A Scowling Glance Over the Parapet

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.

She sat down just behind me, on the left. I glanced back; she obediently took her eyes away from the table with the child; her eyes turned to me, entered me, and again: she, I, and the table on the stage—three points, and through these points-lines, projections of some inevitable, still unseen events.

I walked home along the green, twilit street, already gleaming with lights here and there. I heard all of myself ticking like a clock. And the hands of the clock would in a moment step across some figure—I would do something from which there would be no drawing back. She, I-330, needs someone to think she is with me. And I need her, and what do I care for her “need.” I will not be a blind for someone else—I won’t.

Behind me, familiar steps, as though splashing through puddles. I no longer glance back; I know-it is S. He’ll follow me to the door, then he will probably stand below, on the sidewalk, his gimlets drilling up, into my room—until the shades fall, concealing someone’s crime…

He, my Guardian Angel, put a period to my thoughts. I decided—No, I won’t. I decided.

When I came into my room and switched on the light, I did not believe my eyes: near the table stood O. Or, rather, hung, like an empty dress that had been taken off the body. It was as though not a single spring remained under her dress; her arms drooped, springless; her legs, her voice hung limply.

“I… about my letter. You received it? Yes? I must know the answer, I must—right now.”

I shrugged. Gloating, as if she were to blame for everything, I looked at her brimming blue eyes and delayed to answer. Then, with enjoyment, stabbing her with every separate word, I said, “An answer? Well… You are right. Completely. About everything.”

“Then…” (she tried to cover her trembling with a smile, but I saw it). “Very well! I’ll go-I’ll go at once.”

She hung over the table. Lowered eyes, limp arms, legs. The crumpled pink coupon of the other one was still on the table. I quickly opened the manuscript of “We” and hid the coupon—more, perhaps, from myself than from O.

“You see, I’m still writing. Already 170 pages… It’s turning into something so unexpected…”

A voice, a shadow of a voice: “Do you remember… on page seven… I let a drop fall, and you…”

Blue saucers-silent, hurried drops over the brim, down the cheeks, and words, hurried, over the brim. “I can’t, I will go in a moment… I’ll never again… let it be as you say. But I want, I must have your child-give me a child and I will go, I’ll go!”

I saw all of her trembling under her unif, and I felt: in a moment, I too… I put my hands behind my back and smiled.

“You seem to be anxious for the Benefactor’s Machine?”

And her words, like a stream over the dam: “It doesn’t matter! But I will feel, I’ll feel it within me. And then, if only for a few days… To see, to see just once the little crease, here—like that one, on the table. Only one day!”

Three points: she, I, and the tiny fist there, on the table, with the plump fold…

Once, I remember, when I was a child, we were taken to the Accumulator Tower. On the very top landing, I bent over the glass parapet. Below, dots of people, and my heart thumped sweetly: What if? At that time I had merely seized the rail more firmly; now, I jumped.

“So you want it? Knowing that…”

Eyes dosed, as if facing the sun. A wet, radiant smile. “Yes, yes! I do!”

I snatched the pink coupon from under the manuscript—the other’s coupon—and ran downstairs, to the controller on duty. O caught my hand, cried out something, but I understood her words only when I returned.

She sat on the edge of the bed, her hands locked tightly between her knees. “That was… her coupon?”

“What does it matter? Well, yes, hers.”

Something cracked. Or, perhaps, O merely stirred. She sat, hands locked in her knees, silently.

“Well? Hurry…” I roughly seized her hand, and red spots (tomorrow they’ll be blue) appeared on her wrist, by the plump childlike fold.

That was the last. Then—a click of the switch, all thought extinguished, darkness, sparks—I flew over the parapet, down…

Twentieth Entry

TOPICS:

Discharge