Zero History

“Toilet. Loo.”
“In back. With Shombo.”
“He’ll have to watch,” Milgrim said, indicating the driver.
“I don’t want to know,” said Voytek. He rapped on the door through which Shombo
had vanished. “Shombo! Men need loo!”
“Fuck off,” said Shombo, muffled by the door.
Milgrim, closely followed by the driver, approached it, tried the knob. It opened.
“Fuck off,” said Shombo again, but abstractedly, from a multiscreened rat’s-nest quite
far back in a larger, darker space than Milgrim had expected. The screens were covered
with dense columns of what Milgrim took to be figures, rather than written language.
With the driver behind him, Milgrim headed for the plywood-walled toilet cubicle,
illuminated by a single bare bulb. There wouldn’t have been room for the driver, who
simply loomed in the doorway, passing Milgrim the paper bag. Milgrim opened it,
removed the sandwich bag, opened that, removed the blue-topped bottle. He broke the
paper seal, removed the lid, and unzipped his fly.
“Piss off,” muttered Shombo, without a trace of irony.
Milgrim sighed, filled the bottle, capped it, finished in the grimy toilet, flushed by
pulling a chain, then put the bottle in the sandwich bag, the sandwich bag in the paper
bag, handed the paper bag to the driver, then washed his hands in cold water. There
didn’t seem to be any soap.
As they left the room, Milgrim saw the reflection of the bright screens in Shombo’s
eyes.
He closed the door carefully behind him.
The driver handed Milgrim a crisp manila envelope of a pattern suggesting deeply
traditional banking practices. Within it, Milgrim felt the sealed bubble-pack containing his
medication.
“Thanks,” said Milgrim.
The driver, without a word, took his leave, Voytek bustling irritably to lock the door
behind him.