The death of all. There is but one death. For the crocodiles and the bumblebees, there is but one death. ATMAN knows it, the Great Spirit ATMAN the Enamored who can see the Future, even accelerate it.
In what way does the Future exist? Does there exist something that has yet to happen? If not, how can something take place that does not exist? Does there already exist the bullet which will bore through my head? That very bullet, fitted into rifle cartridge number such and such, manufactured this afternoon at a Krupp factory in Essen, which will pierce my brain in a single second selected out of all of Time for this very purpose? In my mind I follow the bullet from its birth all the way to my head: manufacture, sorting, packaging, delivery. The large ammunition convoys. With the little bastard traveling in a crate just for me. And they have determined exactly where it will arrive, to whom it is to be issued, when it will be inserted into the rifle and then … and then, in my second, bang! and I stop writing its biography. It has spat into my inkwell itself. Finito, I follow it no more. It was alive in my thought. It has killed my thought and itself. It, too, is dead. There is but one death. It exists and it shall happen, Oh Immortal ATMAN. “Divinity of hell.” A good thought before sleep, Iago, a good thought indeed …
He threw himself down on his bed and closed his eyes. To rein in his thoughts.
The seminarian in his seminary is now dreaming of his beloved St. Margaret. Naked. But holy. And all is as God ordains. All is like Holy Communion, the sacrifice of body and blood. What is the name of the beautiful Viviana from the Give’nTake? He had not remembered to ask Maestro, and ATMAN would not tell him. From now until further notice her name is Viviana … “For we are doomed, you and I,” sings Melkior in his mind to keep awake. Sleep fortifies the body, nourishing, rounding, lining with fat the prime cut, the steaks, the hams. A fine cut of man-meat. Pechárek’sh going to gobble ush up, bud, and make no mishtake. And our shoul, the pshittashine dove, will hover over tropical sheazh and warble like the Leopardian lonely shparrow. — Gr, says the giant with the ring in his nose, gr. … And at that point a gigantic snoring starts up in the still of the night.
From somewhere up above, from the staircase, in between the sentry’s boots on gravel — crunch! — there comes the snoring of a colossus, legendary, dragonlike, a sheep a day, a girl a night. Gargantua has stretched out between two stories and is shaking the entire building. Whooshing the huge bellows pressed in his armpit, blowing and playing his monstrous bagpipes harr-harr, oooh-hah, plhh-phoo, oooh prlhh, pweehh-pliouff … Sweeping, rich, luxurious snoring. Careless, cannibalistic. Optimistic.
Mrs. Ema does not snore like that. Mrs. Ema, a widow, Melkior’s landlady, snores in a complex, climacterial way, afflicted by dreams of fat snakes and robbers thrusting knives into her navel. She tells Melkior about it all the next day over coffee. She neighs, squeals, meows, brays with dream-felt pains. She is a martyr. Whereas this relisher is a man, brother, snoring for all the five continents of the world, hugely, outstandingly, provocatively.
Here we are, with some damp autumn air we’ve stored in our nests for the night, and look what’s happening — this chap is going to suck it all, gobble it all up, guzzle it all. The voracious sleeper. He’zh going to shuffocate ush all, bud, make no mishtake.
The hours pass and the harrr-harrr rolls unstoppably down the stairs, shoots back up from the cellar with the sound and the fury, reaching the attic and tumbling back down again, and splashing and sploshing and hewling and shloofing, craffing, roaring, whistling, dropping — pluff — and rising again, flying, a missile zooming past, whooosh, and piercing, burrowing, drilling, boring — rrrrrr — smashing, cutting, sawing iron bars, sawing the staircase lengthwise, the staircase across, he will bring down the house, the one-eyed terrible cyclops Polyphemus.
What an odyssey! Melkior enjoys the event like a child relishing a catastrophe. Everything is upside down. There is no sleeping. Everybody is getting up. The house is on fire.
There is a stirring in the next flat, that of the Court of Appeals judge. Slippers on the floor, fumblings in the dark. Voices. Excitement. Muffled calls of “Daddy, Daddy” from his daughters. The judge grumbles angrily. He can hear it himself: a supernatural snore. He sends the maid to reconnoiter the snore and report back.
The door of the judge’s flat opens slowly, cautiously, to prevent the snore from sneaking in. The maid’s hands tremble, the door gives irresolute creaks. She has thrust the oil lamp through the door into the staircase, better let the oil lamp have a look first. … But the door suddenly slams shut and smash! — the lamp has of course crashed to the floor, and the maid shouts fire. Confusion, slamming of doors, great commotion. It seems that the maid is indeed on fire. Mistress shouts “Water!” the judge shouts “Not water! An overcoat. An old one!” They put the fire out. The maid is not on fire at all, it is the anteroom rug. Mistress wails, “Oh my God, the carpet! It’s only fit for the rubbish heap now!”
“Who cares about the carpet!” the judge exclaims in anger. Turning to the maid:
“You. How did this happen?”
“There was a draft,” stammers the maid. “Something blew and put it out …”
“Put what out? The lamp, you mean?” the judge questions her expertly. “But how could the fire start if the lamp was out?”
“I dropped it … There was a draft when I opened the door, all suddenlike, and it came on …”
“Came alight? The lamp came alight?” The judge is losing his patience.
“It was burning …” The maid is already in tears.
“Was the lamp burning or was it not when you dropped it, that’s what I want to know!” The judge insists, he wants pure facts, the truth and nothing but the truth!
“I don’t know,” weeps the girl. “There was a draft …”
“A draft? Yes, you’ve got a draft in your head! Come on, go back to sleep. No, wait. Hold the door and mind it doesn’t close … in case of a draft …”
“Draft, my foot,” the judge thinks in a masculine way. He goes out onto the staircase to reconnoiter for himself. But mistress opposes him, his daughters beseech him, “Daddy, Daddy.” They will not let him go into the darkness. “What blasted darkness? I’ll turn the staircase light on!”
The snoring bursts in through the open door, forceful, mustachioed.
Threatening.
“Can’t you hear it, you mad, mad man?” Mistress will not let her husband rush into adventure.
“Daddy, Daddy,” weep his daughters. They are losing their father.
“Doctor, sir!” agrees the maid.
“What the hell’s got into all of you? What’re you blubbering for? Will you let go of me, damn it! Here, you’ve torn my pajamas, you fools!”
He has broken free of the womenfolk and steps out, bravely. “You hold the door. Watch out.”
He has turned the staircase light on and is listening. He is now at a loss for what to do.
“Mr. Tresić! Mr. Tresić!” the mistress bangs on his door. Calling for help.
He does not like his name being shouted. “They know my name, even. Keeping tabs, discussing me …” That was what he thinks before he comes to the door.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Tresić, please.” Mistress is trembling at his door. “Did you hear?”
(She gathers her housecoat on her breast under Melkior’s random look.) “Do you hear what’s going on here?”