just after lunch, that Miss Sycorax's lamp started blinking again. Arvid hesitantly took the call.

"h.e.l.lo," said the flat voice of Miss Sycorax.

"Where would you like to be connected?" said Arvid.

"I want to be connected to the Beetle King."

"I see," said Arvid and muted Miss Sycorax. He cast a frantic glance at Cornelia, who was deeply involved in yet another call with subject 9970, Anderberg. Mrs. Cornelia frowned and waved him off. He returned to Miss Sycorax.

"Miss, I'm afraid I really can't connect you to anyone by the name of h.e.l.lo, my little pupa." A rustling voice forced its way out of his mouth mid-sentence.

"There you are," Miss Sycorax said. "I have a request."

"Anything for my little sugar lump," hummed Arvid.

"Aww, shucks," said Miss Sycorax.

"Your wish?"

"There are bugs crawling all over me."

"I know! Isn't it wonderful?" crowed Arvid.

"Hm. Yes, perhaps. In any case," she went on, "I'd like them to take some time off. I'm developing a rash."

"A rash, yes? An eczema."

"Yes. It's flaking a bit."

"And that isn't very pleasant."

"No. It itches."

"Well," said Arvid, "where should I send them off to, then?"

"Anywhere you like," said Miss Sycorax. "For example, I don't like the old woman in the corner store. Or the man who sells sticky window-pane-climbing dolls in Old Town."

"Ahah."

"I don't like the switchboard operator either."

"Let's say then," said Arvid, "that we dismiss the little critters until you feel better."

"Good."

"And you let me know when you start feeling lonely again."

"Okay."

"Goodbye, honeycomb."

"Goodbye, your Majesty."

When the Beetle King's voice had left him, Arvid sagged back in his chair.

"I might have gone mad," he told the terminal. He put his coat on and left the office.

When he came into the office the next day, Arvid found a stag beetle sitting on his terminal. It hissed angrily when he shooed it off, and crawled in under the desk where it refused to move. Shortly after morning coffee, a c.o.c.kroach settled on his rules-and-regulations binder. Arvid left it alone.

Cornelia was more drastic about it. She had sat down in her chair to find the stuffing colonized by flour beetles. She was currently in the backyard, setting fire to the seat. The whole office smelled like insulin. Konrad sat at his terminal at the other end of the office, observing with great interest a dung beetle struggling with some cookie crumbs. No one was taking the incoming calls.

"Shouldn't we call pest control?" said Arvid.

"Can't get through," said Konrad, eyes on the beetle. "I heard something on the radio about a bug invasion in Old Town."

"Maybe it's the season for it," said Arvid.

"This dung beetle," said Konrad, "this beetle shouldn't be here at all. It's African. A very pretty specimen, actually." He gave it a piece of cookie to wrestle with.

Cornelia entered the office with a new chair. At the same time, the light by Miss Sycorax's number started blinking. Arvid considered not picking up. But Cornelia sat down and put her headset on, and Konrad tore himself away from the dung beetle, and there was no longer an excuse not to work. He pushed the b.u.t.ton.

"Operator."

"h.e.l.lo," said the flat voice.

"Yes, h.e.l.lo."

"I want to be put through to Arvid Pekon," said Miss Sycorax.

"Arvid Pekon," Arvid repeated. His finger flicked the mute switch up and down.

"Arvid," said his voice.

A slap woke him up. Cornelia's round eyes were staring worriedly into his. She turned her head to look over at Konrad's looming silhouette. They grabbed Arvid's arms and dragged him up into his chair.

"You had us worried there," said Cornelia.

"You fainted," Konrad explained.

"What happened?" asked Arvid. The buzzing in his head made it difficult to hear the other two. His face tingled.

"Oops. Head between your knees," said Konrad.

"What happened?" asked Arvid of the linoleum.

"You talked to 3426 for almost an hour and then you fell off your chair," said Cornelia.

"But I took the call just now."

"No, you've been going on for an hour."

"What did I talk about?"