I felt myself all plastered over by her cloying smile—the plaster that would cover the wounds about to be inflicted by the letter trembling in my hands. And finally, through the bashful blinds, almost whispering, “I shall think about it, my dear, I shall think about it. And be assured: if I feel myself strong enough… But no, I must first think about it…”
Great Benefactor! Am I to… does she mean to say that…
There were spots before my eyes, thousands of sinusoids, and the letter jumped in my hand. I walked to the wall, nearer to the light. The sun was dying, and the dismal, dark rose ash fell, thickening steadily, upon me, the floor, my hands, the letter.
I tore the envelope, and quickly—the signature, the wound: it was not I-330, it was… O. And still another wound: a watery blot on the lower right-hand corner of the page—where the drop fell… I detest blots, whatever the reason for them—ink, or… anything else. And I know that formerly I simply would have been annoyed, my eyes would have been offended by that annoying blot. Why, then, was this gray little spot now like a cloud, turning everything darker, more leaden? Or was this again my “soul”?
You know… or, perhaps, you do not know… I cannot say it properly, but it does not matter: now you know that without you there will be no day, no morning, no spring for me. Because R is to me only… but this is of no interest to you. At any rate, I am very grateful to him. Without him, alone, these past days, I don’t know what I would have… During these days and nights I have lived ten or perhaps twenty years. And it seems to me that my room is not rectangular, but round and endless—around and around, and all is the same, and no doors anywhere.
I cannot live without you—because I love you. Because I see, I understand: today you don’t need anyone, anyone in the world except her, the other one, and… you understand—just because I love you I must…
I need only two or three days to put together the pieces of me into some semblance of the former O-90, and then I will go and tell them myself that I withdraw my registration for you. And you must feel relieved, you must be happy. I shall never again… Farewell.
Never again. Yes, it is better that way, she is right But why, then, why…
Nineteenth Entry
In that strange corridor with the quivering line of dim lamps… or no, no, it was not there, it was later, when we were already in some hidden corner in the yard of the Ancient House… she said, “The day after tomorrow.” That means today, and everything is winged. The day flies. Our Integral is ready for flight: the rocket motor has already been installed and was tested today on the ground. What magnificent, powerful blasts, and to me each of them was a salute in honor of her, the only, the unique one—in honor of today.
During the first firing a dozen or so numbers from the dock neglected to get out of the way-nothing remained of them except some crumbs and soot I record with pride that this did not disturb the rhythm of our work for even a moment No one recoiled; both we and our machines continued our straight-line and circular motions with the same precision as before, as though nothing had happened. Ten numbers are less than a hundred-millionth part of the population of the One State ; practically considered, it is an infinitesimal of the third order. Only the ancients were prone to arithmetically illiterate pity; to us it is ridiculous.
And it’s ridiculous to me that yesterday I paid attention to a miserable little gray spot and even wrote about it in these pages. All of this is but that same “softening” of the surface which should be diamond-hard—as hard as our walls.
Sixteen o’clock. I did not go for my supplementary walk; who knows, she might take it into her head to come just now, when everything rings brightly with the sun…
I am almost alone in the house. Through the sun-drenched walls I can see far, both right and left and down, the empty rooms suspended in the air, repeating themselves as in a mirror. And only on the bluish stairway, faintly sketched in by the sun, a lean, gray shadow is sliding up. I hear the steps now—and I see through the door—I feel the plaster smile glued to me. Then past my door, and down another stairway…
The annunciator clicked. I threw myself to the narrow white slit, and… and saw some unfamiliar male number (beginning with a consonant). The elevator hummed, the door slammed. Before me—a heavy brow, set carelessly, aslant, over the face. And the eyes… a strange impression, as though his words were coming from under the scowling brow, where the eyes were.
“A letter for you from her,” came from beneath the overhanging brow. “She asked that everything be done exactly as it says.”
From under the jutting brow, the overhang, a glance around. There’s no one, no one here; come, let me have it! With another glance around, he slipped me the envelope and left. I was alone.
No, not alone: in the envelope, the pink coupon, and the faintest fragrance—hers. It is she, she will come, she will come to me. Quickly the letter-to read it with my own eyes, to believe it all the way…
But no, this cannot be true! I read again, skipping lines: “The coupon… and don’t fail to lower the shades, as if I were really there… It is essential that they think I… I’m very, very sorry…”
I tore the letter to bits. In the mirror, for a second, my distorted, broken eyebrows. I took the coupon to tear it as I tore her note…
“She asked that everything be done exactly as it says.”
My hands slackened. The coupon dropped on the table. She is stronger than I. I’m afraid I will do what she asks. However… however, I don’t know: we’ll see, it’s still a long time until evening… The coupon lies on the table.
My tortured, broken eyebrows in the mirror. Why don’t I have a doctor’s note today as well? I would walk and walk endlessly, around the whole Green Wall, then drop into bed—to the very bottom… But I must go to the thirteenth auditorium, I must wind all of myself up tightly to sit two hours—two hours—without stirring… when I need to scream and stamp my feet.
The lecture. How strange that the voice coming from the gleaming apparatus is not metallic, as usual, but somehow soft, furry, mossy. A woman’s voice. I imagine her as she must have been once upon a time: tiny, a little bent hook of an old woman, like the one at the Ancient House.
The Ancient House… And everything bursts out like a fountain from below—and I must use all of my strength to steel myself again, or I will drown the auditorium with screams. Soft, furry words pass through me, and all that remains is the awareness that they have something to do with children, with child-breeding. I am like a photographic plate. I retain every impression with an oddly alien, indifferent, senseless precision: a golden crescent—the light reflected on the loud-speaker; under it, a child, a living illustration, stretches toward the crescent; the edge of its microscopic unif in its mouth; a tightly dosed little fist, the little thumb inside it; a light shadow across the wrist—a plump, tiny fold. Like a photographic plate, I record: the bare foot hangs over the edge now, the rosy fan of toes is stepping on air—a moment, and it will tumble to the floor.
A woman’s scream; a unif, spreading like transparent wings, flew up to the stage, caught the child; lips on the tiny fold across the wrist; she moved the child to the middle of the table, came down from the stage. Mechanically, my mind imprinted the rosy crescent of the lips, its horns down, blue saucer eyes filled to the brim. O. And, as if reading some harmonious formula, I suddenly realized the necessity, the logic of this trivial incident.