by Andrei Bitov
Thus, Tishka and Toshka set out on the expedition. They rafted down the Irtysh, far from civilization, set up camp on a little offshore island, and there began assembling the contraption. The parts all fit together perfectly; but instead of a rocket, they ended up with a moonshine distillery.
Toshka quickly put it to good use, and assigned the head of the expedition to watch over the process while he went hunting for victuals to accompany it. He returned with a small wild boar, and found the chief sound asleep, with his head almost inside the firebox. “He’s tasted his fill,” Toshka surmised. Placing a vessel under the dripping firewater, he began slicing up the little boar for shish kebab. When everything was ready, he woke up Tishka with the words, “Let’s do the test launch.” And they started drinking.
“How is it,” Toshka said to Tishka, “that the most beautiful dame in town is in love with you, but you fell for the frog? I don’t get it.”
“Go ahead and kiss her,” Tishka replied, laughing. “You know the story of the Frog Princess.”
“Did she tell you that herself? But that one was a talking frog; this one sings. I just don’t get it.”
“Is it possible to understand someone who really wants to understand?”
“You speak the truth,” Toshka agreed. “What about science, then?”
“That’s the point. Manya and Science are one and the same. I’m not seeking a general answer, a correct one, but my own. Whether or not I posed the problem to myself, I’m the one who has to solve it. And if I do, only then will it be solved for others. It never works the other way round. It’s not something you can do better or worse—not a stool, or wool that you must spoil before you spin it well. In those cases the substance they were made of stays the same. Only a singular, unique solution changes the substance. Oh, how well I understand the alchemist! He wasn’t seeking profits from gold or the elixir of life but the very birth of the substance. For thought itself is a substance. This is not within the power of man, however, but only of … I won’t even say whom. The One who Created Water!”
Like a devoted student, Toshka knew how to sleep with his eyes open.
“His thought is his most precise instrument. A true scientist cannot be a nonbeliever, just as a real believer cannot help but be a materialist. Render unto God what is God’s. Otherwise we will always fall victim to scientific error—face-to-face with a soulless instrument and a drunken lab assistant who didn’t wash the test tubes. There has to be a third: an observer. Without a point from above, the experiment is impossible. Who’s going to oversee the experiment? Who’s going to oversee the overseeing of the experiment? Hey, I’m talking to you!”
“I always wash your dishes,” Toshka mumbled.
“I’m not reproaching you. ‘What could be more fascinating than following the thoughts of a great man?’ our Pushkin once said. Manya, you say. Beauty, you say. But I say that beauty is the elaboration of our vision, not an objective category. What do you know about the feelings of a blossom when it is visited by a bee? Oh, if only the ear could utter what it hears! I will create a Talking Ear!”
“A talking ear? An ear you can hear? Ah, you mean an echo!”
“No echo. Just an ear,” Tishkin said impatiently. “Without belief in something, life is meaningless—this is what I believe. It’s impossible, it’s perfidious, it’s terrifying, it’s nausea! Without belief, our attempts to understand life become a dangerous temptation. And God forbid that our approximate idea were ever confirmed by the imprecise reading of an instrument—then it would be a double mistake! (A good name for a book…)”
* * *
Whether they drank for a long time or a short time, when they sensed the approach of autumn they hurried home. Tishkin had managed to collect only a small sampling of lichen, but, in addition, he had come to suspect that there was a sizable diamond deposit in the vicinity. He decided to call it Beckandcall (Zamanilovo), in honor of Gogol, Manilov, and Manya.
They returned with this scientific baggage, and despite his precipitate return, Tishkin did not catch Manya in any compromising activity. This made him suspect her even more, and he persuaded himself of the certainty of the diamond deposit. He laid out the new exhibits on the tabletop, adding to them exhibits that were already present in the collection, and the stars tending toward autumn burned more brightly. He perceived the simultaneity of all these phenomena—lichens and stars, minerals and butterflies, Tobolsk and St. Petersburg, Mendeleev and Manilov, diamonds and Manya. Feeling a wave of nausea welling up in him from all this temporal coexistence, and unable to find a formula for it, or an exit from it, he took a swig from the bottle they had brought back with them from the expedition and wrote down the title of his opus in big block letters:
A BRIEF INTRODUCTION TO A COURSE ON THE THEORY OF UNIVERSAL SYMMETRY
… and woke up with the precise feeling that yesterday’s arrangement of scientific exhibits would at last bring an end to the anguish of his ignorance, because he would be able to prove scientifically his betrayal by the full-throated Manya. He rushed over to the tabletop and saw, as clear as day, the Periodic Table of the Elements, the very same Table that the world’s greatest minds, including Dmitri Mendeleev himself, had been sweating over for many a year.
Not only Manya’s enigmas but also a great scientific law were concealed in yesterday’s arrangement. Forgetting his passion, Tishkin threw himself into the task of writing down his discovery in scientific form, and was brought up short by the news that Mendeleev had just announced it as his own, claiming as well that the long-awaited solution to the problem had appeared to him in a dream. Tishkin’s discovery was, again, belated.
Overcome by the same attack of nausea that always accompanied a surge of genius, he suddenly saw that Sir Isaac Newton was not really so unshakable, that he, too, was relatively relative—to Tishkin, let’s say. That everything in the world was relative in relation to relationship. Clear-cut mathematical definitions suddenly lay themselves down easily on paper, definitions not of a universal theory of symmetry but a universal theory of nausea. This time he didn’t rush to broadcast his discovery but verified it, and verified it again; and everything checked out and shone even brighter, with more promise—until he discovered that some German named Einstein had stuck out his tongue on the same grounds.
He summoned his loyal Toshka, and they drank together, not in an expeditionary spirit this time but in a domestic spirit: they went on a binge for the whole winter. Toward spring, he announced that it was over, that he had done a complete about-face, that he was finished with science and drink forever, that Manya was going to marry him and bear him six children—the same number Pushkin had. He’d had enough of the crosswords, he was moving on to the jigsaw puzzle! What the jigsaw puzzle was he couldn’t explain to Toshka—it seemed to be a novel about science unlike anything world literature had ever known. He found the title straightaway—Simple Solutions. And the first one was to lock up the bottle in the cupboard and throw away the key. Soon he was calling Manya and Toshka to come hear the beginning. While still not drinking himself, he wanted to treat them to a drink, just to guarantee his success; but the key was gone. With her shoulder pressed against it, Manya heaved the cupboard aside (it turned out not to have a back panel) and easily retrieved the bottle. Tishkin, delighted with her exploit, was nevertheless surprised by the obvious lightness of the bottle. There were only a few drops left sloshing around on the bottom. There was enough for one glass each, however. They drank, cleared their throats, and sat down, placing their hands on their knees as though for a photograph.
And so Tishkin began reading.
* * *
I don’t know why I don’t have a single idea in my head, I thought. And everyone considers me to be intelligent.
Mrs. Down in particular. I am deeply indebted to her. If it weren’t for her authority over Mr. Down, our chancellor, the university would long ago have learned to do without me.
But here I am, sitting in a boat and rowing, and Mrs.
Down is blocking the view with her hat. For this reason I am thinking about how I am not thinking. These gray curving threads with facets hardly noticeable in their breadth cannot be considered thoughts, can they?
Whether something runs along them, or I am clambering up them …
As though it’s possible to see something inside your skull. But, then, why not? Consciousness is thought, is it not?
How much better it used to be, not so long ago: you sit in a bathtub—a law; an apple falls—another law. Newton hands Archimedes an apple.
Something knocked against the side of the boat, and I imagined the whole lake filled with apples, that I was rowing, and having a hard time shoving the oars through them; but it turned out that it was Mrs. Down asking me to turn back. I thought that now I would be able to see the view, but the hat turned around with her, with the view, that is; with Mrs. Down, that is; with the boat, that is; that is, with me … But how could it be otherwise? Only, what is inside what? The hat isn’t the issue, it’s all old hat now … I have to remember that idea.
And I forgot everything forthwith. As soon as I thought it, I promptly forgot it. Why do I never think about anything? I looked out the window in annoyance. It turned out I wasn’t in a boat. If a thought is expressed in words, and between every word, even between every sound, time passes, what kind of thought is that? It’s a length, a distance measured by words. And every word keeps its own distance. What a collision ensues when they try to express something! The distance the word “Cosmos” keeps is far less than that of “fly.” No, not harmony! One must listen to the cacophony. Brownian motion—in that, at least, there is something besides a bathtub with apples.
Chaos is the most uniform condition.
It turned out I wasn’t rowing at all but playing the violin. At least in music the distance between sounds is measured out. That was when I laid the violin aside in vexation to look out the window.
Just yesterday, the nineteenth century was in full swing. Today it’s already the twentieth century, and nothing has changed. Has time changed? But what in the world is time, after all?
Is it not just the measure of our annoyance at our absence within it? What prevents us from being happy?
And again my mind is a blank. I see the two girls again: one very fair with brown eyes, the other dark-haired with blue eyes. It doesn’t count that I am thinking about them, does it? What kind of thought is that? On the other hand, I am thinking about them, not about the twentieth century. If one were to swap their eyes around, nothing good would come of it … but this way it’s impossible to choose between them.
Equality is transient. All of this is extremely relative. Except perhaps symmetry.
The stamp of the Creator is everywhere, like the fingerprint of a criminal. A fish skeleton and a leaf. A blossom and a woman’s secret places … No, that could go on forever; and we won’t get started on that! We are not yet ready. The crystal is more symmetrical than the human heart. Living and unliving …
Adequate perception is impossible. It is not within the power of consciousness, only of God.
It is impossible to perceive God. That is why we come up with laws, using them like steps on a ladder leading to Him. We clamber up a ladder; but there is a Way. It is considerably more accessible than gradualness—another trajectory or speed. And if we ourselves are a point on this trajectory, we coincide with the velocity, and cancel out time.
Cursed rhythm! It exists.
Where was I? Oh yes, fair or dark? Blue or brown?
It’s not as simple as it seems. Choice—is it a rhythm?
I’m getting mixed up. I’ve lost my train of thought. Or was it still just the beginning?
Yes, precisely. Mrs. Down took a fancy to me. I don’t know how I had acquired my fame, but fame was already mine. Most likely because I had capsized in the boat … I had been invited to a party and everyone was expecting something of me. I was supposed to toss off a little number for them. Alcohol was alien to me, and I was sick of it all. Their tablecloth was sumptuous, like something out of Windsor Castle. “Bring me some scissors,” I said. They were glad to, they bustled around, they brought them to me. Silver ones, on a silver platter.
I began to snip—everyone watched, thrilled. I snipped and snipped … I reached the middle of the table. And again I got sick of it all. Everyone watched me expectantly. “I forget the rest,” I said.
I put the scissors down on the table and left.
It was all so silly … On top of everything else, I stuck out my tongue at them.
But what do you know? They were all very pleased, and my fame only increased.
Now, stupidity is not relative. It doesn’t depend on anything, because it’s too rational.
They wanted to be entertained, and entertained they were—no madness there at all.
Everything is static, there is no velocity, no time. One has to find the stupidest of all solutions. You don’t need to solve, you need to resolve, so that if you gain renown it will be once and for all, and you’ll never have to do anything again! Otherwise it looks like everyone keeps slaving away, and I’m the only loafer around here. “With your talent,” they say to me. “If we were in your place, we would long ago have…” Oh, how I hate these go-getters!
Who are they? These chancellors, vice-chancellors, department chairs, division heads, editors-in-chief? Conductors and directors of talent that is not their own! Politicians and businessmen.
No, they’re not the same—serious fellows, those crooks. They get to boss the go-getters around.
It’s good at least that they take me to be a Jew. I won’t try to deny it.
Fine, then. But what can I resolve to do? Something mad and beautiful …
The stupidest thing of all is the simplest thing of all. The simplest—single-celled—organisms, the protozoa, reproduce by binary fission. An amoeba is the living model of the atom. The cell is huge, like a molecule … Which of them undergoes fission, divides itself? Everything divides. Endlessly, in one direction or the other.
But what if everything that is were simultaneous, concurrent? The past, the present, the future, space, speed, time, the void, thought?
Pulse, explosion! Silence.
Fearlessness—that’s what is frightening. That’s what life is.
Life is more frightening than death, because in death there is no you.
“For in death there is no remembrance of Thee…” That’s a good line.
Only I don’t agree. Because memory is all that remains of God.
That is, everything is always simultaneous.
Lord! When did I get entangled in these gray fibers?
* * *
Already as a child. As I chased the fugue reluctantly to and fro on the violin. I imagined it as a nauseous infinity, and the string snapped. It curled into a ringlet in the joy of release. I sneaked outside for a walk, too, so I wouldn’t get spanked by my father.
When I walk, I don’t think about anything at all. What’s more, I can think about nothing at all for hours on end. I feel surprised if, on occasion, I realize I’m hungry, or I’m freezing cold, or it has started to rain. And then I start thinking for the first time—what have I been doing all this time? Doing or thinking? Well, I do love reading signboards: a peculiar sort of inventory of the world.
On schools it says SCHOOL; on a hospital, HOSPITAL; on a store, STORE. As if one would otherwise never know. After all, it doesn’t say TREE on a tree. Same with clouds.
Wandering around at night, I filched a lot of them, these signboards. It’s like a collection. I even have a sign from a police station.
When I tried to court the fair one (the brown-eyed girl), I was in the throes of jealousy regarding her interest in a rugby captain. I suspected her of being unfaithful but couldn’t prove it. Just when the indirect and incoherent evidence started to seem incontrovertible, my attempts to pin it down caused it to unravel all over again.
During the sleepless, jealous nights, I would lay out my colle
ction on the floor like a game of Patience. Suddenly, a map of the city appeared, overlaid with a map of the starry sky. Playing cards were laid out for the next layer, but I couldn’t remember their fortune-telling values. I had to resort to the Tarot. At least they say what they mean: the Fool, the Hanged Man, the Empress …
What else?
I arranged all the elements by their atomic weights, then shuffled them around. Suddenly, it all fell together: the Table of the Elements—very elegant. The guilt of the unfaithful lover seemed to be established beyond the shadow of a doubt. The Table had been devised already: by some Russian, or some Austrian—a Mendel, or a Mendeleev. I always mix them up—though they’re not like two peas in a pod. Is the weight of one seed equal to a carat? They’re used for measuring diamonds, apparently … Ah, so that’s what the seed is called; a “carat.”
* * *
Only once did Tishkin cast a glance at the audience. He saw Toshka’s eyes, vacant as two soldier’s buttons, and the languid gaze of Manya, who had unbuttoned her blouse and was using his manuscript to fan herself. By the time he had finished reading, Toshka was fast asleep and Manya was gone.
This was the very evening when she pushed off on the ferryboat in the direction of the railroad station, accompanied by a visiting baron, or some merchant; or was it a tenor? Or perhaps a singing merchant.
Guessing where she might be headed, Tishkin decided to go west, and to send the loyal Toshka east, on the understanding that if he failed to catch Manya he would do some moonlighting in the gold mines in order to continue his work on the flight to the Moon.
Anton knew nothing about Tishkin’s adventures in the capitals; but he himself had no ambition to catch Manya, and set out for the mines. He didn’t make any easy money* there, but he did make the acquaintance of a certain genius of Buryat extraction who worked in an office as a ledger clerk. The Buryat had just then discovered integral calculus, so he entrusted his manuscript to Anton and provided him with some money for a trip to Vladivostok. There Anton was to present the manuscript to the Far Eastern division of the Academy of Sciences. But no division of this description (nor any “Manya”) did he find in Vladivostok. However, a mathematics teacher that he met in a local bar explained to him that this calculus had been discovered already in the seventeenth century by the one and only Isaac Newton, and was not likely to come as a surprise to anyone. That was the moment when Lieutenant Bruce turned up in Vladivostok, looking for someone who knew a thing or two about horses.
