The square was huge—they couldn’t see the far side of it through the murky heat haze—but on the right, at the very foot of the Yellow Wall, they could make out the form of a long, low building with a facade of closely spaced columns, distorted by the currents of hot air.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Andrei blurted out.
But Izya quoted something that Andrei didn’t recognize: “Sometimes he is bronze, and sometimes he is marble, sometimes he has a pipe, and sometimes he has no pipe…” and then he asked, “But where have they all gone to?”
No one answered. They all just gazed at this sight, as if they couldn’t get enough of it—even the Mute. Then Pak said, “Apparently we need to go over there…”
“Is that your Pantheon?” Andrei asked, for the sake of saying something, and Izya exclaimed in an indignant-sounding voice, “I don’t understand! What are they all doing, gadding about town? Then why didn’t we see then? There must be thousands of them here, thousands!”
“The City of a Thousand Statues,” said Pak.
Izya promptly swung around to face him. “You mean there’s a legend about that too?”
“No. But that’s what I would call it.”
“Hallelujah!” Andrei declared, struck by a sudden thought. “How are we going to get through here with our sleds? No explosives could possibly clear all these tank traps…”
“I think there must be a road around the square,” said Pak. “Along the Cliff.”
“Let’s go, shall we?” said Izya, already impatient to move on.
They set off directly toward the Pantheon, walking between the podia, over cobblestones that were smashed and crushed to small fragments, walking into the white dust that glittered brightly in the sunlight. Every now and then they stopped for a moment and either bent down or went up on tiptoe to read the inscriptions on the pediments, and the strangeness of the inscriptions was startling and confusing.
ON THE NINTH DAY A SMILE MAKES. THE BLESSING OF YOUR MUSCULUS GLUTEUS SAVED THESE LITTLE ONES. THE SUN SOARED UP AND THE DAWN OF LOVE WAS EXTINGUISHED. Or even simply, WHEN! Izya laughed and gurgled, slamming his fist into his palm. Pak smiled and swayed his head, but Andrei was embarrassed; he felt that this merriment was inappropriate, even indecent somehow, but his feelings were hard to pin down, and he just patiently tried to hurry them along. “Come on, that’s enough, that’s enough,” he repeated. “Let’s go. Come on, what the hell! We’re running late, it’ll be embarrassing…”
The sight of these idiots made him furious—what a time and place to choose to have fun and games! And they just kept on loitering and loitering, tediously wasting time, running their dirty fingers over the incised letters, cackling and clowning around, and he gave up on them and felt nothing but tremendous relief when he realized their voices had been left far behind and he couldn’t make out what they were saying.
It’s better like this, he thought delightedly. Without this retinue of fools. After all, they weren’t invited along, were they—I don’t remember that. They were mentioned, all right, but exactly what was it that was said? They were either asked to come in dress uniform, or on the contrary, they were asked not to come at all. Agh, what difference does it make now? Well, if it comes to that, they can wait down here for a while. Pak’s more or less OK, but Izya might suddenly start finding fault with my style and then, God forbid, he’ll get pushy and want to speak himself… No, no, it’s better without them, really. And the Mute? You stick behind me, here on the right, and keep your eyes peeled! You definitely can’t afford to daydream here. Don’t forget: we’re in the camp of serious adversaries here, nothing like Quejada or Hnoipek. Here, brother, take the automatic, I’ve got to have freedom of movement, and climbing up on the rostrum with an automatic—I’m not Heiger, thank God… And pardon me, but where’s my synopsis? A fine how d’you do this is! How can I manage without a synopsis?
The Pantheon towered up over him, a panoply of columns and broken, chipped steps, displaying their rusty reinforcing rods. He felt a cold draft from the columns—it was dark in there, where it smelled of anticipation and putrefaction, and the gigantic golden doors had already been flung open, and all he had to do was walk in. He strode from step to step, taking great care to make sure that he didn’t stumble—heaven forbid!—and end up sprawled out here, where everyone could see, and he kept groping at his pockets, but of course the synopsis wasn’t there, because of course, it had been left behind in the metal box… no, in the new suit, I was going to wear the new suit, wasn’t I, then I decided this would make a more dramatic impact…
Damn it all, how am I going to manage without a synopsis? he thought as he stepped into the dark vestibule. But just what did it say in the synopsis? he thought, cautiously placing his feet as he walked across a slippery floor of black marble. Greatness came first, he recalled with an intense effort, feeling the icy cold creeping in under his shirt. It was very cold in here, in this vestibule, they could have warned him, after all, it was summer outside, and by the way, they could have sprinkled some sand around, it wouldn’t have killed them, this way he could slip at any moment and smash in the back of his head.
Well, which way do I go in here? To the right, to the left? Ah yes, sorry… All right, then. First, about greatness, he thought, heading for a completely dark corridor. Now this is more like it—a carpet. They got that right! Only they didn’t think to put in torches. That’s always the way with them: they might put in torches, or even floodlights, but then there won’t be any carpet. Or the other way around, like now… So—greatness…
In speaking of greatness, we recall the so-called great names. Archimedes. Very good! Syracuse, “Eureka,” the bathhouse… bathtubs, that is. Naked. Next. Attila! The doge of Venice. I beg your pardon, Othello was the doge of Venice. Attila was the king of the Huns. Riding along. As silent and somber as the grave… But we don’t need to look so for examples! Peter! Greatness. Peter the Great, the First. Peter the Second and Peter the Third weren’t great. And very possibly that’s because they weren’t the first. It’s extraordinary how often “great” and “first” are effectively synonyms. Althooough. Catherine the Second, the Great. The second, but nevertheless the great. It is important to note this exception. We shall often encounter exceptions of this kind, which merely serve, as it were, to confirm the rule…
He firmly clasped his hands together behind his back, tucked his chin into his chest, and strode to and fro several times, each time elegantly skirting around his stool. Then he pulled his stool out with his foot, braced his fingers on the table, knitted his brows together, and looked over the heads of his audience.
The table, clad in gray zinc, was completely bare, and it stretched out in front of him like a major highway. He couldn’t see the far end of it. Down there little candle flames blinked though a yellow mist as they fluttered in the draft, and Andrei thought with fleeting annoyance that damn it all, it was indecent, at least he ought to be able to see who was down there, at the far end of the table. It was far more important to see him than these… But then, that’s none of my concern…
He examined the rows of “these” with indifferent condescension. Meekly seated along both sides of the table, with their attentive faces turned toward him—faces of stone, cast iron, copper, gold, bronze, plaster, jasper… and whatever other kinds of faces they could have. Silver, for instance. Or jade, say… Their unseeing eyes were repellent, and anyway, what could possibly be attractive about those ponderous carcasses, with their knees jutting up a meter, or even two, above the tabletop? At least they were keeping quiet and sitting still. At this moment any movement would have been unbearable. Andrei listened in delight, with a pleasure that was almost sensual, as the final drops of his brilliantly executed pause drained away.