After landing he seemed to recover his strength, and picked up speed. I made a giant leap and let myself drop right down on his back. He opened his mouth to let a penetrating shriek loose toward heaven. I bit into him with all my might. Pasha's neck cracked loudly, and his scream ended abruptly. Then his eyes closed, as if he were weary, as if he were about to fall asleep slowly, very slowly, and then he exhaled the last breath of his meaningless rat's life.
That was all. No trace of his companions. They had left him to his fate; to save their own skins, they had left him to be sacrificed to the fangs of the behemoth. Cowardly pack! United, they could have ripped me to shreds. This realization made more fury and disgust froth up in me. I clamped the dead lump between my chops, straddled him on the floor, and scratched and tore the body with all four paws. The more fervently I worked him over, the more I felt my aggressions recede.
Finally out of breath, taking in great gasps of air, I understood all at once that the cause of this unrestrained outburst of rage was not this wretched rat but the nightmarish days I had gone through. I had merely sought out a whipping boy.
I let my prey go and looked off into space sadly. I was about ready to burst into tears, but for today there were no more tears to cry. The dead rat lay in front of me like a piece of meat ready for the frying pan. His blood ran down over a thick, brown-speckled book that served as his funeral bier. Deep in thought, I absentmindedly tried to decipher the handwritten title. Dirt and moisture had badly stained the cover. At the top, large block letters spelled out "JO NAL," and under them, "PRO E S R JUL US PRETERIUS." The spaces between the letters were obliterated by a motley mix of rat shit and an indefinable, slimy substance that must have dripped down from the ceiling.
Curiosity! Of course I was curious; it was my old, revolting vice, though shouldn't I call it an affliction? I guess I would march down into hell without batting an eyelash to find out what the temperature down there was. And so my twisted, riddle-addicted mind once again began putting two and two together while my paws automatically shoved the dead rat aside.
JO NAL …
One look in the book, of course, would already have given me sufficient hints about its title. But twisted minds don't work that way. They don't like easy solutions to riddles. Suddenly, in a flash of inspiration, I had the solution! You fool, why didn't you get it right away?
JO NAL was JOURNAL.
Then, step by step:
PRO E S R was PROFESSOR.
JUL US was JULIUS.
The Journal of Professor Julius Preterius. I had him at last: my mysterious Dr. Frankenstein. The rascal had kept a diary. But to what purpose? And why was this confidential document among all this garbage?
My paw trembling, I turned the cover of the book. The first yellowed pages were crammed with the sort of doodles that humans draw when they're bored or excited and don't have anything particular in mind, such as when they're telephoning. The remarkable thing about these doodles, however, was that each and every one showed brothers and sisters in poses that were sometimes funny, sometimes grotesque. The whole thing looked like some bizarre preparatory sketches for a painting meant to portray my kind. I turned to the next page, and Professor Julius Preterius's secret entries began. Outside, a pouring rain commenced. Through a vent up in the wall facing me lightning flashed, no doubt creating a wild strobe light show in the gardens. But this time neither the lightning nor the thunder frightened me.
I read on and on. And shuddered. Sheer terror overcame me at the guilt that had burdened this man. Guilt, dread, and insanity. Or as good old Nietzsche said so well: "And when you look long into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you …"
6
15 January 1980
I am happy! 1 am the floppiest man on God's earth! For a month I have-had the feeling of being under the influence of drugs. But drag euphoria is not "tangible," that is, the euphoric mood induced by stimulants always has a touch of the unreal. But this state ... I could rip out entire forests, I could embrace and kiss anyone passing by on the street. Rosalie thinks I look at least ten years younger, which (and I can say this without false modesty) is in fact no exaggeration.
I have to marshal my thoughts, must set down the coming events in this journal for posterity. As far as writing goes, although I have enough to do with two laboratory notebooks and the correspondence with Switzerland, I would like, to give an account of the project from my private quite unscientific point of view as well. I confess that I am vain. For a month, I have had every reason to be!
My dream has come true. In retrospect, the years at the institute seem like a bad dream. Professor Knorr's humiliating laughter, which greeted every one of my creative ideas scornfully, like a spiteful flourish, is now once and for all a thing of the past. I worked for ten years at that stultifying institute; whose only fame consists in its serving the best cafeteria food in Europe. And the thanks for it was: "You will see, my dear colleague, that what you
