As the tub rocked at the wharf, an innocent, gay, inviting steam rose above it. Impulsively, in two quick motions, Cincinnatus heaved a sigh and laid aside the filled sheets. From his modest footlocker he produced a clean towel. Cincinnatus was so small and slender that he was able to get all of himself into the washing tub. He sat there as in a canoe and floated peacefully. A reddish evening ray, mingling with the steam, aroused a motley tremor in the small world of the stone cell. Reaching shore, Cincinnatus stood up and stepped out onto land. As he dried himself he struggled with dizziness and palpitations. He was very thin, and now, as the light of the setting sun exaggerated the shadows of his ribs, the very structure of his rib cage seemed a triumph of cryptic coloration inasmuch as it expressed the barred nature of his surroundings, of his gaol. My poor little Cincinnatus. As he dried himself, trying to find some diversion in his own body, he kept examining his veins and he could not help thinking how he would soon be uncorked, and all the contents would run out. His bones were light and thin; his meek toe nails (you dear ones, you innocent ones) gazed up at him with childlike attention; and, as he sat thus on the cot—naked, his entire skinny back, from coccyx to cervical vertebrae, exposed, to the observers on the other side of the door (he could hear whispers, rustling movements, a discussion of something or other—but never mind, let them look), Cincinnatus might have passed for a sickly youth—even the back of his head, with its hollowed nape and tuft of wet hair, was boyish—and exceptionally handy. From the same valise Cincinnatus took a small mirror and a vial of depilatory water which always reminded him of that marvelously hirsute mole which Marthe had on her side. He rubbed it into his prickly cheeks, removing the prickliness and carefully avoiding the mustache.
Nice and clean now. He heaved a sigh and put on the cool nightshirt, still smelling of home washing.
It grew dark. He lay in bed and kept floating. At the customary hour Rodion turned on the light and removed the bucket and the tub. The spider lowered itself to him on a thread and settled on the finger which Rodion offered to the furry beastie, chatting with it as with a canary. Meanwhile the door to the corridor remained ajar, and all at once something stirred there … for an instant the twining tips of pale curls drooped, and then disappeared when Rodion moved as he gazed up at the tiny black aerialist receding up under the circus dome. The door still remained a quarter of the way open. Heavy Rodion, with his leather apron and his crinky red beard, lumbered about the cell, and, when the clock (closer now because of the direct communication) began its hoarse rattle prior to striking, he produced a thick watch from a recess in his belt and checked the time. Then, supposing Cincinnatus to be asleep, he watched him for a rather long time, leaning on his broom as on a halberd. Having reached who knows what conclusions he moved again … Just then, silently and not very fast, a red-and-blue ball rolled in through the door, followed one leg of a right triangle straight under the cot, disappeared for an instant, thumped against the chamber pot, and rolled out along the other cathetus—that is, toward Rodion, who all without noticing it, happened to kick it as he took a step; then, following the hypotenuse, the ball departed into the same chink through which it had entered. Shouldering the broom, Rodion left the cell. The light went out.
Cincinnatus did not sleep, did not sleep, did not sleep—no, he was asleep, but with a moan scrambled out again—and now again he did not sleep, slept, did not sleep, and everything was jumbled—
Marthe, the executioner’s block, her velvet—and how will it turn out … which will it be? A beheading or a tryst? Everything merged totally, but he did open his eyes for just one more wink when the light went on and Rodion entered on tiptoe, took the catalogue in its black binding from the table, went out, and it became dark.
Chapter Six
What was it—through everything terrible, nocturnal, unwieldy—what was that thing? It had been last to move aside, reluctantly yielding to the huge, heavy wagons of sleep, and now it was first to hurry back—so pleasant, so very pleasant—swelling, growing more distinct, suffusing his heart with warmth: Marthe is coming today!
Just then Rodion brought a lilac letter on a salver as they do in plays. Cincinnatus perched on the bed and read the following: “A million apologies! An inexcusable blunder! Upon consulting the text of the law it was discovered that an interview is granted only upon expiration of one week following the trial. Hence we shall postpone it until tomorrow. Best of health, old boy, regards. Everything the same here, one worry after another, the paint sent for the sentry boxes again turned out to be worthless, about which I had already written, but without results.”
Rodion, trying not to look at Cincinnatus, was gathering yesterday’s dishes from the table. It must be a dreary day: the light penetrating from above was gray, and compassionate Rodion’s dark leather clothes seemed damp and stiff.
“Oh well,” said Cincinnatus, “as you wish, as you wish … I am powerless anyway.” (The other Cincinnatus … a little smaller, was crying, all curled up in a ball.) “All right, let it be tomorrow. But I should like to ask you to call …”
“Right away,” blurted out Rodion with such alacrity that he seemed to have been longing just for this; he was about to dash off but just then the director, who had been waiting too impatiently at the door, appeared just a split second too early, so that they collided.
Rodrig Ivanovich was holding a wall calendar and did not know where to lay it down.
“A million apologies,” he cried, “an inexcusable blunder! Upon consulting the text of the law …” Having repeated his message verbatim Rodrig Ivanovich seated himself at Cincinnatus’s feet and added hurriedly, “In any case you may submit a complaint, but I consider it my duty to warn you that the next congress will take place in the fall, and by then a lot of water—and not only water—will have flowed over the dam. Do I make myself clear?”
“I do not intend to complain,” said Cincinnatus, “but wish to ask you, is there in the so-called order of so-called things of which your so-called world consists even one thing that might be considered an assurance that you will keep a promise?”
“A promise?” asked the director in surprise, ceasing to fan himself with the cardboard part of the calendar (depicting the fortress at sunset, a water color). “What promise?”
“That my wife will come tomorrow. So you will not agree to guarantee it in this case—but I am phrasing my question more broadly: is there in this world, can there be, any kind of security at all, any pledge of anything, or is the very idea of guarantee unknown here?”
A pause.
“Isn’t it too bad though about Roman Vissarionovich,” said the director, “have you heard? He is in bed with a cold, and apparently quite a serious one …”
“I have a feeling that you will not answer me at any cost; that is logical, for even irresponsibility in the end develops its own logic. For thirty years I have lived among specters that appear solid to the touch, concealing from them the fact that I am alive and real—but now that I have been caught, there is no reason to be constrained with you. At least I shall test for myself all the unsubstantiality of this world of yours.”
The director cleared his throat and went on as if nothing had happened: “So serious, in fact, that I as a doctor am not certain whether he will be able to attend—that
