Record Thirteen

I awoke at dawn. The rose-colored firmament looked into my eyes. Everything was beautiful, round. “O-90 is to come tonight. Surely I am healthy again.” I smiled and fell asleep. The Morning Bell! I got up; everything looked different. Through the glass of the ceiling, through the walls, nothing could be seen but fog,—fog everywhere, strange clouds, becoming heavier and nearer; the boundary between earth and sky disappeared. Everything seemed to be floating and thawing and falling.... Not a thing to hold to. No houses to be seen; they all were dissolved in the fog like crystals of salt in water. On the sidewalks and inside the houses dark figures like suspended particles in a strange milky solution, were hanging, below, above,—up to the tenth floor. Everything seemed to be covered with smoke, as though a fire were somewhere raging noiselessly.

I woke at dawn. The pink sky looked into my eyes. Everything was beautiful and round. “O-90 is coming tonight. Surely I’m healthy again.” I smiled and fell asleep. The Morning Bell! I got up. Everything looked different. Through the glass ceiling and walls, I could see nothing but fog. It was everywhere, strange clouds growing heavier and closer. The boundary between earth and sky had disappeared. Everything seemed to be floating and melting and falling.... There was nothing to hold on to. No houses were visible. They had all dissolved in the fog like salt crystals in water. Dark figures hung on the sidewalks and inside the houses, like particles suspended in a strange milky solution. They hung below and above, up to the tenth floor. Everything seemed covered in smoke, as though a fire were raging somewhere without a sound.

At eleven-forty-five exactly (I looked at the clock particularly at that time to catch the figures, to save at least the figures) at eleven-forty-five, just before leaving, according to our Table of Hours, to go and occupy myself with physical labor, I dropped into my room for a moment. Suddenly the telephone rang. A voice,—a long needle slowly penetrating my heart:

At exactly eleven-forty-five, I looked at the clock to catch the numbers, to save at least the numbers. Just before leaving for physical labor, as our Table of Hours required, I stopped in my room for a moment. Suddenly the telephone rang. A voice, like a long needle slowly piercing my heart:

“Oh, you are at home? I am very glad! Wait for me at the corner. We shall go together.... Where? Well, you’ll see.”

“Oh, you’re home? I’m so glad! Wait for me at the corner. We’ll go together.... Where? Well, you’ll see.”

“You know perfectly well that I am going to work now.”

“You know perfectly well that I’m going to work now.”

“You know perfectly well that you’ll do as I say! Au-revoir. In two minutes!...”

“You know perfectly well that you’ll do as I say! Goodbye. In two minutes!...”

I stood at the corner. I had to wait to try to make clear to her that only the United State directs me, not she. “You’ll do as I say!” How sure she is! One hears it in her voice. And what if...?

I stood at the corner. I had to wait and make it clear to her that only the United State directs me, not her. “You’ll do as I say!” She’s so sure of herself! I can hear it in her voice. And what if...?

Unifs, dull gray as if woven of damp fog would appear for a second at my side and then soundlessly redissolve. I was unable to turn my eyes away from the clock.... I seemed myself to have become that sharp, quivering hand which marked the seconds. Ten, eight minutes ... three ... two minutes to twelve.... Of course! I was late! Oh, how I hated her, yet I had to wait to prove that I....

Unifs, dull gray as if woven from damp fog, appeared beside me for a second, then silently dissolved again. I couldn't take my eyes off the clock.... I seemed to have become the sharp, trembling hand that marked the seconds. Ten, eight minutes ... three ... two minutes to twelve.... Of course! I was late! Oh, how I hated her, yet I had to wait to prove that I....

A red line in the milky whiteness of the fog—like blood, like a wound made by a sharp knife—her lips.

A red line in the milky white fog, like blood, like a wound from a sharp knife: her lips.

“I made you wait, I think? And now you are late for your work anyway?”

“I think I kept you waiting? And now you’re late for work anyway?”

“How...? Well, yes, it is too late now.”

“How...? Well, yes, it’s too late now.”

I glanced at her lips in silence. All women are lips, lips only. Some are rosy lips, tense and round, a ring, a tender fence separating one from the world. But these! A second ago they were not here, and suddenly ... the slash of a knife! I seemed to see even the dripping sweet blood....

I looked at her lips without speaking. All women are lips, nothing but lips. Some have rosy lips, tense and round like a ring, a tender fence separating them from the world. But hers! A second ago, they weren't there, and suddenly ... a knife slash! I thought I could even see the sweet blood dripping....

She came nearer. She leaned gently against my shoulder; we became one. Something streamed from her into me. I felt, I knew, it should be so. Every fibre of my nervous system told me this, every hair on my head, every painfully sweet heartbeat. And what a joy it was to submit to what should be. A fragment of iron-ore probably feels the same joy of submission to precise, inevitable law, when it clings to a loadstone. The same joy is in a stone which thrown aloft, hesitates a little at the height of its flight and then rushes down to the ground. It is the same with a man when in his final convulsion he takes a last deep breath and dies.

She came closer. She leaned gently against my shoulder, and we became one. Something flowed from her into me. I felt it, I knew it, this was how it should be. Every fiber of my nervous system told me so, every hair on my head, every painfully sweet heartbeat. And what a joy it was to submit to what should be. A piece of iron ore probably feels the same joy of submission to a precise, inevitable law when it clings to a lodestone. A stone feels the same joy when it is thrown into the air. It pauses briefly at the top of its flight, then rushes down to the ground. A man feels the same joy when, in his final convulsion, he takes one last deep breath and dies.

I remember I smiled vaguely and said for no reason at all, “Fog ... very.”

I remember smiling vaguely and saying for no reason at all, “Fog ... very.”

“Thou lovest fog, dost thou?”

“You love fog, do you?”

This ancient, long-forgotten thou—the thou of a master to his slave—penetrated me slowly, sharply.... Yes, I was a slave.... This too was inevitable, was good.

That ancient, long-forgotten thou, the word a master used for a slave, slowly pierced me.... Yes, I was a slave.... That too was inevitable and good.

“Yes, good ...” I said aloud to myself, and then to her, “I hate fog. I am afraid of fog.”

“Yes, good ...” I said aloud to myself. Then I said to her, “I hate fog. I’m afraid of fog.”

“Then you love it. For if you fear it because it is stronger than you, hate it because you fear it, you love it. For you cannot subject it to yourself. One loves only the things one cannot conquer.”

“Then you love it. If you fear it because it is stronger than you, and hate it because you fear it, you love it. That is because you cannot control it. You love only what you cannot conquer.”

“Yes, that is so. That is why ... that is precisely why I....”

“Yes, that's right. That's why ... that's exactly why I....”

We were walking—as one. Somewhere beyond the fog the sun was singing in a faint tone, gradually swelling, filling the air with tension and with pearl and gold and rose and red.... The whole world seemed to be one unembraceable woman, and we who were in her body were not yet born; we were ripening in joy. It was clear to me, absolutely clear, that everything existed only for me: the sun, the fog, the gold—for me. I did not ask where we were going; what did it matter? It was pleasure to walk, to ripen, to become stronger and more tense....

We walked as one. Somewhere beyond the fog, the sun sang softly, its voice gradually swelling. It filled the air with tension and with pearl, gold, rose, and red.... The whole world seemed to be a woman too vast to embrace. We were inside her body, not yet born, ripening in joy. It was absolutely clear to me that everything existed only for me: the sun, the fog, the gold, all for me. I did not ask where we were going. What did it matter? It was a pleasure to walk, to ripen, to grow stronger and more tense....

“Here ...” I-330 stopped at a door. “It so happens that today there is some one on duty who ... I told you about him in the Ancient House.”

“Here ...” I-330 stopped at a door. “As it happens, someone is on duty today who ... I told you about him in the Ancient House.”

Carefully guarding the forces ripening within me, I read the sign: “Medical Bureau.” Automatically only I understood.

Carefully guarding the forces growing inside me, I read the sign: “Medical Bureau.” I understood it only automatically.

... A glass room, filled with golden fog; shelves of glass, colored bottles, jars, electric wires, bluish sparks in tubes; and a male Number—a very thinly flattened man. He might have been cut out of a sheet of paper. Wherever he was, whichever way he turned, he showed only a profile, a sharply pointed, glittering blade of a nose and lips like scissors.

... A glass room filled with golden fog. Glass shelves, colored bottles, jars, electric wires, and tubes with bluish sparks. And a male Number, a man flattened so thin he might have been cut from a sheet of paper. Wherever he stood, whichever way he turned, he showed only his profile. His nose was a sharp, glittering blade, and his lips were like scissors.

I could not hear what I-330 told him; I merely saw her lips when she was talking; and I felt that I was smiling, irrepressibly, blissfully. The scissors-like lips glittered and the doctor said, “Yes, yes, I see. A most dangerous disease. I know of nothing more dangerous.” And he laughed. With his thin, flat, papery hand he wrote something on a piece of paper and gave it to I-330; he wrote on another piece of paper and handed it over to me. He had given us certificates, testifying that we were ill, that we were unable to go to work. Thus I stole my work from the United State; I was a thief; I deserved to be put beneath the Machine of the Well-Doer. Yet I was indifferent to this thought; it was as distant from me as though it were written in a novel. I took the certificate without an instant’s hesitation. I, all my being, my eyes, my lips, my hands ... knew it was as it should be.

I couldn't hear what I-330 told him. I only saw her lips moving as she spoke. I felt myself smiling, unable to stop, blissfully happy. The doctor's scissor-like lips glittered as he said, “Yes, yes, I see. A most dangerous disease. I know of nothing more dangerous.” And he laughed. With his thin, flat, papery hand, he wrote something on a piece of paper and gave it to I-330. He wrote on another piece of paper and handed it to me. He had given us certificates saying that we were ill and unable to go to work. So I stole my work from the United State. I was a thief. I deserved to be put beneath the Machine of the Well-Doer. Yet I didn't care. The thought felt as distant as if it were written in a novel. I took the certificate without a moment's hesitation. I, my whole being, my eyes, my lips, my hands ... knew this was how it should be.

At the corner, from a half empty garage we took an aero. I-330 took the wheel as she had done before, pressed the starter and we tore away from the earth. We soared. Behind us the golden haze; the Sun. The thin, blade-like profile of the doctor seemed to me suddenly so dear, so beloved. Formerly I knew everything was revolving around the Sun. Now I knew everything was revolving around me. Slowly, blissfully, with half-closed eyes....

At the corner, we took an aero from a half-empty garage. As before, I-330 took the wheel and pressed the starter. We tore away from the earth and soared. Behind us was the golden haze of the Sun. The doctor's thin, blade-like profile suddenly seemed so dear to me, so beloved. Before, I knew everything revolved around the Sun. Now I knew everything revolved around me. Slowly, blissfully, with half-closed eyes....

At the gate of the Ancient House we found the same old woman. What a dear mouth, with lips grown together and ray-like wrinkles around it! Probably those lips have remained grown together all these days; but now they parted and smiled:

At the gate of the Ancient House, we found the same old woman. What a lovely mouth, with lips that had grown together and wrinkles spreading out around them like rays! Her lips had probably stayed closed all these days, but now they parted in a smile:

“Ah! you mischievous girl, you! Work is too much for you? Well, all right, all right. If anything happens I’ll run up and warn you.”

“Oh, you mischievous girl! Is work too much for you? Well, all right, all right. If anything happens, I’ll run up and warn you.”

A heavy, squeaky, opaque door. It closed behind us, and at once my heart opened painfully, widely, still wider.... My lips ... hers.... I drank and drank from them. I tore myself away; in silence I looked into her widely open eyes, and then again....

A heavy, squeaky door I couldn't see through. It closed behind us, and at once my heart opened painfully, wider and wider.... My lips ... hers.... I drank and drank from them. I pulled away and looked silently into her wide-open eyes, and then again....

The room in half dusk.... Blue and saffron-yellow lights, dark green morocco leather, the golden smile of Buddha, a wide mahogany bed, a glimmer of mirrors.... And my dream of a few days before became so comprehensible, so clear to me; everything seemed saturated with the golden prime-juice of life, and it seemed that I was overflowing with it,—one second more and it would splash out.... Like iron-ore to a loadstone, in sweet submission to the precise and unchangeable law, inevitably, I clung to her.... There was no pink check, no counting, no United State; I myself was no more. Only, drawn together, the tenderly-sharp teeth were there, only her golden, widely open eyes, and through them I saw deeper, within.... And silence.... Only somewhere in a corner, thousands of miles away it seemed, drops of water were dripping from the faucet of the washstand. I was the Universe!

The room was dim.... Blue and saffron-yellow lights, dark green Morocco leather, Buddha’s golden smile, a wide mahogany bed, a glimmer of mirrors.... My dream from a few days earlier became so understandable, so clear. Everything seemed soaked in the golden essence of life. I seemed to be overflowing with it. One second more and it would splash out.... Like iron ore drawn to a magnet, I clung to her. I surrendered sweetly and inevitably to that precise, unchanging law.... There was no pink check, no counting, no United State. I myself was gone. There were only her teeth, tender and sharp, pressed together, and her golden eyes, wide open. Through them I saw deeper, inside.... And silence.... Only drops of water dripped from the washstand faucet in a corner, seemingly thousands of miles away. I was the Universe!

... And between drops whole epochs, eras, were elapsing....

... And between drops, whole epochs, whole eras, passed....

I put on my unif and bent over I-330 to draw her into me with my eyes—for the last time.

I put on my unif and leaned over I-330, trying to draw her into me with my eyes one last time.

“I knew it.... I knew you,” said I-330 in a very low voice. She passed her hand over her face as though brushing something away; then she arose brusquely, put on her unif and her usual sharp, bite-like smile.

“I knew it.... I knew you,” I-330 said in a very low voice. She brushed her hand over her face as if wiping something away. Then she stood up abruptly and put on her unif and her usual sharp, biting smile.

“Well, my fallen angel ... you perished just now, do you know that? No? You are not afraid? Well, au-revoir. You shall go home alone. Well?”

“Well, my fallen angel ... you just died. Did you know that? No? Aren’t you afraid? Well, goodbye. You’ll go home alone. Well?”

She opened the mirror-door of the cupboard and looking at me over her shoulder, she waited. I left the room obediently. Yet no sooner had I left the room than I felt it was urgent that she touch me with her shoulder—only for one second with her shoulder, nothing more. I ran back into the room, where (I presumed) she was standing before the mirror, busy buttoning up her unif; I rushed in and stopped abruptly. I saw (I remember it clearly), I saw the key in the keyhole of the closet and the ancient ring upon it was still swinging but I-330 was not there. She could not have left the room as there was but one exit.... Yet I-330 was not there! I looked around everywhere. I even opened the cupboard and felt of the different ancient dresses; nobody....

She opened the cupboard’s mirrored door and looked at me over her shoulder, waiting. I obeyed and left the room. But as soon as I was outside, I felt an urgent need for her to touch me with her shoulder. Just for one second, nothing more. I ran back into the room. I assumed she was standing in front of the mirror, buttoning up her unif. I rushed in and stopped short. I saw the key in the closet’s keyhole. I remember it clearly. The ancient ring on the key was still swinging, but I-330 was not there. She could not have left the room because there was only one exit.... Yet I-330 was not there! I looked everywhere. I even opened the cupboard and felt the different ancient dresses. Nobody....

I feel somewhat ridiculous, my dear planetary readers, relating to you this most improbable adventure. But what else can I do since it all happened exactly as I relate it? Was not the whole day from early morning, full of improbable adventures? Does it not all resemble the ancient disease of dream-seeing? If this be so, what does it matter if I relate one absurdity more, or one less? Moreover, I am convinced that sooner or later I shall be able to include all these absurdities in some kind of a logical sequence. This thought comforts me as I hope it will comfort you.

I feel a little ridiculous telling you about this highly improbable adventure, my dear planetary readers. But what else can I do? It all happened exactly as I tell it. Wasn’t the whole day, from early morning, full of improbable adventures? Doesn’t it all resemble the ancient disease of dreaming? If so, what does it matter whether I tell you one absurdity more or less? Besides, I’m convinced that sooner or later I’ll be able to arrange all these absurdities into some kind of logical order. This thought comforts me, and I hope it will comfort you too.

... How overwhelmed I am! If only you knew how overwhelmed!

... I'm so overwhelmed! If only you knew how overwhelmed I am!