We Page 3

  Hm… My companion must be a frequent guest here. I had a strong desire to shake something off, something annoying: probably the same persistent visual image—the cloud on the smooth blue majolica.

  As we ascended the broad, dark staircase, I-330 said, “I love her, that old woman.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps for her mouth. Or perhaps for no reason. Just like that.”

  I shrugged. She went on, smiling faintly, or perhaps not smiling at all, “I feel terribly guilty. Obviously, there should be no love ‘just like that,’ but only ‘love because.’ All elemental phenomena should…”

  “It’s clear…” I began, but immediately caught myself at the word and cast a stealthy glance at I-330: had she noticed it or not?

  She was looking down somewhere; her eyes were lowered, like shades.

  I thought of the evening hour, at about twenty-two. You walk along the avenue and there, among the bright, transparent cells—the dark ones, with lowered shades. And behind the shades… What was behind the shades within her? Why had she called me today, and what was all this for?

  I opened a heavy, creaking, opaque door, and we stepped into a gloomy, disorderly place (they called it an “apartment”). The same strange “royal” musical instrument—and again the wild, disorganized, mad music, like the other time—a jumble of colors and forms. A white flat area above; dark blue walls; red, green, and orange bindings of ancient books; yellow bronze—chandeliers, a statue of Buddha; furniture built along lines convulsed in epilepsy, incapable of being fitted into an equation.

  I could barely endure all that chaos. But my companion evidently had a stronger organism.

  “This is my favorite…” and suddenly she seemed to catch herself. A bite-smile, white sharp teeth. “I mean, to be exact, the most absurd of all these ‘apartments.’ ”

  “Or, to be even more exact,” I corrected her, “their states. Thousands of microscopic, eternally warring states, as ruthless as…”

  “Of course, that’s clear…” she said, apparently with utmost seriousness.

  We crossed a room with small children’s beds (the children at that time were also private property). Then more rooms, glimmering mirrors, somber wardrobes, intolerably gaudy sofas, a huge “fireplace,” a large mahogany bed. Our modern-beautiful, transparent, eternal—glass was there only in the pathetic, fragile little window squares.

  “And then, imagine! Here they all loved ‘just like that,’ burning, suffering…” (Again the dropped shades of the eyes.) “What stupid, reckless waste of human energy—don’t you think?”

  She seemed to speak somehow out of myself; she spoke my thoughts. But in her smile there was that constant, irritating X. Behind the shades, something was going on within her—I don’t know what— that made me lose my patience. I wanted to argue with her, to shout at her (yes, shout), but I had to agree—it was not possible to disagree.

  She stopped before a mirror. At that moment I saw only her eyes. I thought: A human being is made as absurdly as these preposterous “apartments”; human heads are opaque, with only tiny windows in them—the eyes. As though guessing, she turned. “Well, here are my eyes. Well?” (Silently, of course.)

  Before me, two eerily dark windows, and within, such a mysterious, alien life. I saw only flame-some fireplace of her own was blazing there—and shapes resembling…

  This, of course was natural: I saw myself reflected in her eyes. But what I was feeling was unnatural and unlike me (it must have been the opressive effect of the surroundings). I felt definitely frightened. I felt trapped, imprisoned in that primitive cage, caught by the savage whirlwind of the ancient life.

  “You know what,” said 1-380. “Step out for a moment to the next room.” Her voice came from there, from within, from behind the dark windows of her eyes, where the fireplace was blazing.

  I went out and sat down. From a shelf on the wall, the snubnosed, asymmetrical physiognomy of some ancient poet (Pushkin, I think) smiled faintly right into my face. Why was I sitting there, meekly enduring that smile? Why all of this? Why was I there—why these ridiculous feelings? That irritating, repellent woman, her strange game…

  A closet door was shut behind the wall, the rustle of silk. I barely restrained myself from going in and… I don’t remember exactly—I must have wanted to say very sharp words to her.

  But she had already come out She wore a short, old, vivid yellow dress, a black hat, black stockings. The dress was of light silk. I could see the stockings, very long, much higher than the knees. And the bare throat, and the shadow between…

  “Look, you are clearly trying to be original, but don’t you…”

  “Clearly,” she interrupted me, “to be original is to be in some way distinct from others. Hence, to be original is to violate equality. And that which in the language of the ancients was called ‘being banal’ is with us merely the fulfillment of our duty. Because…”

  “Yes, yes! Precisely.” I could not restrain myself. “And there is no reason for you to… to…”

  She went over to the statue of the snub-nosed poet and, drawing down the blinds over the wild flame of her eyes, blaring within her, behind her windows, she said a very sensible thing (this time, it seems to me, entirely in earnest, perhaps to mollify me). “Don’t you find it astonishing that once upon a time people tolerated such characters? And not only tolerated, but worshiped them? What a slavish spirit! Don’t you think?”

  “It’s clear… I mean…” (That damned “It’s clear” again!)

  “Oh, yes, I understand. But actually, these poets were masters far more powerful than their crowned kings. Why weren’t they isolated, exterminated? With us…”

  ’Yes, with us…” I began, and suddenly she burst out laughing. I could see that laughter with my eyes: the resonant sharp curve of it, as pliantly resistant as a whip.

  I remember, I trembled all over. Just to seize her, and… I cannot recall what I wanted to do. But I had to do something, anything. Mechanically I opened my golden badge, glanced at the watch. Ten to seventeen.

  “Don’t you think it’s time?” I said as politely as I could.

  “And if I asked you to remain here with me?”

  “Look, do you… do you know what you are saying? In ten minutes I must be in the auditorium…”

  “… and all numbers must attend the prescribed courses in art and sciences,” she said in my voice. Then she raised the blinds, looked up; the fireplace blazed through the dark windows. “I know a doctor at the Medical Office, he is registered with me. If I ask him, he will give you a certificate that you were sick. Well?”

  Now I understood. At last, I understood where that whole game of hers was leading.

  “So that’s it! And do you know that, like any honest number, I must, in fact, immediately go to the Office of the Guardians and…”

  “And not ‘in fact’?”—sharp smile-bite. “I am terribly curious—will you go to the Office, or won’t you?”

  “Are you staying?” I put my hand on the doorknob. It was brass, and I heard my voice—it was also brass.

  “One moment… May I?”

  She went to the telephone, asked for some number—I was too upset to remember it—and cried out, “I shall wait for you in the Ancient House. Yes, yes, alone…”

  I turned the cold brass knob.

  ’You will permit me to take the aero?”

  “Yes, certainly! Of course…”

  Outside, in the sunshine, at the entrance, the old woman was dozing like a vegetable. Again it was astonishing that her closegrown mouth opened and she spoke.

  “And your… did she remain there by herself?”

  “By herself.”

  The old woman’s mouth grew together again. She shook her head. Evidently, even her failing brain understood the full absurdity and danger of the woman’s conduct.

  Exactly at seventeen I was at the lecture. And it was only here that I suddenly realized I had said an untruth to the old wo
man: I-330 was not there by herself now. Perhaps it was this—that I had unwittingly lied to the old woman—that tormented me and interfered with my listening. Yes, she was not by herself: that was the trouble.

  After half past twenty-one I had a free hour. I could go to the Office of the Guardians right there and then and turn in my report. But I felt extremely tired after that stupid incident And then— the legal time limit for reporting was two days. I would do it tomorrow; I still had twenty-four hours.

  Seventh Entry

  TOPICS:

  An Eyelash

  Taylor

  Henbane and Lilies of the Valley

  Night. Green, orange, blue. Red royal instrument. Orange-yellow dress. The bronze Buddha. Suddenly he raises his heavy bronze eyelids, and sap begins to flow from them, from Buddha. And sap from the yellow dress, and drops of sap trickling down the mirror, and from the large bed, and the children’s beds, and now I myself, flowing with sap —and some strange, sweet, mortal terror…

  I woke: soft, bluish light, glimmer of glass walls, glass chairs and table. This calmed me; my heart stopped hammering. Sap, Buddha… what nonsense! Clearly I must be ill. I have never dreamed before. They say that with the ancients dreaming was a perfectly ordinary, normal occurrence. But of course, their whole life was a dreadful whirling carousel—green, orange, Buddhas, sap. We, however, know that dreams are a serious psychic disease. And I know that until this moment my brain has been a chronometrically exact gleaming mechanism without a single speck of dust. But now… Yes, precisely: I feel some alien body in my brain, like the finest eyelash in the eye. You do not feel your body, but that eye with the lash in it—you can’t forget it for a second…

  The brisk crystal bell over my head: seven o’clock, time to get up. On the right and the left, through the glass walls, I see myself, my room, my clothes, my movements—repeated a thousand times over. This is bracing: you feel yourself a part of a great, powerful, single entity. And the precise beauty of it—not a single superfluous gesture, curve, or turn.

  Yes, this Taylor was unquestionably the greatest genius of the ancients. True, his thought did not reach far enough to extend his method to all of life, to every step, to the twenty-four hours of every day. He was unable to integrate his system from one hour to twenty-four. Still, how could they write whole libraries of books about some Kant, yet scarcely notice Taylor, that prophet who was able to see ten centuries ahead?

  Breakfast is over. The Hymn of the One State is sung in unison. In perfect rhythm, by fours, we walk to the elevators. The faint hum of motors, and quickly—down, down, down, with a slight sinking of the heart…

  Then suddenly again that stupid dream—or some implicit function of the dream. Oh, yes, the other day—the descent in the aero. However, all that is over. Period. And it is good that I was so decisive and sharp with her.

  In the car of the underground I sped to the place where the graceful body of the Integral, still motionless, not yet animated by fire, gleamed in the sun. Shutting my eyes, I dreamed in formulas. Once more I calculated in my mind the initial velocity needed to tear the Integral away from the earth. Each fraction of a second the mass of the Integral would change (expenditure of the explosive fuel). The equation was very complex, with transcendental values.

  As through a dream—in that firm world of numbers—someone sat down, next to me, jostled me slightly, said, “Sorry.”

  I opened my eyes a little. At first glance (association with the Integral), something rushing into space: a head—rushing because at either side of it stood out pink wing-ears. Then the curve at the heavy back of the head, the stooped shoulders— double-curved—the letter S…And through the glass walls of my algebraic world, again that eyelash—something unpleasant that I must do today.

  “Oh, no, it’s nothing. Certainly.” I smiled at my neighbor, bowing to him. The number S-4711 glinted from his badge. So this was why I had associated him from the very first with the letter S: a visual impression, unrecorded by the conscious mind. His eyes glinted—two sharp little drills, revolving rapidly, boring deeper and deeper—in a moment they would reach the very bottom and see what I would not… even to myself…

  That troubling eyelash suddenly became entirely clear to me. He was one of them, one of the Guardians, and it was simplest to tell him everything at once, without delay.

  “You know, I was at the Ancient House yesterday…” My voice was strange, somehow flattened out I tried to clear my throat.

  “Why, that’s excellent. It gives material for very instructive conclusions.”

  “But, you see, I was not alone, I accompanied number I-330, and…”

  ’I-330? I am delighted for you. A very interesting, talented woman. She has many admirers.”

  But then, perhaps, he too? That time during the walk… And he might even be registered for her?

  No, it was impossible, unthinkable to talk to him about it; that was clear.

  “Oh, yes, yes! Of course, of course! Very.” I smiled more and more broadly and foolishly, and I felt: This smile makes me look naked, stupid.

  The little gimlets had reached the very bottom, then, whirling rapidly, slipped back into his eyes. With a double-edged smile, S nodded to me and slid away toward the exit.

  I hid behind my newspaper—it seemed to me that everyone was staring at me—and instantly forgot about the eyelash, the gimlets, everything. The news I read was so upsetting that it drove all else out of my mind. There was but one short line:

  “According to reliable sources, new traces have been discovered of the elusive organization which aims at liberation from the beneficent yoke of the State.”

  “Liberation?” Amazing, the extent to which criminal instincts persist in human nature. I use the word “criminal” deliberately. Freedom and crime are linked as indivisibly as… well, as the motion of the aero and its speed: when its speed equals zero, it does not move; when man’s freedom equals zero, he commits no crimes. That is clear. The only means of ridding man of crime is ridding him of freedom. And now, just as we have gotten rid of it (on the cosmic scale, centuries are, of course, no more than “just”), some wretched halfwits…

  No, I cannot understand why I did not go to the Office of the Guardians yesterday, immediately. Today, after sixteen o’clock, I shall go without fail.

  At sixteen-ten I came out, and immediately saw O on the corner—all pink with pleasure at the meeting. “She, now, has a simple, round brain.

  How fortunate: she will understand and support me… But no, I needed no support, I had made a firm decision…

  The March rang out harmoniously from the trumpets of the Music Plant—the same daily March. What ineffable delight in this daily repetition, its constancy, its mirror clarity!

  She seized my hand. “Let’s walk.” The round blue eyes wide open to me—blue windows—and I could step inside without stumbling against anything; nothing there—that is, nothing extraneous, unnecessary.

  “No, no walk today. I must…” I told her where I had to go. To my astonishment, the rosy circle of her lips compressed itself into a crescent, its horns down, as if she had tasted something sour. I exploded.

  “You female numbers seem to be incurably riddled with prejudices. You are totally incapable of thinking abstractly. You will pardon me, but it is plain stupidity.”

  “You are going to the spies---Ugh! And I have brought you a spray of lilies of the valley from the Botanical Museum…”

  “Why this ‘and I’—why the ‘and’? Just like a woman.” Angrily (I confess) I snatched her lilies of the valley. “All right, here they are, your lilies of the valley! Well? Smell them—it is pleasant, yes? Then why can’t you follow just this much logic? Lilies of the valley smell good. Very well. But you cannot speak of smell itself, of the concept ‘smell’ as either good or bad. You cannot, can you? There is the fragrance of lilies of the valley—and there is the vile stench of henbane: both are smells. There were spies in the ancient state—and there are spies in ours… y
es, spies. I am not afraid of words. But it is clear that those spies were henbane, and ours are lilies of the valley. Yes, lilies of the valley!”

  The pink crescent trembled. I realize now that it only seemed to me—but at that moment I was sure she would burst out laughing. And I shouted still more loudly, “Yes, lilies of the valley. And there is nothing funny about it, nothing at all.”

  The smooth round spheres of heads floated by and turned to look. O took me gently by the arm. “You are so strange today… You are not ill?”

  The dream—yellow—Buddha… It instantly became clear to me that I must go to the Medical Office.

  “You are right, I’m ill,” I cried happily (an incomprehensible contradiction—there was nothing to be happy about).

  “Then you must see a doctor at once. You understand yourself—it is your duty to be well. It would be ridiculous for me to try to prove it to you.”

  “My dear O, of course you are right. Absolutely right!”

  I did not go to the Office of the Guardians. It could not be helped, I had to go to the Medical Office; they kept me there until seventeen.

  And in the evening (it was all the same now—in the evening the Office of the Guardians was closed) O came to me. The shades were not lowered. We were solving problems from an ancient mathematics textbook: it is very calming and helps to clear the mind. O-90 sat over the exercise book, her head bent to her left shoulder,’ her tongue diligently pushing out her left cheek. This was so childlike, so enchanting. And within me everything was pleasant, clear, and simple.

  She left. I was alone. I took two deep breaths— this is very beneficial before bedtime. Then suddenly, an unscheduled smell, and again something disturbing… Soon I found it: a spray of lilies of the valley tucked into my bed. Immediately, everything swirled up, rose from the bottom. No, she was simply tactless to leave it there. Very well, I did not go! But it was not my fault that I was sick.

  Eighth Entry