It was only natural, of course: I had seen a reflection of myself. But, in fact, it was so unnatural and unlike me (obviously, the depressing effects of the circumstances) that I distinctly felt frightened, felt caught, a captive in this wild cage, I felt myself gripped by the wild whirlwind of ancient life.
“You know what,” I-330 said, “go out into the next room for a minute.” I heard her voice come from in there, from within, from the dark windows of her eyes, where that wood-fire burned.
I went out and sat down. From a little shelf on the wall, the snub-nosed, asymmetrical physiognomy of some ancient poet (Pushkin, perhaps) was faintly smiling at me. Why on earth am I sitting here and compliantly suffering this smile? And what is the point of all this: what am I here for, what is this ridiculous situation? This irritating, repulsive woman, this strange game …
Back in there, the door to the closet banged, silk rustled, and I could barely restrain myself from going in—and, though I don’t exactly remember, I probably felt like saying many very harsh things.
But she had already come out. She was in a short, old-fashioned, bright-yellow dress, a black hat, black stockings. The dress was made of light silk and I could clearly see: her stockings went very high up, a good deal higher than the knee, and the open neck, the shadow between …
“Listen, you, clearly, want to try to be original, but don’t tell me that you …”
“Clearly,” I-330 interrupted, “to be original means to somehow stand out from others. Consequently, being original is to violate equality … And that which in the idiot language of the Ancients was called ‘being banal,’ for us just means doing your duty. Because …”
“Yes, yes, yes! Exactly,” I burst out, “and one has no business, no business in …”
She walked up to the statue of the snub-nosed poet and hanging the blinds of her eyes over those wood-fires—there, within, behind her windows—she said, in what seemed to be total seriousness this time (perhaps to mollify me), a very reasonable thing: “Don’t you find it surprising that once upon a time people put up with the likes of him? And didn’t just put up with him but adored him. What slavish spirit! Don’t you think?”
“Clearly … that is to say, I meant …” (That damned “clearly” again!)
“Well, yes, I understand. But it’s likely, in essence, this was a case of the masters becoming more powerful than their rulers. Why didn’t they isolate them and destroy them? In our world …”
“Yes, in our world …” I began. And suddenly she burst out laughing. I could see this laughter with my eyes: the ringing, severe, stubbornly supple (like a whip), crooked line of this laughter.
I remember I was shaking all over. Now I wanted to grab her— I don’t remember anymore what I wanted to do … but I had to do something—it didn’t matter what. I mechanically opened my golden badge, glancing at the time. It was ten minutes to 17:00.
“Don’t you think it’s time?” I said with as much politeness as I could muster.
“And what if I asked you—to stay here with me?”
“Listen, you … are you aware of what you are saying? In ten minutes I am obliged to be in the auditorium …”
“… And all ciphers are obliged to go through the prescribed course of art and sciences …” I-330 said, mimicking my voice. Then she raised the blinds. She lifted her eyes: the wood-fire burned through the dark windows. “I know a doctor in the Bureau of Medicine. I am registered to him. And if I ask him—he’ll give you a certificate that says you were sick. Well?”
I understood. I finally understood where this game was going.
“What are you saying! Do you know, as an honest cipher, I am obliged, in theory, to report you immediately to the Bureau of Guardians and …”
“And what about not ‘in theory’?” A sharp smile-sting. “I am deadly curious: will you go to the Bureau or not?”
“Are you staying?” I grasped the door handle. The handle was bronze and I heard: that same bronze in my voice.
“Just a minute … may I?”
She walked up to the telephone. She dialed some kind of number—I was in such shock that I didn’t make a mental note of it—and she yelled: “I will wait for you at the Ancient House. Yes, yes, alone …”
I turned the bronze cold handle: “Would you mind if I took the aero?”
“Oh, yes, of course …”
There, at the entrance, the old woman dozed in the sun like a plant. Again, I was amazed that she opened her overgrown mouth and that she began to speak: “And she … your—what, she stayed in there alone?”
“Alone.”
The old woman’s mouth tucked inside again. She shook her head. From the look of it, even her weakly brains understood the utter absurdity and risky nature of that woman’s behavior.
At exactly 17:00, I was in the lecture. And there, for some reason, it came to me that I had told the old woman an untruth: I-330 was there, but she was not alone now. Maybe it was this—that I had involuntarily lied to the old woman—that so tortured me and interfered with my listening. Yes, she was not alone: that was the thing.
At 21:30, I had a Personal Hour. I could have gone to the Bureau of Guardians and issued a statement today. But after that silly incident, I was tired. Also, the lawful period within which you can issue statements is forty-eight hours. I’ll make it there tomorrow: a whole twenty-four hours remain.
RECORD SEVEN
KEYWORDS: An Eyelash. Taylor. Henbane and Lily of the Valley.
Nighttime. Green, orange, blue; a red “grand” instrument; a dress, yellow as a lemon. Then the bronze Buddha; it suddenly raised its bronze eyelids and then sap started to flow from it—from the Buddha. And from the yellow dress, more sap. And sap dripped down the mirror, and oozed from the big bed, and from the children’s beds, and now from me myself—and with it oozed an indistinct, morbidly sweet horror.
I awoke: a moderate bluish light. The glass of the walls was sparkling, the glass chair and table, too. All this was calming; my heart ceased to pound. Sap, the Buddha … what is this absurdity? It is clear: I am sick. I have never had dreams before. They say that for the Ancients, it was absolutely usual and normal to have dreams. Yes, of course, it seems their whole existence was just such a horrific carousel: green, orange, Buddha, sap. But we, here and now, know that dreams are a serious psychic disease. I also know: until now my brain was chronometrically regulated and gleaming, a mechanism without a single speck, but now … Yes, particularly now: I feel some kind of foreign body in there, in my brain, like a fine eyelash in the eye—the rest of you doesn’t feel it, but the eye with the eyelash in it can’t forget about it for a second …
The small, bright, crystal bell in the bed’s headboard rings: 07:00. It’s time to get up. On the right, on the left, through the glass walls, it’s as if I am seeing myself, my room, my nightshirt, my motions, repeating themselves a thousand times. This cheers me up: one sees oneself as part of an enormous, powerful unit. And such precise beauty: not one extraneous gesture, twist, or turn.
Yes, that Taylor was, without doubt, the most brilliant of the Ancients. True, he didn’t think everything through, didn’t extend his method throughout life, to each step, around the clock. He wasn’t able to integrate his system from an hour to all twenty-four. But all the same: how they could have written whole libraries about the likes of Kant—and not take notice of Taylor, a prophet, with the ability to see ten centuries ahead?
Breakfast was over. The Hymn of the One State had been sung harmoniously. In fours, we went to the elevators, harmoniously. The rustling of the motors was almost audible—and rapidly down, down, down—with a slight sinking of the heart …
And, just then, for no reason, that ridiculous dream surfaced again—or some sort of implicit function of the dream. Ah, of course, only yesterday I had that same sinking feeling in the aero— on our descent. But all that is over with: period. And it’s a very good thing, too, that I was so decisive and harsh with her.
I rus
hed along in a wagon of the subterranean rail to the location of the Integral, where its elegant body stood on stocks, still immobile, not yet animated by fire, glistening under the sun. Closing my eyes, I fantasized in formulas: in my head I calculated again the escape velocity that would be needed to launch the Integral from the Earth. With each fraction of a second, the mass of the Integral would change (consuming combustion fuel). This equation turned out to be very complicated, with transcendental quantities.
Penetrating my fantasy: here in the solid, numerical world, someone sat down next to me, someone gently bumped me and said, “Pardon me.”
I slightly opened my eyes and at first I saw something fly swiftly into outer space (it was an association with the Integral). It was a head and it was able to fly because there were protruding pink wing-ears on each of its sides. And then the crooked line of an overhanging back of the head and a stooping spine—twice-bent— the letter “S”…
And there was an eyelash inside the glass walls of my algebraic world again—there is something unpleasant that I am supposed to do today.
“It’s okay, don’t worry.” I smiled at my neighbor and exchanged bows with him. His badge flashed digits: S-4711 (of course, I had associated him with the letter “S” from the very first moment—it was a visual impression, unregistered by my consciousness). And his eyes flashed: two sharp gimlets, quickly revolving, boring deeper and deeper and now screwing into my deepest depths, where they will see what I myself won’t even …
All of a sudden, the eyelash became completely clear to me: he was one of them, the Guardians, and basically, there was no more postponing it, I had to tell him everything right now.
“I, if you will, was at the Ancient House yesterday …” my voice was strange, flattened, planar. I tried to cough it clear.
“Well, that’s excellent. It does provide material for very edifying conclusions.”
“But, you see, I wasn’t alone. I accompanied cipher I-330, and, you see …”
“I-330? Good for you. A very interesting, talented woman. She has many admirers.”
… Perhaps he, too—back then on the walk—maybe, he was registered to her, too? No, bringing this up with him is just not possible, it’s inconceivable: that is clear.
“Yes, yes! And how, and how! Very.” I smiled—broadly and stupidly—and I felt: this smile makes me look naked, silly …
The gimlets reached my deepest depths, and then, rapidly revolving, screwed themselves back into eyes; S double-smiled, nodded at me, and slid along to the exit.
I hid behind my newspaper (it seemed to me that everyone was looking at me) and soon forgot about the eyelash, about the gimlets, about everything: I was very alarmed by what I was reading. It was one short line: “According to reliable witnesses, new evidence has been found of an organization, which continues to elude us to this day, whose aim is the liberation of the State from its beneficial yoke.”
“Liberation?” Astounding: the extent to which this criminal instinct is deep-rooted in humankind. And I consciously say: “criminal.” Freedom and crime are so indissolubly connected to each other, like … well, like the movement of the aero and its velocity. When the velocity of the aero = 0, it doesn’t move; when the freedom of a person = 0, he doesn’t commit crime. This is clear. The sole means of ridding man of crime is to rid him of freedom. And we have only just gotten rid of that (“only just” means centuries within a cosmic time-scale, of course) and now suddenly some pitiful half-wits have gone and …
I don’t get it: why didn’t I, yesterday, go to the Bureau of Guardians immediately? Today, after 16:00, I will go, without fail …
I left at 16:10 and at that exact moment I saw O on the corner— in total pink rapture over our encounter. Now, she has a simple, round intellect, I thought. How opportune: she will see what’s going on and give me the support I need to … But then, no: I am not in need of support. I was firmly decided.
The pipes of the Music Factory rang out the March harmoniously—the everyday March. What indescribable charm— this everydayness, repetitiveness, this reflectivity!
O grasped my hand. “A stroll?” Those round blue eyes opened widely to me—blue windows to the interior—and I penetrated inside without getting caught up on anything: there is nothing inside, that is, nothing extraneous, unnecessary.
“No, no stroll. I need to …” I told her where I was going. And, to my amazement, I saw: that pink circle of a mouth forge into a pink half-moon, with its horns facing downward, as if from something sour. This enraged me.
“You female ciphers, it seems, are incurably corroded by prejudice. You are completely incapable of thinking in the abstract. Pardon me—but this is pure dimness.”
“You are going to the spies … hmph! And to think I went to the Botanical Museum and got you a sprig of lily of the valley …”
“Why ‘and to think’? What is this ‘and to think …’? How utterly female.” I grabbed her lily of the valley angrily (I admit). “So, here it is, your lily of the valley, well? Sniff it: pleasant, yes? So at least you have that much logic. Lily of the valley smells good: that’s right. But apparently you can’t say that about odor itself, about the concept of ‘odor’—that it is ‘good’ or ‘bad’? You can’t, can you? There is the odor of the lily of the valley and there is the loathsome odor of henbane: both are odors. There were spies in the ancient state and there are spies among us here … yes, spies. I am not afraid of words. But it is absolutely clear: in those days, a spy was henbane and now, a spy is lily of the valley. Yes, lily of the valley!”
The pink half-moon trembled. Now I understand why—but at the time it appeared as though … I was convinced that she was about to start laughing. So I yelled even louder: “Yes, lily of the valley! And there is nothing funny about it, nothing funny about it!”
Round, smooth spheres of heads were floating by and turning to look. O tenderly took me by the hand.
“You’re something today … Are you perhaps sick?”
The dream—yellow—the Buddha … Then everything became clear to me: I had to go to the Bureau of Medicine.
“Yes, it’s true. I am sick,” I said very joyfully (this was a completely inexplicable contradiction: there was no reason to be joyful).
“Then you must go to the doctor right now. You do understand: you are obliged to be healthy—funny that I have to point it out to you.”
“Oh, sweet O, well, of course, you are totally right. Absolutely right!”
I did not go to the Bureau of Guardians: I couldn’t, I needed to go to the Bureau of Medicine. They kept me there until 17:00.
In the evening—it didn’t matter by then, since the Bureau of Guardians was closed anyway. O came over that evening. The blinds were not lowered. We were solving a puzzle from the age-old book of problems: this is very calming and cleanses the thoughts. O-90 was over the notebook, her head bent toward her left shoulder and her left cheek propped up by her tongue in concentration. How childlike, how charming. And inside me, once again, everything was good, precise, simple …
She left. I was alone. I took two deep breaths (this is very beneficial before sleeping). And all of a sudden, an unexpected odor— reminiscent of something very unpleasant … I soon found it: a sprig of lily of the valley was hidden in my bed. Immediately, everything whirled about, rising up from the depths. Well, this was simply tactless on her part—leaving me these lilies of the valley. Yes: I never went to the Guardians, no. But it’s not my fault that I’m sick.
RECORD EIGHT
KEYWORDS: The Irrational Root. R-13. A Triangle.
It was long ago, in my school years, when √-1 happened to me. My memory of it is clearly carved: a bright spherical hall, hundreds of round, little-boy heads, and Pliapa, our mathematics teacher. We called him Pliapa—he was rather vintage and disheveled, and when the monitor inserted his plug from behind, the loudspeaker started up “Plya-plya-plya-tshhhhh,” and then the lesson began. One day, Pliapa explained “irrational numbers”
and I remember I wept, I beat my fists upon the table and wailed: “I don’t want √-1 ! Take √-1 out of me!” This irrational root had sunk into me, like something foreign, alien, frightening, it devoured me—it couldn’t be comprehended or defused because it was beyond ratio.
Now, once again it’s that √-1. I looked over these records once more and it was clear to me: I have been outwitting myself, lying to myself, all in order not to see √-1. It was all junk—that I was sick and all that—I could have made it there. A week ago I know I would have gone without a moment’s thought. Why is it that now I … Why?
Even today. At 16:10 exactly, I stood before the glittering glass wall. Above me, the golden, sunny, clean radiance of the letters on the signboard of the Bureau. Inside, through the glass, a long line of pale bluish unifs. Faces flickering like icon-lamps in ancient churches: they had come to perform a heroic deed; they had come to surrender their loved ones, friends, or their selves to the altar of the One State. And I—I strained toward them, to be with them. But I couldn’t: my legs were deeply soldered to the glass flagstones. I was standing there, stupidly watching, lacking the strength to move from that spot …
“Hey, mathematician, daydreaming?”
I winced. Pointed at me: black, laughter-lacquered eyes and thick African lips. It was the poet R-13, an old friend—and with him was pink O.
I turned angrily (I think, if only they hadn’t bothered me just then, I would have, once and for all, torn that √-1 out of myself, with the flesh still stuck to it, and I would have walked into the Bureau).
“Not daydreaming—but admiring, if you don’t mind,” I said rather sharply.
“Indeed, indeed! You ought to be a poet, my friend, not a mathematician but a poet! Ha, ha, come over to our side, to the poets, eh? Well, what do you think—I can set you up in a second—hmm?”
R-13 speaks gutturally; words gush out of him, out of his thick lips, they spray—every “p” is a fountain. “Poets”—a fountain.