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
