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LOG 6

BRIEF:

An Incident. That Damned ‘Clear’. Twenty-four Hours.

To reiterate: I’ve committed to writing everything down without hiding anything. Because of this, although it saddens me deeply, I’m forced to put down that even today, in our society, the process of the solidification and crystallisation of life is not yet complete: we are still several steps short of our ideal. The ideal is (clearly) the point after which nothing else happens, while we . . . and wouldn’t you know it: just today, the One State Gazette said that in two days, there’ll be another Celebration of Justice held in Cube Square. Apparently, some number has once again tried to obstruct the course of the mighty Machine of the State, there’s been another unforeseen and uncalculated occurrence.

On top of this, something has happened to me. Although it was during the Personal Hour, i.e. the time allotted specifically for unforeseen circumstances, but still . . .

Around 16, (more precisely, at ten to 16), I was at home. Suddenly, the phone rang.

‘D-503?’ – a woman’s voice.

‘Yes.’

‘Are you free?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s me, I-330. I’ll fly over and pick you up. We’re going to go to the House of Antiquity. Okay?’

I-330 . . . she’s the one irritating me, repelling me, practically scaring me. And that was precisely why I said: yes.

Five minutes later, we were already on the aero. The blue majolica of the May sky, the gentle sun on its own golden aero buzzing behind us, not overtaking us nor falling behind. But, up ahead, a cloud whitened on the horizon, like the cheeks of an ancient ‘cupid’, which bothered me for some reason. The front window was open, letting the wind in, which made your lips dry, so you had to keep licking and thinking about them all the time.

Murky green spots appeared out in the distance, beyond the Wall. Then – down, down, down, your heart drops, it’s like coming down a steep mountain, and finally, there we were at the House of Antiquity.

This entire eerie, fragile and blind structure is fully enclosed in a glass shell: otherwise, it would have, naturally, given out ages ago. An old woman stood waiting by the glass door, totally wrinkled, especially her mouth: it looked like it had grown over with wrinkles and folds, her lips had migrated inward, and it seemed completely improbable that she could possibly speak. And yet she did. ‘Have you dearies come to look at the house?’ Her wrinkles all beamed (most likely because they came together in rays, which created the semblance of ‘beaming’).

‘Yes, babushka, I felt like seeing it again,’ I-330 told her.

The wrinkles beamed brighter. ‘How about this sun, huh? Well? What? Oh, you little scamp, you rascal! I know what you’re up to! Alright, then: you two go on inside, I’ll just stay out here in the sunshine . . .’

Hmmm . . . it seemed my companion came here often. I felt like I wanted to shake something off myself, like something was in my way: probably that nagging image: the cloud on smooth blue majolica. As we ascended the broad, dark stairs, I-330 said, ‘I love that old woman.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe for her mouth. Maybe for nothing. Just because.’

I shrugged. She continued, smiling a little, or maybe, not smiling at all. ‘I feel very guilty about it. Clearly, there should be no such thing as “love just because” – it should always be “love because”, love for a reason. All natural forces must be . . .’

‘Clearly,’ I began, and immediately caught myself on this word and snuck a look at I – had she noticed?

She was looking down somewhere, her eyes were lowered, like blinds.

It reminded me: evening, around 22, walking down an avenue, among the brightly lit, translucent cells, you notice the darkened ones, with their blinds lowered, and inside them, behind the blinds – what was going on in here, behind her blinds? Why had she called me, what was all this about?

I opened the heavy, creaking, opaque door, and we found ourselves in a dark, disorganised space (what was once called an ‘apartment’). That same antique ‘royal’ musical instrument – a wild, cluttered, crazy jumble of colours and shapes, exactly like their ancient music. A white plane overhead; dark blue walls; the red, green, and orange bindings of ancient books; yellow bronze – candleholders, a statue of Buddha; rows of furnishings in epileptic disarray, impossible to incorporate into any equation.

I could barely handle this level of chaos, but my companion seemed to have a higher tolerance.

‘This is my absolute favorite,’ and suddenly, as though regaining her balance, she flashed her biting smile with her sharp white teeth, ‘I mean: the most ridiculous of their “apartments”.’

‘Or, to be even more precise,’ I corrected her, ‘states. Thousands of microscopic, eternally warring nation-states, as merciless as . . .’

‘Well, yes, clearly,’ she replied, apparently serious.

We walked through a room with small children’s beds (in that era, children were also private property). Then more rooms, flashing mirrors, gloomy wardrobes, unbearably gaudy sofas, an enormous ‘fireplace’, a broad mahogany bed. The wonderful, translucent, eternal glass we have today only appeared in the form of sad, fragile squares – windowpanes.

‘And to think, the people who lived here loved “just because”. They burned, they suffered . . .’ (again, the lowered blinds of her eyes.) ‘What a ridiculous, reckless waste of human energy, don’t you think?’ Her words somehow seemed to be coming from me, as if she were speaking my thoughts, but the whole time, her smile held that same infuriating X. Behind her blinds, something was happening inside her that – I don’t know what it was, but it was driving me crazy, trying my patience, I wanted to argue with her, yell at her (yes, yell), but all I could do was agree – there was no other option.

We stopped in front of a mirror. At that moment, all I could see were her eyes. I suddenly had an idea: people are built just as crudely as these chaotic ‘apartments’ – human heads are opaque, with only tiny windows for seeing inside: the eyes. As though reading my mind, she turned to face me. ‘Well, here are my eyes. Now what?’ (This, of course, said without speaking.)

I was faced with two horribly dark windows and an unfathomable, alien life inside. All I could see was fire – as if she had her own ‘fireplace’ burning inside her – and some figures that looked familiar . . .

This was, of course, only natural: I was seeing my own reflection. But there was something about it that looked so unnatural and unlike me (obviously, this was the bewildering effect of the setting) – I had the distinct sensation of having been caught, trapped in this savage cage, sucked into the roiling vortex of ancient life.

‘You know what,’ she said. ‘Would you mind stepping out for a minute?’ Her voice came from inside, from within the dark windows of her eyes, where the fire was burning.

I went out and sat down. The snub-nosed, asymmetrical face of one of the ancient poets (Pushkin³, I think) was looking at me from the shelf on the wall with a sly smile. Why was I just sitting here and obediently tolerating that smile and the rest of this? Why was I here, why did I feel so ridiculous? That irritating, repellant woman, this strange game . . .

I heard the closet door shut, the rustle of silk, and I could barely restrain myself from going in there and – I don’t remember exactly what: I probably wanted to very angrily tell her off.

But she had already come out. She wore a short, Ancient, bright yellow dress, a black hat and black stockings. The dress was made of thin silk and I could clearly tell that her stockings were very long, going up high over her knees, and her open neck, the shadow between . . .

‘Listen, you clearly want to be original, but don’t you—’

‘Clearly,’ she interrupted, ‘being original means standing out. Thus, being original would disrupt equality . . . And what the Ancients, in their idiot language, called “being banal” for us means: doing your duty. Therefore . . .’

‘Yes, yes, yes! Exactly,’ I couldn’t hold back. ‘And there’s no reason, absolutely no reason, for you to—’

She went up to the figurine of the snub-nosed poet and, lowering the blinds over the wildfire in her eyes, in there, behind her windows, she said, this time, I believe, with complete sincerity (maybe to soften me up) – something actually reasonable:

‘Don’t you find it incredible that there was a time when people tolerated people like him? And not only tolerated, but even bowed down to them. How slavish of them! Don’t you think?’

‘Clearly . . . I mean I wanted to . . .’ (that damned ‘clearly’!)

‘Well, yes, I know. But the truth is that these were masters even more powerful than those whom they crowned. Why didn’t they extirpate them from society and kill them off? We . . .’

‘Yes, we . . .’ I began. And suddenly, she burst out laughing. It was as if I could see her laughter erupt through the air: the resonant, steep, supple but strong – like a whip – curve of that laughter. I remember – I shook with anger. I wanted – to grab her and – I don’t remember what . . . I had to do something – anything. I mechanically opened my golden badge and looked at the time. Ten to 17.

‘Isn’t it time to go?’ I asked as politely as I could manage.

‘And what if I asked you to stay here with me?’

‘Listen: do you . . . do you understand what you’re saying? Ten minutes from now, I must report to the auditorium—’

‘All numbers are obligated to attend the standard course in arts and sciences,’ she continued, using my voice.

Then, she tore back the blinds, raising her eyes: through the dark windows, I saw the flames in her fireplace.

‘I know this doctor at the Medical Bureau, he’s registered to me. If I ask him to, he can give you a pass that will say you were sick. What do you think?’

I understood. I finally understood where this whole game had been leading.

‘So that’s what you’re up to! You must know perfectly well that like any honest number, it is now essentially my duty to immediately go to the Guardians’ Bureau and . . .’

‘But what about unessentially?’ (her sharp, biting smile). ‘I’m awfully curious: will you actually go to the Bureau or not?’

‘Are you staying here?’ I reached for the doorknob. It was made of bronze and I could hear: my voice sounded just as metallic.

‘Will you give me a moment?’

She went up to the telephone and said a number into it. I was so upset, I didn’t take note of it, and then she shouted, ‘I’ll see you at the House of Antiquity. Yes, yes, alone.’

I turned the cold, bronze knob.

‘Would you mind if I took the aero?’

‘Oh yes, of course! Please, go ahead . . .’

Out there, by the exit, the old woman sat in the sun, daydreaming, like a plant. It was again surprising when she opened her mute, overgrown mouth and asked, ‘And your . . . did you leave her alone in there?’

‘Yes, she’s alone.’

The old woman’s mouth grew over again. She shook her head. Apparently, even her weakened mind comprehended the brazen recklessness and stupidity of that woman’s behaviour.

At exactly 17, I was at the lecture. Suddenly, I realised that I hadn’t told the old woman the truth: I-330 wasn’t alone. Perhaps it was the fact that I’d inadvertently lied to the old woman that tormented me and kept me from paying attention. Yes, she wasn’t alone: that was the issue.

After 21:30, I had a Personal Hour. I could have gone to the Bureau of Guardians right then and there and filed a report, but I was so exhausted after that stupid incident. Plus, technically, I have two days to file it. I’ll do it tomorrow: theres’s a whole twenty-four hours.

_____________

3 Alexander Pushkin (1799–1837), considered the greatest Russian poet of all time. Pushkin was of African ancestry. This allusion to him emphasises his relationship to One State poet R-13, with whom he shares ‘African’ characteristics. Their relationship is the origin of WE’s racism. – B.S.