I-330 raised her head, leaned on her elbow. At the corners of her lips, two long, sharp lines, and the dark angle of raised eyebrows: a cross.
“Perhaps, on that day…” She broke off, her brow darkening. She took my hand and pressed it hard. “Tell me, you will not forget me, you will remember me always?”
“Why do you speak like that? What do you mean? My darling!”
She was silent, and her eyes now looked past me, through me, far away. I suddenly heard the wind flapping huge wings against the glass (of course, this had gone on all the time, but I had not heard it until now), and for some reason I recalled the piercing birds over the top of the Green Wall.
She shook her head, as if to free herself of something. Again, for a second, she touched me with all of herself—as an aero touches the earth for a moment, springlike, before settling down.
“Well, give me my stockings now! Hurry!”
Her stockings, thrown on the table, rested on the open page of my manuscript (the 193rd). In my haste, I swept off the manuscript, the pages scattered, I would never be able to collect them in order again. And even if I did, there would be no real order; some gaps, some obstacles, some X’s would remain.
“I can’t go on this way,” I said. “You are here, next to me, and yet you seem to be behind an ancient, opaque wall. I hear a rustling, voices behind the wall, but cannot make out the words; I don’t know what is there. I cannot bear it. You are forever keeping something back, you’ve never told me where I was that time in the Ancient House, and what those corridors were, and why the doctor. Or, perhaps, this never really happened?”
I-330 put her hands on my shoulders, and slowly entered deep into my eyes. “You want to know everything?”
“Yes, I want to. I must.”
“And you won’t be afraid to follow me anywhere, to the very end—wherever I might lead you?”
“Anywhere!”
“Good. I promise you: after the holiday, if only… Oh, by the way, how is your Integral doing? I always forget to ask—how soon?”
“No, what do you mean, ‘if only? Again? ‘If only’ what?”
But she, already at the door: “You’ll see yourself…”
I am alone. All that remains of her is a faint fragrance, reminiscent of the sweet, dry, yellow pollen of some flowers from behind the Wall. And also—the little hooks of questions firmly stuck within me—like those used by the ancients in catching fish ( Prehistoric Museum ).
Why did she suddenly think of the Integral?
Twenty-fourth Entry
I am like a machine set at excessive speed: the bearings are overheated; another minute, and molten metal will begin to drip, and everything will turn to naught Quick—cold water, logic. I pour it by the pailful, but logic hisses on the red-hot bearings and dissipates into the air in whiffs of white, elusive steam.
Of course, it’s clear: in order to determine the true value of a function it is necessary to take it to its ultimate limit And it is clear that yesterday’s preposterous “dissolution in the universe,” brought to its ultimate point, means death. For death is precisely the most complete dissolution of self in the universe. Hence, if we designate love as “L” and death as “D,” then L = f(D). In other words, love and death…
Yes, exactly, exactly. This is why I am afraid of I-330, I resist her, I don’t want to… But why does this “I don’t want” exist within me together with “I want”? That’s the full horror of it—I long for last night’s blissful death again. That’s the horror of it, that even, today, when the logical function has been integrated, when it is obvious that death is implicit in this function, I still desire her, with my lips, arms, breast, with every millimeter of me…
Tomorrow is Unanimity Day. She will, of course, be there too, I’ll see her, but only from a distance. From a distance—that will be painful, because I must, I am irresistibly drawn to be near her, so that her hands, her shoulder, her hair… But I long even for this pain—let it come.
Great Benefactor! How absurd—to long for pain. Who doesn’t know that pain is a negative value, and that the sum of pain diminishes the sum we call happiness? And hence…
And yet—there is no “hence.” Everything is blank. Bare.
Through the glass walls of the house—a windy, feverishly pink, disquieting sunset. I turn my chair away from that intruding pinkness and turn the pages of my notes. And I can see: again I have forgotten that I am writing not for myself, but for you, unknown readers, whom I love and pity—for you who are still trudging somewhere below, behind, in distant centuries.
Well, then—about Unanimity Day, this great holiday. I have always loved it, since childhood. It seems to me that to us it has a meaning similar to that of “Easter” to the ancients. I remember, on the eve of this day I would prepare for myself a sort of hour calendar—then happily cross out each hour: an hour nearer, an hour less to wait… If I were certain that nobody would see it, honestly, I would carry such a little calendar with me even today, watching by it how many hours remain until tomorrow, when I will see—if only from a distance…
(I was interrupted: they brought me a new unif, fresh from the factory. We usually receive new unifs for this day. In the hallway outside—steps, joyful exclamations, noise.)
I continue. Tomorrow I will see the spectacle which is repeated year in, year out, and yet is ever new, and ever freshly stirring: the mighty chalice of harmony, the reverently upraised arms. Tomorrow is the day of the annual elections of the Benefactor. Tomorrow we shall again place in the Benefactor’s hands the keys to the imperishable fortress of our happiness.
Naturally, this is entirely unlike the disorderly, disorganized elections of the ancients, when-absurd to say—the very results of the elections were unknown beforehand. Building a state on entirely unpredictable eventualities, blindly—what can be more senseless? And yet apparently it needed centuries before man understood this.
Needless to say, among us, in this respect as in all others, there is no room for eventualities; nothing unexpected can occur. And the elections themselves are mainly symbolic, meant to remind us that we are a single, mighty, million-celled organism, that—in the words of the ancients—we are the Church, one and indivisible. Because the history of the One State knows of no occasion when even a single voice dared to violate the majestic unison.
It is said that the ancients conducted their elections in some, secret manner, concealing themselves like thieves. Some of our historians even assert that they came to the election ceremonies carefully masked. (I can imagine that fantastically gloomy sight: night, a square, figures in dark cloaks moving stealthily along the walls; the scarlet flame of torches flattened by the wind…) No one has yet discovered the full reason for all this secrecy; it is most likely that elections were connected with some mystical, superstitious, or even criminal rites. But we have nothing to conceal or be ashamed of; we celebrate elections openly, honestly, in broad daylight I see everyone voting for the Benefactor; everyone sees me voting for the Benefactor. And, indeed, how could this be otherwise, since “everyone” and “I” are a single “We.” How infinitely more ennobling, sincere, and lofty this is than the cowardly, stealthy “secrecy” of the ancients! And also—how much more expedient. For even assuming the impossible—some dissonance in the usual monophony—the unseen Guardians are right there, in our ranks. They can immediately take note of the numbers of those who have strayed and save them from further false steps—thus saving the One State from them. And, finally, one more…