"Sit still," said Cincinnatus, "I'm exhausted--I didn't weep a slink all night--sit still and tell me ..."
Fidgeting, Emmie buried her forehead in his chest; her curls tumbling and hanging to one side, revealed the bare upper part of her back, which had a hollow that moved with her shoulder blades and was evenly covered with a blond down, which looked as though it had been combed in a symmetrical pattern.
Cincinnatus stroked her warm head, trying to raise it. She snatched his fingers and began pressing them to her quick lips.
"What a snuggling pet you are," said Cincinnatus drowsily. "That will do, enough now. Tell me ..."
But she was seized by an outburst of childish boisterousness. The muscular child rolled Cincinnatus about like a puppy. "Stop it!" cried Cincinnatus. "Aren't you ashamed of yourself?"
"Tomorrow," she said suddenly, squeezing him and gazing at him between the eyes.
"Tomorrow I'll die?" asked Cincinnatus.
"No, I'll rescue you, " Emmie said pensively (she was seated astride him).
"That's very nice indeed," said Cincinnatus. "Saviors from all sides! This ought to have happened sooner--I'm nearly insane. Please get off, you are heavy and hot."
"We'll run away and you'll marry me."
"Maybe when you are a little older; only I already have one wife."
"A fat, old one," said Emmie.
She hopped off the cot and ran around the room, as ballerinas run, at a fast striding pace, shaking her hair, and then she leaped, as though flying, and finally pirouetted in one spot, flinging out a multitude of arms.
"School will be starting again soon," she said, settling the next moment on Cincinnatus's lap; suddenly, forgetting everything else in the world, she became engrossed in a new occupation--she began picking at a black lengthwise scab on her shiny shin; the scab was already half off, and one could see the tender pink scar.
Through slitted eyes, Cincinnatus gazed at her inclined profile, rimmed with a bloom of sunlight, and he felt suffused with drowsiness.
"Ah, Emmie, remember, remember what you have promised. Tomorrow! Tell me, how will you do it?"
"Give me your ear," said Emmie.
Putting one arm around his neck, she made a hot, moist and utterly unintelligible noise in his ear. "I can't hear anything," said Cincinnatus.
Impatiently she brushed the hair back from her face and again nestled up to him.
"Bu ... bu ... bu," she bumbled and buzzed--and then jumped away, and flew up--and now was resting on the slightly swaying trapeze, her extended toes joined in a sharp wedge.
"Still, I'm counting on this very much," said Cincinnatus through mounting sleepiness; slowly he pressed his wet, singing ear to the pillow.
As he was falling asleep he could feel her climbing over him, and then it seemed dimly to him that she or someone else was endlessly folding some shiny fabric, taking it by the corners and folding, and stroking it with the palm, and folding it again--and for a moment he came to from Emmie's squeal as Rodion dragged her out of the cell.
Then he thought he heard the precious sounds behind the wall start cautiously again ... how risky! After all, it was broad daylight ... but they could not restrain themselves, and ever so quietly pushed closer and closer to him, while he, fearing lest the guards hear, began walking about, stamping his feet, coughing, humming, and when, with a violently beating heart, he sat down at the table, the sounds had already ceased.
Then, toward evening, as was now customary, M'sieur Pierre arrived, in a brocade skullcap; casually, being quite at home, he lay down on Cincinnatus's cot and, lighting a long meerschaum pipe with a carved houri, propped himself up on an elbow in a cloud of luxurious smoke. Cincinnatus sat at the table, munching the last of his supper, fishing the prunes out of their brown juice.
"I put some foot powder on them today," M'sieur Pierre said briskly, "So no complaints or comments, please. Let us continue our conversation of yesterday. We were talking of pleasures.
"The pleasure of love," said M'sieur Pierre, "is achieved by means of the most beautiful and healthful of all known physical exercises. I said 'achieved' but perhaps 'extracted' would be even more apt, inasmuch as we are dealing precisely with a systematic and persistent extraction of pleasure buried in the very bowels of the belabored creature. During leisure hours the laborer of love immediately strikes the observer with the falconlike expression of his eyes, his cheerful disposition, and his fresh complexion. Observe also my gliding gait. Thus we have before us a certain phenomenon, which we may call by the general term 'love' or 'erotic pleasure.' "
At this point, walking on tiptoe and indicating by gestures that they should not pay him any notice, the director came in and sat down on a stool that he himself had brought.
M'sieur Pierre turned on him a gaze beaming with benevolence.
"Go on, go on," whispered Rodrig Ivanovich, "I've come to listen--pardon, just one moment--I'll just put it so I can lean against the wall. Voila. I'm worn out, though. And you?"
"That's because you are not used to it," said M'sieur Pierre. "Allow me, then, to continue. We were discussing, Rodrig Ivanovich, the pleasures of life, and had just examined Eros in a general way."
"I see," said the director.
"I made the following points--excuse me, dear colleague, for repeating myself, but I would like to make it interesting for Rodrig Ivanovich also. I made the point, Rodrig Ivanovich, that a man condemned to die finds it hardest of all to forget woman, woman's delicious body."
"And the poetry of moonlit nights," added Rodrig Ivanovich, casting a stern glance at Cincinnatus.
"No, please don't interfere with my development of the subject; if you have something to add, you may do so afterwards. All right--let me continue. In addition to the pleasures of love there is a whole number of others, and to them we shall now pass on. More than once, probably, you have felt your chest expand on a wonderful spring day, when the buds swell and feathered songsters enliven the groves, clad in their first sticky leafage. The first modest flowers peep coquettishly out of the grass, as if they would entice the passionate lover of nature, as they whisper timidly: 'Oh, don't, don't pick us, our life is short.' The chest expands and breathes deep on such a day, when the birdies sing, and the first modest leaves appear on the first trees. Everything rejoices, everything is jubilant."
"A masterful description of April," said the director, giving his jowls a shake.
"I think that everyone has experienced this," continued M'sieur Pierre, "and now, when any day now we shall all be ascending the scaffold, the unforgettable memory of such a spring day makes one cry out: 'O come back, come back; let me live you over once again.' "
" 'Live you over once again,' " repeated M'sieur Pierre, rather frankly consulting a scroll-like crib, all covered with fine writing.
"Next," said M'sieur Pierre, "we pass on to pleasures of a spiritual order. Remember the times when, in a fabulous picture gallery, or museum, you would suddenly stop and be unable to take your eyes off some piquant torso--made, alas, of bronze or marble. This we can call the pleasure of art; it occupies an important place in life."
"I'll say it does," said Rodrig Ivanovich in a nasal voice, and looked at Cincinnatus.
"Gastronomic pleasures," continued M'sieur Pierre. "See the best varieties of fruit hanging from tree branches; see the butcher and his helpers dragging a pig, squealing as if it were being slaughtered; see, on a pretty plate, a substantial chunk of white lard; see the table wine and cherry brandy; see the fish--I don't know about the rest of you, but I am a great fancier of bream."
"I approve," Rodrig Ivanovich said resonantly.
"This splendid feast must be forsaken. Many other things must be forsaken as well: festive music, favorite knick-knacks, such as a camera or a pipe; friendly talks; the bliss of relieving oneself, which some hold to be on a par with the pleasure of love; sleep after dinner; smoking ... What else? Favorite knick-knacks ... Yes, we already had that" (again the crib notes appeared) "pleasure ..
. I've said that too. Well, various other trifles ..."
"May I add something," the director asked ingratiatingly, but M'sieur Pierre shook his head:
"No, that's quite enough. I think I have unfolded before the mental eye of my dear colleague such vistas of sensual realms ..."
"I only wanted to say something on the subject of edibles," the director remarked in a low voice. "I think certain details could be mentioned here. For instance, en fait de potage ... All right, all right, I shan't say a word," he concluded in alarm as he met the gaze of M'sieur Pierre.
"Well," M'sieur Pierre addressed Cincinnatus, "what will you say to all this?"
"What am I supposed to say?" said Cincinnatus. "Dreary, obtrusive nonsense."
"He's incorrigible," exclaimed Rodrig Ivanovich.
"It's just a pose on his part," said M'sieur Pierre with an ominous porcelain smile. "Believe me, he has feeling enough for the full beauty of the phenomena I have described."
"... But fails to understand certain things," Rodrig Ivanovich interjected smoothly. "He does not understand that if he were now honestly to admit the error of his ways, honestly admit that he is fond of the same things as you and I--for example, turtle soup for the first course--they say it's sensationally good--that is, I only want to observe that if he were honestly to admit and repent--yes, repent--that is my point--then he could have some remote--I do not want to say hope, but nevertheless ..."
"I left out the part about gymnastics," muttered M'sieur Pierre checking his little scroll. "What a pity!"
"No, no, you spoke very well, very well," sighed Rodrig Ivanovich. "Couldn't be better. You roused in me certain desires that had lain dormant for decades. Will you stay a while? Or are you coming with me?"
"With you. He's a regular sourpuss today. Doesn't even look at you. You offer him kingdoms, and he sulks. And I ask so little--one word, a nod. Well, nothing to be done. Let's away, Rodrigo."
Soon after their departure the light went out and Cincinnatus transferred himself to his cot in darkness (how nasty to find somebody else's ashes, but no other place to lie down) and, liberating his melancholy in a crackling of cartileges and vertebrae, he stretched, and drew in a breath, and held it a quarter of a minute and more. Maybe it was just stonemasons. Making repairs. An aural deception: perhaps it is all going on far, far away (he exhaled). He lay on his back, wriggling his toes, which protruded from beneath the blanket and turning his face now toward impossible salvation, now toward inevitable execution. The light flashed on again.
Scratching at the red-haired chest under his shirt, Rodion arrived to fetch the stool. Seeing the object he sought, he promptly sat down on it and with a loud grunt, kneaded his lowered face with his enormous palm, and apparently got ready to have a nap.
"He still has not arrived?" asked Cincinnatus.
Rodion immediately got up and left with the stool.
Click. Black.
Perhaps because a certain integral period of time--a fortnight--had elapsed since the trial, perhaps because the nearing of the friendly sounds promised him a change of fortune, Cincinnatus spent this night in a mental review of the hours he had passed in the fortress. Involuntarily yielding to the temptation of logical development, involuntarily (be careful, Cincinnatus!) forging into a chain all the things that were quite harmless as long as they remained unlinked, he inspired the meaningless with meaning, and the lifeless with life. With the stone darkness for background he now permitted the spotlighted figures of all his usual visitors to appear--it was the very first time that his imagination was so condescending toward them. There was the tiresome little co-prisoner, with his shiny face, resembling the wax apple which Cincinnati's waggish brother-in-law had brought the other day; there was the fidgety, lean lawyer, disengaging his shirt cuffs from the sleeves of his frock coat; there was the somber librarian, and, in smooth black toupee, corpulent Rodrig Ivanovich, and Emmie, and Marthels entire family, and Rodion, and others, vague guards and soldiers--and by evoking them--not believing in them, perhaps, but still evoking them--Cincinnatus allowed them the right to exist, supported them, nourished them with himself. Added to all this was the possibility that, at any moment, the exciting knocks might resume, a possibility that had the effect of an intoxicating anticipation of music--so that Cincinnatus was in a strange, tremulous, dangerous state--and the distant clock struck with a kind of mounting exultation--and now, emerging from the darkness, the lighted figures joined hands and formed a ring--and, slightly swaying to one side, lurching, lagging, they began a circling movement, which at first was stiff and dragging, but then gradually became more even, free and rapid, and now they were whirling in earnest, and the monstrous shadow of their shoulders and heads passed and repassed ever more quickly across the stone vaults, and the inevitable joker who, when whirling in a reel, kicks his legs high, to amuse his more prim companions, cast on the walls the huge black zigzags of his hideous prance.
Fifteen
The morning passed quietly, but at about five in the afternoon there started a noise of shattering force: whoever it was he worked furiously and clattered shamelessly; actually however, he had not come much nearer since yesterday.
Suddenly an extraordinary thing happened: some inner obstruction collapsed, and now the noises sounded with such vivid intensity (having in an instant made the transition from background to foreground, right up to the footlights) that their proximity was obvious: they were right there, directly behind the wall, which was melting like ice, and would break through it any instant now.
And then the prisoner decided that it was time to act. With terrible haste, trembling, but still trying to keep control over himself, he got out and put on the rubber shoes, the linen trousers and the jacket he had been wearing when arrested; he found a handkerchief, two handkerchiefs, three handkerchiefs (a fleeting vision of sheets tied together); just in case, he put in his pocket a chance piece of string with a wooden handle for carrying packages still attached (it wouldn't go in completely--the end remained hanging out); he rushed to the bed, intending to fluff up the pillow and cover it with the blanket in such a way as to create the semblance of a sleeping man; he did not do this, but lunged instead to the table with the intention of taking along what he had written; but here also he changed direction at the halfway point, for the triumphant, mad, pounding noises were confusing his thoughts ... He was standing straight as an arrow, his hands at his seams, when, in perfect fulfillment of his dreams, the yellow wall cracked about a yard above the floor in a lightninglike pattern, immediately bulged from the pressure within, and suddenly burst open with a great crash.
Out of the black hole, in a cloud of debris, pick in hand, all dusted with white, twisting and threshing like a fat fish among the dust, and rippling with laughter, climbed M'sieur Pierre, and right behind him, but in crab fashion, fat backside first, revealing a tear from which a tuft of white cotton protruded, coatless, and also covered with all kinds of rubble, also splitting with mirth, came Rodrig Ivanovich. Having tumbled out of the hole, they both sat down on the floor and now shook with unrestrained laughter, with all the transitions from guffaw to chuckle and back again, with piteous squeals in the intervals between outbursts, all the while nudging each other, falling over each other...
"It's us, it's us, it's us," M'sieur Pierre finally managed with an effort, turning his chalk-white face to Cincinnatus, while his little yellow wig rose with a comic whistle and settled again.
"It's us," said Rodrig Ivanovich in an unaccustomed falsetto and once again began to guffaw, flinging up his soft legs, clad in an Auguste's grotesque spats.
"Ooph!" said M'sieur Pierre, who had suddenly quieted down; he got up off the floor and, striking one palm against the other, looked back at the hole: "Quite a little job we've done, Rodrig Ivanovich! Come, get up, my fine friend, that's enough. What a job! Oh well, now we can make use of this splendid tunnel ... Allow me to invite you, dear neighbor, to come and have a glass of tea with me."
"If you so much as t
ouch me ..." murmured Cincinnatus and, as on one side, white, sweaty M'sieur Pierre stood ready to embrace him and shove him in, and, on the other, stood Rodrig Ivanovich, also with open arms, bare-shouldered, and with dickey loose and awry, both of them gathering momentum before piling on him, Cincinnatus took the only possible direction, namely the one being indicated to him. M'sieur Pierre was nudging him lightly from behind, helping him crawl into the opening. "Join us," he said to Rodrig Ivanovich, but the latter declined, pleading disarray.
Flattened out and with eyes shut tight, Cincinnatus crawled on all fours, M'sieur Pierre crawled behind, and the pitch darkness, full of crumbling and crackling, squeezed Cincinnatus from all sides, pressed on his spine, prickled his palms and his knees; several times Cincinnatus found himself in a cul-de-sac, and then M'sieur Pierre would tug at his calves, making him back out of the dead end, and every instant a corner, a protrusion, he knew not what, would brush painfully against his head, and all in all he was overcome by such terrible, unmitigated dejection that, had there not been a wheezing, butting companion behind, he would have lain down and died then and there. At last, however, after they had been moving for a long time through the narrow, coal-black darkness (in one place, off to the side, a red lantern imparted a dull luster to the blackness), after the closeness, the blindness, and the stuffiness, a pale luminosity expanded in the distance: there was a bend there, and finally came the exit; awkwardly and meekly Cincinnatus fell out onto the stone floor, into M'sieur Pierre's sun-drenched cell.
"Welcome," said his host, climbing out after him; he promptly produced a clothesbrush and began skillfully brushing off blinking Cincinnatus, considerately restraining and softening the strokes in any area that might be sensitive. As he did so he bent over and, as if enmeshing him in something, kept walking around Cincinnatus, who stood perfectly still, astounded by a certain extraordinarily simple thought; astounded, rather, not by the thought but by the fact that it had not come to him sooner.
Invitation to a Beheading Page 12
