“No, you’re still only a parody,” murmured Cincinnatus.
She smiled interrogatively.
“Just like this spider, just like those bars, just like the striking of that clock,” murmured Cincinnatus.
“So,” she said, and blew her nose again.
“So, that’s how it is,” she repeated.
They both remained silent, not looking at each other, while the clock struck with nonsensical resonance.
“When you go out,” said Cincinnatus, “note the clock in the corridor. The dial is blank; however, every hour the watchman washes off the old hand and daubs on a new one—and that’s how we live, by tarbrush time, and the ringing is the work of the watchman, which is why he is called a ‘watch’ man.”
“You oughtn’t joke like that,” said Cecilia C. “There are, you know, all sorts of marvelous gimmicks.
I remember, for instance when I was a child, there were objects called ‘nonnons’ that were popular, and not only among children, but among adults too, and, you see, a special mirror came with them, not just crooked, but completely distorted. You couldn’t make out anything of it, it was all gaps and jumble, and made no sense to the eye—yet the crookedness was no ordinary one, but calculated in just such a way as to … Or rather, to match its crookedness they had made … No, wait a minute, I am explaining badly. Well, you would have a crazy mirror like that and a whole collection of different ‘nonnons,’ absolutely absurd objects, shapeless, mottled, pockmarked, knobby things, like some kind of fossils—but the mirror, which completely distorted ordinary objects, now, you see, got real food, that is, when you placed one of these incomprehensible, monstrous objects so that it was reflected in the incomprehensible, monstrous mirror, a marvelous thing happened; minus by minus equaled plus, everything was restored, everything was fine, and the shapeless speckledness became in the mirror a wonderful, sensible image; flowers, a ship, a person, a landscape. You could have your own portrait custom made, that is, you received some nightmarish jumble, and this thing was you, only the key to you was held by the mirror. Oh, I remember what fun it was, and how it was a little frightening—what if suddenly nothing should come out?—to pick up a new, incomprehensible ‘nonnon’ and bring it near the mirror, and see your hand get all scrambled, and and at the same time see the meaningless ‘nonnon’ turn into a charming picture, so very, very clear …”
“Why do you tell me all this?” asked Cincinnatus.
She was silent.
“What’s the point of all this? Don’t you know that one of these days, perhaps tomorrow …”
He suddenly noticed the expression in Cecilia C.’s eyes—just for an instant, an instant—but it was as if something real, unquestionable (in this world, where everything was subject to question), had passed through, as if a corner of this horrible life had curled up, and there was a glimpse of the lining. In his mother’s gaze, Cincinnatus suddenly saw that ultimate, secure, all-explaining and from-all-protecting spark that he knew how to discern in himself also. What was this spark so piercingly expressing now? It does not matter what—call it horror, or pity … But rather let us say this: the spark proclaimed such a tumult of truth that Cincinnatus’s soul could not help leaping for joy. The instant flashed and was gone. Cecilia C. got up, making an incredible little gesture, namely, holding her hands apart with index fingers extended, as if indicating size—the length, say, of a babe … Then she immediately began fussing, picking up from the floor her plump black bag, adjusting the lining of her pocket.
“There now,” she said, in her former prattling tone, “I’ve stayed a while and now I’ll be going. Eat my candy. I’ve overstayed. I’ll be going, it’s time.”
“Oh yes, it’s time!” thundered Rodrig Ivanovich with fierce mirth as he flung open the door.
Head bent, she slipped out. Cincinnatus, trembling, was about to step forward …
“Have no worry,” said the director, raising his palm, “This little midwife presents no danger to us. Back!”
“But I would still …” began Cincinnatus.
“Arrière!” roared Rodrig Ivanovich.
Meanwhile, M’sieur Pierre’s compact striped little figure appeared in the depths of the corridor. He was smiling pleasantly from afar, but restraining his pace slightly, and letting his eyes roam about furtively, as people do when they have walked in on a row, but do not want to stress their awareness of it. He was carrying a checkerboard and a box before him and had a punchinello doll and something else under his arm.
“You’ve had company?” he inquired politely of Cincinnatus when the director had left them alone in the cell. “Your mama visited you? That’s fine, that’s fine. And now I, poor, weak little M’sieur Pierre, have come to amuse you and amuse myself for a while. Just see how my Punch looks at you. Say hello to uncle. Isn’t he a scream? Sit up, there, chum. Look, I’ve brought you lots of entertaining things. Would you like a game of chess first? Or cards? Do you play anchors? Splendid game! Come, I’ll teach you!”
Chapter Thirteen
He waited and waited, and now, at last, in the stillest hour of night, the sounds got busy once again. Alone in the dark, Cincinnatus smiled. I am quite willing to admit that they are also a deception but right now I believe in them so much that I infect them with truth.
They were still more firm and precise than the previous night; they no longer were hacking away blindly; how could one doubt their approaching, advancing movement? How modest they were! How intelligent! How mysteriously calculating and insistent! Was it an ordinary pick or some outlandish implement made of some useless substance alloyed with omnipotent human will—but whatever it was, he knew that someone, somehow, was cutting a passage.
The night was cold; the gray, greasy reflection of the moon, dividing itself into squares, fell on the inner wall of the window recess; the whole fortress seemed to be filled to the brim with thick darkness on the inside, and glazed by the moonlight on the outside, with black broken shadows that slithered down rocky slopes and silently tumbled into the moats; yes, the night was impassive and stony—but within it, in its deep, dark womb, undermining its might, something was hacking its way through that was quite foreign to the night’s substance and order. Or is this all but obsolete romantic rot, Cincinnatus?
He picked up the submissive chair and brought it down hard, first on the floor, then several times on the wall, trying, at least by means of rhythm, to impart meaning to his pounding. And, in fact, the one who was tunneling through the night first paused, as if trying to decide whether the answering blows were friendly or not, and suddenly renewed his labors with such a jubilantly animated sound that Cincinnatus was certain his response had been understood.
He was now satisfied that it was he to whom that someone was coming, that it was he whom that someone wanted to rescue, and, continuing to knock on the more sensitive sections of the stone, he evoked—in a different register and key, fuller, more complex, more enchanting—repetitions of the simple rhythms that he offered.
He was already thinking of how to set up an alphabet when he noticed that not the moon but a different, uninvited light was diluting the darkness, and he had barely noticed this when the sounds ceased. For quite a while afterwards there was a crumbling sound, but gradually this also grew silent, and it was hard to imagine that such a short time ago the stillness of night was being invaded by ardent, persistent activity, by a creature, sniffing, wheezing, with flattened muzzle, and again digging in frenzy, like a hound tunneling his way to a badger.
Through his brittle drowsiness he saw Rodion entering; and it was already past noon when he awoke fully, and thought, as always, that the end was not yet today, and it could have been today, just as easily as it might be tomorrow, but tomorrow was still far away.
All day long he harked to the humming in his ears, kneading his hands, as though silently exchanging with his own self a welcoming grip; he walked around the table, where the letter lay, still unsent; or else he would imagine the glance of yesterday’s guest, momentary, breathtaking, like a hiatus in this life; or he would listen in fancy to Emmie’s rustling movements. Well, why not drink this mush of hope, this thick, sweet slop … my hopes are still alive … and I thought that at least now, at least here, where solitude is held in such high esteem, it might divide into two parts only, for you and for me, instead of multiplying as it did—noisy, manifold, absurd, so that I could not even come near you, and your terrible father nearly broke my legs with his cane … this is why I am writing—this is my last attempt to explain to you what is happening, Marthe … make an exceptional effort and understand, if only through a fog, if only with a corner
