Record Eight

It was long ago during my school-days, when I first encountered the square-root of minus one. I remember it all very clearly; a bright globe-like class hall, about a hundred round heads of children and Plappa—our mathematician. We nicknamed him Plappa; it was a very much used-up mathematician, loosely screwed together; as the member of the class who was on duty that day would be putting the plug into the socket behind we would hear at first from the megaphone, “Plap-plap-plap-plap—tshshsh....” Only then the lesson would follow. One day Plappa told us about irrational numbers, and I remember I wept and banged the table with my fist and cried, “I do not want that square-root of minus one; take that square-root of minus one away!” This irrational root grew into me as something strange, foreign, terrible; it tortured me; it could not be thought out. It could not be defeated because it was beyond reason.

It was long ago, when I was at school, that I first encountered the square root of minus one. I remember it all very clearly: a bright, globe-shaped classroom, about a hundred round children's heads, and Plappa, our mathematician. We had nicknamed him Plappa. He was a worn-out mathematician, loosely screwed together. When the student on duty plugged him into the socket at the back, we would first hear “Plap-plap-plap-plap, tshshsh....” from the megaphone. Only then would the lesson begin. One day Plappa told us about irrational numbers. I remember weeping, banging my fist on the table, and crying, “I do not want that square root of minus one; take that square root of minus one away!” That irrational root grew inside me like something strange, foreign, and terrible. It tortured me. I could not make sense of it. It could not be defeated because it was beyond reason.

Now that square-root of minus one is here again. I read over what I have written and I clearly see that I was insincere with myself, that I lied to myself in order to avoid seeing that square-root of minus one. My sickness, etc., is all nonsense; I could go there. I feel sure that if such a thing had happened a week ago I should have gone without hesitating. Why then am I unable to go now?... Why?

Now that square root of minus one is here again. I read over what I have written, and I can clearly see that I wasn’t honest with myself. I lied to myself to avoid seeing that square root of minus one. My sickness and all that is nonsense. I could go there. I’m sure that if such a thing had happened a week ago, I would have gone without hesitation. So why can’t I go now?... Why?

Today, for instance, at exactly sixteen-ten I stood before the glittering Glass Wall. Above was the shining, golden, sun-like sign: “Bureau of Guardians.” Inside, a long queue of bluish-gray unifs awaiting their turns, faces shining like the oil lamps in an ancient temple. They came to accomplish a great thing: they came to put on the altar of the United State their beloved ones, their friends, their own selves. My whole being craved to join them, yet ... I could not; my feet were as though melted into the glass plates of the sidewalk. I simply stood there looking foolish.

Today, for example, I stood before the glittering Glass Wall at exactly sixteen-ten. Above it was a shining golden sign, like the sun: “Bureau of Guardians.” Inside, a long line of bluish-gray unifs waited their turns. Their faces shone like oil lamps in an ancient temple. They had come to do a great thing: to place their loved ones, their friends, and themselves on the altar of the United State. I wanted with all my being to join them, but ... I could not. My feet felt as if they had melted into the glass plates of the sidewalk. I just stood there looking foolish.

“Heh, mathematician! Dreaming?”

“Heh, mathematician! Dreaming?”

I shivered. Black eyes varnished with laughter looked at me,—thick negro lips! It was my old friend the poet, R-13, and with him rosy O-. I turned around angrily (I still believe that if they had not appeared I should have entered the Bureau and have torn the square-root of minus one out of my flesh).

I shivered. Black eyes glossy with laughter looked at me. Thick Black lips! It was my old friend, the poet R-13, with rosy O- beside him. I turned around angrily. (I still believe that if they had not appeared, I would have entered the Bureau and torn the square root of minus one out of my flesh.)

“Not dreaming at all; if you will, ‘standing in adoration’,” I retorted quite brusquely.

“Not dreaming at all. If you like, ‘standing in adoration’,” I snapped back.

“Oh, certainly, certainly! You, my friend, should never have become a mathematician; you should have become a poet, a great poet! Yes, come over to our trade, to the poets. Heh? If you will, I can arrange it in a jiffy. Heh?”

“Oh, absolutely, absolutely! My friend, you should never have become a mathematician. You should have been a poet, a great poet! Yes, come join our profession, the poets. Huh? If you want, I can arrange it in no time. Huh?”

R-13 usually talks very fast: His words run in torrents, his thick lips sprinkle. Every P is a fountain, every “poets” a fountain.

R-13 usually talks very fast. His words pour out, and his thick lips spray spit. Every P is a fountain, every “poets” a fountain.

“So far I have served knowledge, and I shall continue to serve knowledge.”

“So far, I have served knowledge, and I will continue to serve knowledge.”

I frowned. I do not like, I do not understand jokes, and R-13 has the bad habit of joking.

I frowned. I don't like jokes or understand them, and R-13 has a bad habit of joking.

“Heh, to the deuce with knowledge. Your much-heralded knowledge is but a form of cowardice. It is a fact! Yes, you want to encircle the infinite with a wall and you fear to cast a glance behind the wall. Yes, sir! And if ever you should glance beyond the wall you would be dazzled and close your eyes,—yes,—”

“Heh, to hell with knowledge. Your much-praised knowledge is nothing but cowardice. That's a fact! Yes, you want to put a wall around the infinite, and you're afraid to look behind it. Yes, sir! And if you ever did look beyond the wall, you would be dazzled and close your eyes, yes.”

“Walls are the foundation of every human—” I began.

“Walls are the foundation of every human...” I began.

R-13 sprinkled his fountain. O- laughed rosily and roundly. I waved my hand: “Well, you may laugh, I don’t care.” I was busy with something else. I had to find a way of eating up, of crushing down, that square-root of minus one. “Suppose,” I offered, “we go to my place and do some arithmetical problems.” (The quiet hour of yesterday afternoon came to my memory; perhaps today also....)

R-13 sprayed his fountain. O- laughed, rosy and round. I waved my hand. “Go ahead and laugh. I don’t care.” I was busy with something else. I had to find a way to swallow up, to crush, the square root of minus one. “How about we go to my place and do some arithmetic problems?” I suggested. (I remembered the quiet hour yesterday afternoon. Perhaps today too....)

O- glanced at R-, then serenely and roundly at me; the soft, endearing color of our pink checks came to her cheeks.

O- glanced at R-, then looked at me with a serene, round gaze. Her cheeks took on the soft, endearing color of our pink checks.

“But today I am.... I have a check to him today.” (A glance at R-.) “And tonight he is busy, so that—”

“But today I am.... I have a check for him today.” (A glance at R-.) “And he’s busy tonight, so....”

The moist varnished lips whispered good-naturedly: “Half an hour is plenty for us, is it not, O-? I am not a great lover of your problems; let us simply go over to my place and chat.”

The moist, glossy lips whispered kindly: “Half an hour is plenty for us, isn't it, O-? I'm not very fond of your problems. Let's just go to my place and chat.”

I was afraid to remain alone with myself, or to be more correct, with that new strange self, who by some curious coincidence bore my number, D-503. So I went with R-. True, he is not precise, not rhythmic, his logic is jocular and turned inside out, yet we are.... Three years ago we both chose our dear, rosy O-. This tied our friendship more firmly together than our school-days did. In R-’s room everything seems like mine; the Tables, the glass of the chairs, the table, the closet, the bed. But as we entered, R- moved one chair out of place, then another,—the room became confused, everything lost the established order and seemed to violate every rule of Euclid’s geometry. R- remained the same as before; in Taylor and in mathematics he always lagged at the tail of the class.

I was afraid to be alone with myself, or rather, with that strange new self. By some curious coincidence, he bore my number, D-503. So I went with R-. True, he is not precise or rhythmic, and his logic is playful and turned inside out. Yet we are.... Three years ago, we both chose our dear, rosy O-. This bound us together more firmly than our school days had. Everything in R-’s room seems like everything in mine: the Tables, the glass chairs, the table, the closet, the bed. But when we entered, R- moved one chair out of place, then another. The room fell into confusion. Everything lost its established order and seemed to violate every rule of Euclid’s geometry. R- was just as he had always been. In Taylor and mathematics, he had always been at the bottom of the class.

We recalled Plappa, how we boys used to paste the whole surface of his glass legs with paper notes expressing our thanks (we all loved Plappa). We recalled our priest (it goes without saying that we were taught not the “law” of ancient religion but the law of the United State). Our priest had a very powerful voice; a real hurricane would come out of the megaphone. And we children would yell the prescribed texts after him with all our lung-power. We recalled how our scapegrace, R-13, used to stuff the priest with chewed paper; every word was thus accompanied by a paper wad shot out. Naturally, R- was punished, for what he did was undoubtedly wrong, but now we laughed heartily;—by we I mean our triangle, R-, O-, and I, I must confess, I too.

We remembered Plappa and how we boys used to cover his glass legs with notes of thanks. We all loved Plappa. We remembered our priest. Of course, we were taught not the “law” of ancient religion but the law of the United State. Our priest had a very powerful voice. Through the megaphone, it sounded like a real hurricane. And we children would shout the prescribed texts after him at the top of our lungs. We remembered how our troublemaker, R-13, used to stuff the priest with chewed paper. A wad of paper would shoot out with every word. Naturally, R- was punished, because what he did was undoubtedly wrong. But now we laughed heartily. By we, I mean our triangle: R-, O-, and I. I must confess, I laughed too.

“And what if he had been a living one? Like the ancient ones, heh?” We’d have b... b..., a fountain running from the fat bubbling lips. The sun was shining through the ceiling, the sun above, the sun from the sides, its reflection from below. O- on R-13’s lap and minute drops of sunlight in O-’s blue eyes. Somehow my heart warmed up. The square-root of minus one became silent and motionless....

“And what if he had been a living one? Like the ancient ones, huh?” We’d have b... b..., a fountain flowing from the fat, bubbling lips. The sun shone through the ceiling, from above and from the sides. It reflected up from below. O- sat on R-13’s lap, tiny drops of sunlight in O-’s blue eyes. Somehow my heart grew warm. The square root of minus one fell silent and still....

“Well, how is your Integral? Will you soon hop off to enlighten the inhabitants of the planets? You’d better hurry up, my boy, or we poets will have produced such a devilish lot that even your Integral will be unable to lift the cargo. ‘Every day from eight to eleven’ ...” R- wagged his head and scratched the back of it. The back of his head is square; it looks like a little valise (I recalled for some reason an ancient painting “In the Cab”). I felt more lively.

“Well, how’s your Integral? Will you be off soon to enlighten the inhabitants of the planets? You’d better hurry, my boy. Otherwise, we poets will have produced so much stuff that even your Integral won’t be able to lift the cargo. ‘Every day from eight to eleven’ ...” R- shook his head and scratched the back of it. The back of his head is square. It looks like a little suitcase. For some reason, it reminded me of an old painting, “In the Cab”. I felt more lively.

“You too are writing for the Integral? Tell me about it. What are you writing about? What did you write today, for instance?”

“You’re writing for the Integral too? Tell me about it. What are you writing about? For example, what did you write today?”

“Today I did not write; today I was busy with something else.” “B-b-busy” sprinkled straight into my face.

“Today I didn't write. I was busy with something else.” “B-b-busy” sprayed right into my face.

“What else?”

“What else?”

R- frowned. “What? What? Well, if you insist I’ll tell you. I was busy with the Death Sentence. I was putting the Death Sentence into verse. An idiot—and to be frank, one of our poets.... For two years we all lived side by side with him and nothing seemed wrong. Suddenly he went crazy. ‘I,’ said he, ‘am a genius! And I am above the law.’ All that sort of nonsense.... But it is not a thing to talk about.”

R- frowned. “What? What? Well, if you insist, I’ll tell you. I was working on the Death Sentence. I was putting the Death Sentence into verse. An idiot, and to be honest, one of our poets.... For two years we all lived alongside him, and nothing seemed wrong. Suddenly he went crazy. ‘I’m a genius!’ he said. ‘And I’m above the law.’ All that sort of nonsense.... But it’s not something to talk about.”

The fat lips hung down. The varnish disappeared from the eyes. He jumped up, turned around and stared through the wall. I looked at his tightly closed little “valise” and thought, “What is he handling in his little valise now?”

The fat lips drooped. The gloss vanished from his eyes. He jumped up, turned around, and stared through the wall. I looked at his tightly closed little “valise” and thought, “What is he handling in his little valise now?”

A moment of awkward asymmetric silence. I could not see clearly what was the matter but I was certain there was something....

A moment of awkward, uneven silence. I couldn't tell what was wrong, but I was sure something was....

“Fortunately the antediluvian time of those Shakespeares and Dostoyevskis (or what were their names?) is past,” I said in a voice deliberately loud.

“Fortunately, the ancient age of those Shakespeares and Dostoyevskis (or whatever their names were) is over,” I said deliberately loudly.

R- turned his face to me. Words sprinkled and bubbled out of him as before, but I thought I noticed there was no more joyful varnish to his eyes.

R- turned to face me. Words bubbled and spilled out of him as before, but I thought I noticed the joyful shine had left his eyes.

“Yes, dear mathematician, fortunately, fortunately. We are the happy arithmetical mean. As you would put it, the integration from zero to infinity, from imbeciles to Shakespeare. Do I put it right?”

“Yes, dear mathematician, fortunately, fortunately. We are the happy average. As you would put it, the integral from zero to infinity, from imbeciles to Shakespeare. Am I saying that right?”

I do not know why (it seemed to me absolutely uncalled for) I recalled suddenly the other one, her tone. A thin invisible thread stretched between her and R- (what thread?). The square-root of minus one began to bother me again. I glanced at my badge; sixteen-twenty-five o’clock! They had only thirty-five minutes for the use of the pink check.

I don't know why I suddenly remembered the other tone, her tone. It seemed completely uncalled for. A thin, invisible thread stretched between her and R- (what thread?). The square root of minus one began to bother me again. I glanced at my badge. Sixteen-twenty-five! They had only thirty-five minutes to use the pink check.

“Well, I must go.” I kissed O-, shook hands with R- and went to the elevator.

“Well, I have to go.” I kissed O-, shook hands with R-, and went to the elevator.

As I crossed the avenue I turned around. Here and there in the huge mass of glass penetrated by sunshine there were grayish-blue squares, the opaque squares of lowered curtains,—the squares of rhythmic, Taylorized happiness. On the seventh floor I found R-13’s square. The curtains were already lowered.

As I crossed the avenue, I turned around. Sunlight filled the huge mass of glass. Here and there, lowered curtains formed opaque, grayish-blue squares. They were the squares of rhythmic, Taylorized happiness. On the seventh floor, I found R-13’s square. The curtains were already lowered.

Dear O-.... Dear R-.... He also has (I do not know why I write this “also,” but I write as it comes from my pen), he too has something which is not entirely clear in him. Yet I, he and O-, we are a triangle; I confess, not an isosceles triangle but a triangle nevertheless. We, to speak in the language of our ancestors (perhaps to you, my planetary readers, this is the more comprehensible language) we are a family. And one feels so good at times, when one is able for a short while, at least, to close oneself within a firm triangle, to close oneself away from anything that....

Dear O-.... Dear R-.... He too has something about him that is not entirely clear. (I don't know why I write “also,” but I write as the words come from my pen.) Yet he, O-, and I form a triangle. I admit, it's not an isosceles triangle, but it's a triangle all the same. To speak in the language of our ancestors, we are a family. Perhaps you, my planetary readers, find that language easier to understand. And sometimes it feels so good to shut oneself inside a solid triangle, even for a little while. To shut oneself away from anything that....