Record Twenty-Three

7 min

Flowers The Dissolution of a Crystal If only (?)

Flowers A Crystal Dissolving If only (?)

They say there are flowers that bloom only once in a hundred years. Why not suppose the existence of flowers that bloom only once a thousand years? We may have known nothing about them until now only because today is the “once in a thousand years”?

People say some flowers bloom only once every hundred years. Why not imagine flowers that bloom only once every thousand years? Could it be that we knew nothing about them until now simply because today is the “once in a thousand years”?

Happy and dizzy I walked downstairs to the controller on duty and quickly under my gaze all around me and silently the thousand-year-old buds burst, and everything was blooming: armchairs, shoes, golden badges, electric bulbs, someone’s dark heavy eyes, the polished columns of the banisters, the handkerchief which someone lost on the stairs, the small, ink-blotted desk of the controller and the tender brown, somewhat freckled cheeks of U-. Everything seemed not ordinary, new, tender, rosy, moist. U- took the pink stub from me while the blue, aromatic moon, hanging from an unseen branch, shone through the glass of the wall and over the head of U-. With a solemn gesture I pointed my finger and said:

Happy and dizzy, I walked downstairs to the controller on duty. As I looked around, thousand-year-old buds quickly and silently burst open, and everything bloomed: armchairs, shoes, golden badges, electric bulbs, someone’s dark, heavy eyes, the polished banister columns, a handkerchief someone had lost on the stairs, the controller’s small, ink-blotted desk, and U-’s tender brown, slightly freckled cheeks. Everything seemed unusual, new, tender, rosy, and moist. U- took the pink stub from me. The blue, fragrant moon hung from an unseen branch and shone through the glass wall above U-’s head. With a solemn gesture, I pointed my finger and said:

“The moon. You see?”

U- glanced at me, then at the number of the stub and again made that familiar, charmingly innocent movement with which she fixes the fold of the unif between her knees.

U- glanced at me, then at the number on the stub. Again, she made that familiar, charmingly innocent gesture, adjusting the fold of her unif between her knees.

“You look abnormal and ill, dear. Abnormality and illness are the same thing. You are killing yourself. And no one would tell you that, no one!”

“You look abnormal and sick, dear. Being abnormal is the same as being sick. You are killing yourself. And no one would tell you that, no one!”

That “No one” was certainly equivalent to the number on the stub,—I-330. This thought was confirmed by an ink-blot which fell close to the figure 330. Dear, wonderful U-! You are right, of course. I am not reasonable. I am sick. I have a soul. I am a microbe. But is blooming—not a sickness? Is it not painful when the buds are bursting? And don’t you think that spermatozoa are the most terrible of all microbes?

That “No one” was certainly the number on the stub, I-330. An inkblot near the number 330 confirmed the thought. Dear, wonderful U-! You are right, of course. I am not reasonable. I am sick. I have a soul. I am a microbe. But isn’t blooming a sickness? Doesn’t it hurt when buds burst open? And don’t you think spermatozoa are the most terrible of all microbes?

Back upstairs to my room. In the widely open cup of the armchair was I-330. I, on the floor, embracing her limbs, my head on her lap. We were silent. Everything was silent. Only the pulse was audible. Like a crystal I was dissolving in her, in I-330. I felt most distinctly how the polished facets which limited me in space were slowly thawing, melting away. I was dissolving in her lap, in her, and I became at once smaller and larger and larger, unembraceable. For she was not she but the whole universe. For a second I and that armchair near the bed, transfixed with joy, we were one. And the wonderfully smiling old woman at the gate of the Ancient House, and the wild debris beyond the Green Wall, and some strange silver wreckage on a black background, dozing like the old woman and the slam of a door in the distance,—all this was within me, was listening to my pulse and soaring through the happiest of seconds.

Back upstairs to my room. I-330 sat in the wide-open cup of the armchair. I was on the floor, holding her limbs, my head in her lap. We were silent. Everything was silent. Only the pulse could be heard. Like a crystal, I was dissolving in her, in I-330. I could feel the polished facets that defined my shape slowly thawing and melting away. I was dissolving in her lap, in her. I became smaller and larger at once, larger and too vast to embrace. For she was not herself but the whole universe. For a second, the armchair by the bed and I were one, transfixed with joy. The wonderfully smiling old woman at the gate of the Ancient House was within me. So were the wild debris beyond the Green Wall, and some strange silver wreckage against a black background, dozing like the old woman. So was the distant slam of a door. All this was within me, listening to my pulse and soaring through the happiest of seconds.

In absurd, confused, overflowing words I attempted to tell her that I was a crystal and that there was a door in me, and that I felt how happy the armchair was. But something nonsensical came out of the attempt and I stopped. I was ashamed. And suddenly:

In a flood of absurd, confused words, I tried to tell her that I was a crystal. I tried to tell her there was a door in me, and that I could feel how happy the armchair was. But what came out was nonsense, so I stopped. I was ashamed. And suddenly:

“Dear I-! Forgive me! I understand nothing. I talk so foolishly!”

“Dear I-! Please forgive me! I don’t understand anything. I say such foolish things!”

“And why should you think that foolishness is not fine? If we had taken pains to educate human foolishness through centuries, as we have done with our intelligence, it might perhaps have been transformed into something very precious.”

“And why do you think foolishness isn't good? We have spent centuries developing human intelligence. If we had taken the same care to develop human foolishness, it might perhaps have become something very precious.”

Yes, I think she is right! How could she be wrong at that moment?

“... And for this foolishness of yours and for what you did yesterday during the walk, I love you the more, much more.”

“... And I love you even more, much more, for being foolish and for what you did yesterday during the walk.”

“Then why did you torture me? Why would you not come? Why did you send me the pink check and make me—?”

“Then why did you torture me? Why wouldn’t you come? Why did you send me the pink check and make me...?”

“Perhaps I wanted to test you. Perhaps I must be sure that you will do anything I wish, that you are completely mine.”

“Perhaps I wanted to test you. Perhaps I need to be sure that you will do anything I want, that you are completely mine.”

“Yes, completely.”

She took my face, my whole self, between her palms, lifted my head:

She held my face, my whole self, between her palms and lifted my head:

“And how about ‘It is the duty of every honest Number’? Eh?”

“And what about ‘It is the duty of every honest Number’? Huh?”

Sweet, sharp, white teeth,—a smile. In the open cup of the armchair she was like a bee,—sting and honey combined.

Sweet, sharp, white teeth. A smile. In the open cup of the armchair, she was like a bee, both sting and honey.

Yes, duty.... I turned over in my mind the pages of my records; indeed there is not a thought about the fact that strictly speaking I should....

Yes, duty.... I went over the pages of my records in my mind. There is indeed no mention of the fact that, strictly speaking, I should....

I was silent. Exaltedly (and probably stupidly) I smiled, looking into the pupils of her eyes. I followed first one eye and then the other and in each of them I saw myself, a millimetric self imprisoned in those tiny rainbow cells. Then again the lips and the sweet pain of blooming.

I said nothing. I smiled ecstatically, and probably stupidly, as I looked into her pupils. I looked from one eye to the other. In each, I saw a tiny version of myself, only a millimeter tall, trapped in those tiny rainbow cells. Then again, the lips and the sweet pain of blooming.

In each Number of the United State there is an unseen metronome which tick-tocks silently; without looking at the clock we know exactly the time of day within five minutes. But now my metronome had stopped and I did not know how much time had passed. In fright I grasped my badge with its clock from under the pillow. Glory be to the Well-Doer! I had twenty minutes more! But those minutes were such tiny, short ones! They ran! And I wanted to tell her so many things. I wanted to tell her all about myself; about the letter from O- and about that terrible evening when I gave her a child; and for some reason also about my childhood, about our mathematician Plappa and about the square-root of minus one; and how, when I attended the glorification on the Day of Unanimity for the first time in my life, I wept bitterly because there was an ink-stain on my unif—on such a holy day!

Inside every Number of the United State is an invisible metronome, ticking silently. Without looking at a clock, we know the time of day to within five minutes. But now my metronome had stopped, and I didn't know how much time had passed. Frightened, I grabbed my badge with its clock from under my pillow. Glory to the Well-Doer! I had twenty minutes left! But those minutes were so tiny, so short! They raced by! And I wanted to tell her so many things. I wanted to tell her everything about myself: about the letter from O- and that terrible evening when I gave her a child. For some reason, I also wanted to tell her about my childhood, our mathematician Plappa, and the square root of minus one. And I wanted to tell her about the first time I attended the glorification on the Day of Unanimity. I had wept bitterly because there was an ink stain on my unif, on such a holy day!

I-330 lifted her head. She leaned on her elbow. In the corners of her lips two long, sharp lines and the dark angle of lifted eyebrows—a cross.

I-330 lifted her head and leaned on her elbow. Two long, sharp lines at the corners of her lips and the dark angle of her raised eyebrows formed a cross.

“Perhaps on that day ...” her brow grew darker; she took my hand and pressed it hard. “Tell me, will you ever forget me? Will you always remember me?”

“Perhaps on that day ...” Her expression darkened. She took my hand and squeezed it hard. “Tell me, will you ever forget me? Will you always remember me?”

“But why such talk? What is it, I-, dear?”

“But why are you talking like that? What is it, I-, dear?”

She was silent. And her eyes were already sliding past me, through me, away into the distance. I suddenly heard the wind beating the glass with its enormous wings. Of course it had been blowing all the while but I had not noticed it until then. And for some reason those cawing birds over the Green Wall came to my mind.

She was silent. Her eyes were already sliding past me, through me, and off into the distance. Suddenly, I heard the wind beating against the glass with its enormous wings. Of course, the wind had been blowing all along, but I had not noticed it until then. For some reason, I thought of the cawing birds above the Green Wall.

I-330 shook her head with a gesture of throwing something off. Once more she touched me for a second with her whole body, as an aero before landing touches the ground for a second with all the tension of a recoiling spring.

I-330 shook her head as if throwing something off. Once again, she touched me for a second with her whole body. She was like an aero touching the ground briefly before landing, with all the tension of a spring recoiling.

“Well, give me my stockings, quick!”

“Well, give me my stockings, quickly!”

The stockings were on the desk, on the open manuscript, on page 124. Being in haste I caught some of the pages and they were scattered over the floor so that it was hard to put them back in the proper order. Moreover, even if I put them in that order there will be no real order; there are obstacles to that anyway, some undiscoverable unknowns.

The stockings were on the desk, on page 124 of the open manuscript. In my hurry, I caught some of the pages and scattered them on the floor. That made it hard to put them back in the right order. But even if I put them in order, there will be no real order. There are obstacles to that anyway, some unknowns that cannot be discovered.

“I can’t bear it,” I said, “You are here, near me, yet you seem to be behind an opaque ancient wall; through that wall I hear a rustle and voices; I cannot make out the words, I don’t know what is there. I cannot bear it. You seem always to withhold something from me; you have never told me what kind of a place it was where I found myself that day beneath the Ancient House. Where did those corridors lead? Why was the doctor there,—or perhaps all that never happened?”

“I can’t bear it,” I said. “You’re here, close to me, yet you seem to be behind an old, solid wall. Through that wall, I hear rustling and voices. I can’t make out the words, and I don’t know what’s there. I can’t bear it. You always seem to be keeping something from me. You never told me what kind of place I found myself in that day beneath the Ancient House. Where did those corridors lead? Why was the doctor there? Or perhaps none of it happened?”

I-330 put her hands on my shoulders and slowly entered deeply into my eyes.

I-330 put her hands on my shoulders and slowly looked deep into my eyes.

“You want to know all?”

“You want to know everything?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And you would not be afraid to follow me anywhere? Wherever I should lead you?”

“And you wouldn't be afraid to follow me anywhere? Wherever I led you?”

“Anywhere!”

“All right then. I promise you, after the holiday, if only.... Oh yes, there is your Integral. I always forget to ask; will it soon be completed?”

“All right then. I promise you, after the holiday, if only.... Oh yes, there's your Integral. I always forget to ask. Will it be finished soon?”

“No. ‘If only’ what? Again! ‘If only’ what?”

She, already at the door: “You shall see.”

She was already at the door. “You’ll see.”

I was again alone. All that she left behind her was a barely perceptible scent, similar to that of a sweet, dry, yellow dust of flowers from behind the Green Wall; also, sunk deeply within me, question marks like small hooks similar to those the ancients used for fishing (vide the Prehistoric Museum).

I was alone again. All she left behind was a barely perceptible scent, like the sweet, dry, yellow dust of flowers from beyond the Green Wall. She also left question marks buried deep inside me. They were like the small hooks the ancients used for fishing (see the Prehistoric Museum).

... Why did she suddenly ask about the Integral?