shadowed by the clouds, dark aeros of the Guardians with black, suspended elephant trunks of observation tubes— and, still farther—in the west, something resembling…
In the beginning, no one understood it. Even I, to whom (unfortunately) more had been revealed than to the rest, did not understand. It looked like an enormous swarm of black aeros: barely visible quick dots at an incredible height. Nearer and nearer; hoarse, guttural sounds from above—and finally, over our heads—birds. Their sharp, black, piercing, falling triangles filled the sky. The storm flung them down, they settled on cupolas, on roofs, on poles, on balconies.
“Ah-ah.” The triumphant neck turned, and I saw that one, of the overhanging brow. But now the only thing remaining of his old self was the description; he had somehow emerged from under his eternal brow, and his face was overgrown with bright clusters of rays, like hair—around the eyes, at the lips: he was smiling.
“Do you realize it?” he cried to me through the whistling of the wind, the wings, the cawing. “Do you realize?—the Wall, the Wall was blown up! You understand?”
Past us, somewhere in the background, flashing figures—heads stretched forward—running quickly inside, into the houses. In the middle of the street— a rapid, yet seemingly slow (because of their weight) avalanche of operated ones, marching westward.
Hairy clusters of rays at the lips, the eyes. I seized him by the hand. “Listen, where is she, where is I-330? Is she there, behind the Wall? Or… I must—you hear? At once, I cannot…”
“Here,” he cried gaily, drunkenly—strong, yellow teeth… “She’s here, in the city, in action. Oh-ho— we are acting!”
Who are we? Who am I?
Near him there were some fifty like him—out from under their dark brows, loud, gay, with strong teeth. Gulping the storm with open mouths, swinging seemingly innocuous electrocutors (where did they get them?), they also moved westward, behind the operated ones, but flanking them—by the parallel Avenue Forty-eight…
I tripped against tight, wind-woven cables and ran to her. What for? I don’t know. I stumbled. Empty streets, an alien, wild city, an incessant, triumphant chorus of bird cries, the end of the world. Through the glass walls of some houses I saw (it etched itself in memory) male and female numbers copulating shamelessly—without even dropping the shades, without coupons, at midday…
A house—hers. A door gaping wide in confusion. Below, at the control table—no one. The elevator was stuck somewhere in the shaft. Panting, I ran up the endless stairs. A corridor. Quick—like wheel-spokes—figures on the doors: 320, 326, 330… I-330, here!
Already through the glass door I saw everything in the room—scattered, confused, crumpled. A chair turned over in haste, its four legs in the air, like a dead animal. The bed—pushed somehow absurdly sideways from the wall. On the floor—like trampled, fallen petals—a spray of pink coupons.
I bent down, picked up one, another, a third: all bore the number D-503. I was on each one, drops of me, molten, spilled over the brim. And this was all that remained…
For some reason, it was impossible to leave them on the floor, to be trampled on. I gathered up another handful, put them on the table, smoothed them carefully, glanced at them, and… laughed.
I had never known this before, but now I know it, and you know it: laughter can be of different colors. It is only an echo of a distant explosion within you. It may be festive—red, blue, and golden fireworks; or—torn fragments of a human body flying up…
An unfamiliar name flashed on a coupon. I do not remember the number, only the letter: F. I brushed all the coupons off the table, stepped on them—on myself—with my heel, like this, and went out…
For a long time, dumbly, I sat in the corridor near the door, waiting for something. Shuffling steps from the left. An old man: face like a punctured, empty, shrunken, creased balloon—with something transparent still dripping through the punctures, slowly trickling down. Slowly, dimly, I understood—tears. And only when the old man was already far, I recalled myself and cried out, “Wait-listen, do you know? Number I-330…”
The old man turned, waved his hand despairingly, and hobbled on…
At dusk, I returned home. In the west, the sky contracted every second in a pale blue spasm. A dull, muffled roar came from there. The roofs were covered with black, charred pieces—birds.
I lay down on the bed—and like a heavy beast sleep weighed me down, stifled me…
Thirty-eighth Entry
When I awakened, the brightness hurt my eyes. I closed them tightly. In my head—a strange, caustic, blue haze. Everything as in a fog. And through the fog: But I didn’t turn on the light! How…
I jumped up. At the table, her chin resting on her hand, sat I-330, looking at me with a wry smile…
I am writing on this table now. Those ten or fifteen minutes, brutally twisted into the tightest spring, are long past And yet, it seems to me, the door has just swung shut behind her, and it’s still possible to catch up with her, to seize her hands— and she may laugh and say…
I-330 sat at the table. I rushed to her. “You, you! I was—I saw your room—I thought you…”
But in mid-word I tripped against the sharp, immobile spears of lashes. I stopped, remembering: this was how she looked at me that day, aboard the Integral. And yet I must now, in a single second, find a way of telling her—of making her believe—or else it will be never…
“Listen to me—I must… I must tell you… everything… No, just a moment—I have to take a drink…”
My mouth was dry as though lined with blotting paper. I tried to pour some water, and I couldn’t. I put the glass down on the table and seized the pitcher with both hands.
Now I saw: the blue smoke was from her cigarette. She brought it to her lips, inhaled, greedily swallowed the smoke, as I the water, and said, “Don’t. Be silent. It does not matter. You see, I came anyway. They are waiting for me below. And you want our last minutes to…”
She flung the cigarette down on the floor, leaned backward with her whole body over the arm of the chair (the button was there, on the wall, and it was difficult to reach). And I remember how the chair tilted and two of its legs were lifted from the floor. Then the shades fell.
She came over, embraced me, hard. Her knees through her dress—the slow, tender, warm, all-enveloping poison…
Then suddenly… It sometimes happens that you have sunk completely into a sweet, warm dream—and suddenly you’re stung by something, you start, and you are wide awake… So now: the trampled pink coupons on the floor in her room, and on one—the letter F, and some figures… They tangled within me into a single knot, and even now I don’t know what the feeling was, but I crushed her so that she cried out with pain…
Another minute—of those ten or fifteen on the dazzling white pillow—her head thrown back with half-closed eyes; the sharp, sweet line of teeth. And all that time, the persistent, absurd, tormenting intimation of something that must not be… that must not be remembered now. And I press her ever more tenderly, more cruelly—the blue spots from my fingers deeper, brighter…
Without opening her eyes (I noticed this), she said, “I heard that you were at the Benefactor’s yesterday. Is that true?”
“Yes, it is.”
Then her eyes opened, wide—and I took pleasure in watching how rapidly her face paled, faded, disappeared: nothing but eyes.
I told her everything. Except—I don’t know why… No, it isn’t true, I know—except for one thing— the words He had spoken at the very end, that they had needed me only…
Gradually, like a photographic image in the developer, her face emerged: her cheeks, the white line of her teeth, her lips. She rose, went over to the mirrored closet door.
Again my mouth was dry. I poured myself some water, but it nauseated me. I put the glass back on the table and asked, “Is this what you have come for—you needed to find out?”
The sharp, mocking triangle of eyebrows raised to the temples looked at me from the mirror. She turned to say something to me, but said nothing.
